A wet squall hit them full in the face as they turned the corner and emerged from the little valley onto the flat land surrounding the village. Merle flinched, closing her eyes as she zipped her parka up to her chin. “We should have worn more clothes,” she muttered, dropping Pascal’s hand to stuff hers into her pockets.
“Here, wait.” Pascal stopped her, pulling up her hood and tightening it. “You forgot about it, no?”
She smiled. Her face was dripping. He didn’t have a hood or a hat and rain was now sluicing down his neck. “Welcome to Scotland, land of moisture.”
“It will pass. What do you say? I am not sugar.”
She reached up to give him a kiss. “Sweet though.”
It was embarrassing how gooey she got around Pascal, how he made her feel sixteen again. She ducked her chin. “Come on, let’s go fast and get out of this.”
Just two miles from Kincardie House to the village, this morning in the rain it felt much longer. The road turned to mud. Their pants stuck to their legs and chilled them. Another gust of wind broke a branch on a tree and bounced it toward them. Pascal laughed and took her hand again, beginning to run. “I love the rain,” he called. “La belle pluie.”
Running got them to the village faster but plunging hellbent through puddles wreaked havoc with their clothes. Mud splattered up to their thighs, their shoes were caked and brown. They fell into the lobby of the Hydro, laughing and shaking themselves like dogs. The clerks at the reception desk gasped, staring. Merle tore off her parka and bent over to shake out her hair on the mat by the big glass doors.
“Madam, if you would just— ” A young but very stiff valet was pointing them to another area off the main lobby, a cloak room complete with towels and coat racks. “We can assist you here.”
The valet handed them both white towels and left them to dry off. “They must be rained here once or twice,” Pascal said.
“We’re soaked to the skin,” Merle said, pulling her soggy trousers off her legs. She unlaced her shoes and held them by a finger, muddy things. She peered into the marbled lobby with its elegant guests and liveried valets. “We can’t walk around the hotel like this.”
Pascal pointed to the wall behind her. A house phone hung there. “Call your sister.”
Within minutes Stasia arrived with terry cloth robes, funny slippers, and passes to the hot pools in the basement of the hotel, the Roman baths the Victorians built the Hydro for a century before, back when taking the healing waters was all the rage. In Merle’s state, drenched and chilled, the thought of a hot bath in any size pool was delicious. Pascal blocked the door to the cloak room while Merle slipped out of her wet things and into the robe and slippers. The dry clothes warmed her almost as much as watching Pascal strip down.
Stasia waited for them in the lobby with plastic bags for the wet clothes. They hugged. Her usually immaculate hair a mess and a little bleary-eyed from travel, Stasia assured Merle that the family had arrived safely. All of them were still asleep. They were free to go soak and warm up.
“One problem,” Merle said. “No swimsuits.”
“That’s a problem?” Pascal asked.
“This isn’t the Côte d’Azur.”
He blinked at the rain, blowing sideways now. “You are right about that.”
Stasia tapped her arm. “You can use mine and Rick’s. Get a coffee and I’ll meet you there.”
* * *
Later that morning the Bennett sisters squeezed into a small seamstress’s work space over a gift shop on the main street of the village. Merle felt warm from the luxurious soak and completely loved, cozy with her sisters all together, and miraculously dry. Stasia had persuaded the housekeepers to run their clothes through the laundry while they were in the baths. She thought of everything.
Sitting on the worn floral banquette that encircled the waiting area, Merle squeezed Stasia’s hand and bit her tongue to keep her from thanking her sister for the fifth time.
Giggles of relief passed through the sisters as they realized Mrs. Logan would not be present at the fitting of the bridesmaids dresses. If they hated them, they wouldn’t have to lie.
The general consensus was they would hate them. They were ready for hideousness. An elderly lady who only knew them by their measurements had decided what they would wear to their own sister’s wedding. It was outrageous. Presumptuous. And bossy. The Bennett sisters could take almost anything but bossy. Especially the bossy sisters.
But first they got to see Annie in her wedding dress. This too had been kept under wraps. Merle had begged Annie for a glimpse, a photo, a sketch, anything. But she refused. Was she nervous about her dress? Merle hoped it wasn’t because the dress was a prom nightmare.
No worries. Sighs and ‘aaaahs’ followed their oldest sister as she stepped out of the back room in her gown. It was simple and slightly Bohemian, with a high-low hemline, the front hitting just below the knee to showcase the most gorgeous tartan heels you ever saw. Elise dropped to her knees to touch them, exclaiming, “They’re adorable.”
“It’s Callum’s tartan. He wanted me to wear something,” Annie said.
“And it’s something blue,” Stasia said. The tartan was navy and dark green with thin red and yellow stripes.
“What do you think of the dress?” Annie asked. “Too plain?”
A chorus of ‘it’s perfect.’ And it was. Cream-colored silk with small embroidery around the bodice, floaty sleeves (she insisted on sleeves at her age), and a graceful skirt: it was Absolutely All Annie.
“Did you bring it with you?” Merle asked when Annie returned to the waiting room. She wore her jeans and wellingtons again, looking relieved.
“Fiona wanted me to pick out something from a catalogue from Edinburgh but I couldn’t do that.” Annie leaned closer. “I hope the other dresses aren’t too awful.”
“You haven’t seen them?” Merle asked. Annie raised her eyebrows and winