Blame It on Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  Andrew clasped his hands in front of him, relaxed as a calm sea. “What can I do for ye?”

  Gawd, how did the priest look so composed all the time? “I want nothing.” Except what the Almighty has taken from me.

  Andrew nodded and walked away. John was shocked and relieved that Andrew would give up so easily and leave him to fester alone in his misery. Except he didn’t go.

  A chair scraped against the floor as the interfering pastor pulled it near. Once again, Andrew had proven to be as tenacious as any salty fisherman.

  John glanced over as the priest took his seat, positioned so he too could look out at the storm.

  “I don’t feel up to praying, Father, if that’s what ye have in mind.” John closed his eyes in frustration, wanting solitude.

  “Nay. We’re just going to sit and enjoy the view.”

  John scoffed. The city beyond his room wasn’t the right view. It wasn’t the North Sea and its fury lashing against the wheelhouse window.

  Andrew seemed at peace in his silence. And why shouldn’t he? He was a man who hadn’t suffered loss. He had his limbs. He had his family. He could preach on Sunday instead of being stuck in a hospital.

  A bad taste formed in John’s mouth as Tuck crept into his mind. “I hear yere brother has been working my boat.” Ross and Ramsay had broken the news. It irked that they didn’t badmouth Tuck for their eldest brother losing his hand, and part of his arm!

  “Aye,” Andrew answered, still staring out the window. The priest was enacting some new game. He’d badgered John into talking about the accident as soon as he woke, but now he didn’t even have a few comforting words, and was as silent as the grave.

  “Ross said Tuck hasn’t missed a day.” Which tasted bitter in John’s mouth. It was Ross who’d found the envelope in the wheelhouse where Tuck had sold the catch from the day of the accident. What was the good-for-nothing playing at? Assuaging his guilt? Did he think he could be forgiven with the payment of selling a few fish?

  “He’s a hard worker.”

  “Ha,” John hissed. “Of course, ye’d take his side.” He hadn’t planned to ever utter that thought aloud. Andrew and Moira had been conscientious visitors, showing unflagging support for him.

  “I don’t take sides,” Andrew said calmly. “I pray for something good to come out of all of this.”

  John lifted his amputated arm and shook it at Andrew. “Something good?” But there was a price to pay for roaring at the priest—his arm hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

  Incensed beyond reason, John’s head felt near to bursting. Aye, yelling at the vicar was surely a sin, but how could the Almighty—if He was just—not understand?

  “Get out,” John said coolly, nodding at Andrew. “I’ve nothing more to say.”

  “What’s going on?” Maggie’s voice was frail and it stabbed at John’s heart. His fierce wife was defeated, surely as he was.

  “I heard ye yell.” She came to stand by his side, but he didn’t look up at her.

  “’Twas nothing,” Andrew said.

  But John didn’t need him fighting his battles for him. It’s my job to protect my wife. But he didn’t say it. Instead, he mustered up a bogus smile before turning to her. “The priest was just leaving.”

  “Aye,” Andrew concurred. “I’ll come by later in the week. Moira will want to come, too.”

  In other words, John better watch himself.

  As soon as Andrew exited, Maggie turned her worried and concerned eyes on John and ran a hand through his hair. “Are ye in pain? Yere brow is furrowed.”

  Yes, he was in pain. But the phantom throbbing from his nonexistent hand was nothing…when compared to the pain in his heart.

  “Do ye want me to get something from the nurse to take the edge off?”

  “Nay.” He didn’t know what else to say to her. He couldn’t tell her the trouble he felt brewing in him. He couldn’t burden her more. Maggie was too fragile. And I’m the one who did this to her.

  Maggie glided to the other side of the bed. “Mum called. She’s having a hard time of it with Da gone.”

  John closed his eyes. We’re all having a hard time of it. “Coira is a strong woman. She’ll be fine.” His relationship with his mother-in-law was contentious at best, but he never wished ill-will toward her.

  “Scoot over.” Maggie moved his IV and crawled in beside him. She situated herself under his good arm so she was cradled up against his shoulder. She sighed as if he’d been the one to take her worries away. But he’d been the one to cause them. The accident had disrupted all their lives. I don’t deserve her anymore. But instead of making her go, John held her close and breathed in the scent of her hair.

  6

  Ryn stood in the middle of the cottage, biting her lower lip, staring from Sophie to Sinnie. How did Sinnie know her tote bag held the special quilt?

  “Och, Sinnie, let Ryn get her things in the door first.” But Sophie’s reproach didn’t hold even a morsel of reprimand.

  Sinnie beamed at Ryn. “Her things are in the door.”

  Sophie grabbed the tea kettle and went to the sink, looking like she might be settling in for a while. “Ye know what they say about the curiosity and the cat.”

  Sinnie’s eyes danced with merriment. “That the cat got the scoop before anyone else?” She pulled the roller bag to the armoire near the bed, then expectantly looked over her shoulder at Ryn. “Tis a good time to spill the beans. The babe is asleep, and Sophie and I are great listeners.”

  For a second, Ryn felt a kinship with Sinnie—the two of them sharing the curiosity gene. It felt good, knowing she had family ties, but they were distant ties at best. Distant and distance played off of one another in her mind. When Ryn returned home to Minnesota or Dallas or wherever she landed, her cousins might as well be on Mars for as much as she’d see them.

  I better make the most of this trip, then.

  Ryn set her tote on the table as Sophie and Sinnie drew near. She’d hoped to reveal the quilt with Maggie present, but Maggie had more on her mind than show-and-tell. As Ryn pulled out the bundle, Sophie and Sinnie each took a corner and spread out the quilt.

  “’Tis gorgeous,” Sophie exclaimed.

  “I recognize the fabric used for the Flying Geese blocks,” Sinnie said. “Mum put that in my Around the World quilt, which is back home in Gandiegow. Ye’ll have to come visit, so ye can see all my quilts.”

  Ryn smiled at her, knowing that was one of the magical things about quilting: Fabric could connect two distant cousins, even though they hadn’t met before this day. And also, fabric could bring back memories as easily as thumbing through an old box of photographs. “This quilt hung in our living room above the couch for as long as I can remember. I dubbed it the Family Tree quilt, but my mother insisted it was the Goodbye quilt.”

  Sophie nodded at the spread-out patchwork. “It makes sense why ye would call it the Family Tree quilt.”

  The modified Sampler quilt was only twenty-eight inches wide and thirty-six inches tall, consisting of twelve blocks—a Nine Patch, a Rail Fence, a Thistle block, and others. Appliquéd over the assortment of blocks was a tree, stretching from the top of the quilt to the bottom.

  “Why is it called the Goodbye quilt?” Sinnie asked. “Did yere mum and Maggie think they’d never see each other again?”

  “No. Mom said it was only meant to be goodbye until the next summer. The idea was to transfer the quilt between them every year, but Mom never made it back to Scotland. She had to get a job that year to help Granny Kay pay the bills.” Granny was a single mother, just as Ryn’s mom had been.

  Ryn never met grandfather, just like she’d never met her father. There were ten consecutive Kathryn Iona’s nestled away on their family tree. How many of them had raised their baby girls without a man by her side? Ryn could’ve been one of them, if she hadn’t gotten an abortion.

  She stared over at the little body of Irene—face relaxed, eyes closed, her cheeks that of a cherub. What would
’ve happened if she’d kept the baby her mother insisted she take care of? The little boy or girl would’ve been thirteen, nearly the age when Ryn had gotten pregnant. Her heart squeezed. With each breath Irene took, Ryn’s became shallower.

  But Mom had been right. If Ryn had gone full-term, her life would’ve been completely different. She would’ve been forced to drop out of high school. College and a degree in graphic arts would’ve only been a dream. There was no way she could’ve supported a baby on her own. Diapers. Daycare on a minimum wage job. Sleepless nights. All things Mom mentioned that she’d known all too well.

  You’re just a child yourself, she’d said. Ryn, you don’t have a clue what it takes to be an adult.

  It would be years before Ryn would comprehend why her mother had been so adamant. Adult finances weren’t for the faint of heart.

  Mom was right about something else, too. She’d been in no position to help raise another baby. And she needn’t drive the point home. Ryn knew what her mother was capable of. She’d already reached her limit with barely enough bandwidth to raise her own teenage daughter.

  Irene shifted, tucking her legs underneath her, making Ryn look away. At fifteen, she couldn’t have kept the baby, but that didn’t stop the sense of loss that snuck up on her right now. Her vulnerability made perfect sense, considering she lost her grandmother last year and now Mom a month ago.

  Ryn had made peace with the truth—she was predestined to go it alone. No nuclear family. No husband, not now or ever, because she could no longer afford to make any more mistakes on Mr. Wrong, or Mr. Right Now. She’d accepted the fact she would be the last Kathryn Iona in her family tree.

  Sadness drove her to reach out to the Goodbye quilt. Her fingers automatically traced the tree, from the trunk up to the branches at the top. As she pulled her hand away, she gently tucked her grief away, too, as if turning under the raw edges of an appliqué piece before stitching it down.

  Ryn became aware of the silence she’d brought down on the cottage. Dwelling on the past only exposed her pain to others, which in turn made them uncomfortable. Yeah, she was stupid sometimes, letting her emotions get the best of her. She should know by now that wishing her life was different was only a waste of time.

  Ryn’s gaze met Sinnie’s sad smile. Her cousin studied her as if trying to make out the source of her pain. But then she nodded and looked back at the quilt, as if deliberately not prying into why Ryn was in such a funk. “Is there a reason the tree doesn’t have any leaves?”

  Ryn shrugged. “I don’t know.” She’d planned to ask. But in light of what Maggie and her family were going through, the question seemed small and insignificant. Irene sighed contentedly as she stretched her limbs and rolled over. The sleeping baby didn’t seem to have the worries of her parents or her brother.

  Ryn took the ends of the quilt from Sophie and Sinnie. “I’ll put this away.”

  “Why don’t you hang it up?” Sophie pointed to the long skinny shelf above where Irene slept. “It would look lovely over the bed.”

  Ryn stared at Sophie incredulously. Didn’t she know Ryn was to hand off the quilt to Maggie?

  Sinnie was reading her mind again. “Hang it for now. Ye can give it to Maggie later.”

  But hanging the Goodbye quilt smacked too close to making this cozy cottage Ryn’s own. “I’m not sure that I should.”

  Apparently, Sophie was. She took the quilt from Ryn. “Sinnie, grab those six canning jars from the rack in the kitchen.”

  Ryn watched as Sinnie went to the open shelf. The jars were filled with dried beans, macaroni, and other items you might find in a stocked pantry. One of the jars, though, was filled with buttons.

  “There’s only five,” Sinnie said as she picked up two and carried them over to Sophie.

  “Another jar should be under the sink with nails, nuts, and bolts,” Sophie said. “Ryn, take the other end and we’ll get this quilt up.”

  Obediently, Ryn grabbed the quilt, holding it high, making sure not to drop her end on the sleeping baby. Within a few minutes, the quilt was hung without hammering a nail, and looking as if it was ready for a photo shoot for Shabby Chic Magazine.

  “There. Now that should make you feel like ye’re at home,” Sophie said.

  But Ryn didn’t have a home right now. As a modern day Scarlett O’Hara, she’d been procrastinating about where her next address might be.

  Sinnie strolled over and stood next to Ryn to look at the quilt, too. “When Maggie is back from seeing John, we’ll show her the quilt.”

  But it didn’t sit well with Ryn. What if Maggie didn’t approve of Ryn acting like the quilt was her own—hanging it wherever she pleased, putting it up in her cottage like she meant to keep it forever?

  Her cottage. How strange it sounded, but for now this was home. If only for the night.

  Sinnie nudged her, acting as if they were old friends. “I bet the quilt will inspire Maggie. She’s done nothing to prepare for the retreat she’s supposed to head up. When Deydie finds out, she’s sure to take her broom after my sister’s backside.”

  A flurry of thoughts and questions hit Ryn, but she didn’t open her mouth quick enough.

  “Whussendale’s first retreat is coming up fast.” Sinnie went to the bed and gently sat next to Irene.

  Sophie pulled down three mugs from the shelf. “Two days,” she muttered, as if it wasn’t nearly enough time.

  “Wait a second.” Ryn had a few question. “First, what kind of retreat? And secondly, what’s a Deydie?”

  Sophie laughed good-naturedly and all the tension and sadness lifted from the room. “Deydie McCracken is the head quilter in Gandiegow.”

  “She’s old,” Sinnie said matter-of-factly. “And bossy—”

  “But kind in her own way,” Sophie interjected, as the kettle on the stove whistled. She poured the steaming water into the red teapot. “The retreat was Deydie’s idea. Now that John can’t fish, Maggie is supposed to run the retreats here in Whussendale so she can earn a living.”

  “Why can’t someone else do the retreat until things calm down for Maggie?” Ryn asked. That seemed much more reasonable.

  Sinnie picked at a string on the quilt. “Deydie insists it’s Maggie’s job. When Rowena and I tried to jump in and do it for her, we were told to mind our own business.” She shook her head. “As if our own sister isn’t our business.”

  Sophie bobbed her head. “Deydie gave me the same lecture.”

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” Ryn said. “Maggie’s husband just had a serious fishing accident and Deydie wants Maggie to start up and run a retreat center here?”

  “Aye. All retreats will be up at the castle until a retreat center can be built,” Sophie added.

  “Fine,” Ryn said, but she still had a point to make. “Can’t this Deydie see Maggie isn’t in any shape to run anything—except to the hospital, and take care of her children?” She’d like to give this Deydie a piece of her mind.

  Sophie and Sinnie gawked at her in surprise.

  “Och,” Sophie said. “Isn’t our Ryn a feisty one?”

  Our Ryn? Sophie’s words made Ryn feel as if a flannel quilt had been wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Aye, our Ryn’s feisty,” Sinnie agreed, grinning. “But she hasn’t met the likes of Deydie yet.”

  Sophie handed Ryn a mug. “Come sit at the table. Deydie isn’t as bad as we’re making her out to be.”

  Sinnie made a throaty muffled ‘hah’ while walking over to the small kitchen table to join them.

  “Be nice,” Sophie chided, but then turned to Ryn. “It’s true. Deydie has wanted to have retreats in Whussendale for some time now to take advantage of our wool products. But I’ve been too busy to get the wagon rolling as I’m the kiltmaker’s apprentice.”

  Sinnie took Sophie’s hand and squeezed it. “And too busy with yere new husband.”

  Sophie blushed. She used a sip of tea to hide the secret smile, which rested on her lips.


  Sinnie set her forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. Deydie may be ancient, but she’s still as sharp as a new needle. She saw a way to get what she wanted and at the same time to help Maggie out.”

  Ryn cradled her hands around the warm mug, shaking her head. “How is burdening Maggie helping her out?”

  “Old Deydie must believe that working on the retreat will take Maggie’s mind off all her troubles. Now, let’s drink our tea before it gets cold,” Sophie seemed to smile at a non sequitur thought. “Maggie’s the best wool quilter in Gandiegow.”

  “True,” Sinnie smiled proudly. “Maggie should be chuffed at the spectacular wool quilts she’s designed. She’s won three first-place ribbons at the Scottish Quilt Championships.”

  Sophie nodded to acknowledge the accomplishment. “Also, Whussendale is much closer to the hospital for Maggie to visit John. I tried to tell Deydie that adding the retreat now would be too much for Maggie.”

  Baby Irene cooed from her side of the room. Ryn looked over to see the child roll over, sit up, and stare at them.

  Sinnie went to her. “What are you doing, little bug?”

  Sophie laughed. “I think she was only pretending to sleep until I mentioned her mum’s name.”

  Sinnie picked up Irene. “We’ll head back. She’s ready for a nappy change.”

  “Ryn and I will stay and finish our tea. I’ll be home in a bit,” Sophie said.

  There was a plunk on the ceiling. Then another and another.

  Sophie nodded at Ryn’s luggage. “I hope ye’ve got a good raincoat with yere things.”

  Ryn glanced down at her jacket. “This is all I brought.” Which didn’t compare with the oilskin dusters they both wore.

  “I’ll dig out an extra for you when I get back to Kilheath. Maybe it’ll ease up before we head back.” Sophie smiled warmly and then took another sip of tea.

  Sinnie opened her coat and wrapped Irene inside. The baby cuddled to her as if she’d been cocooned against the weather many times before. “I’ll meet ye back at the castle.” She dashed out.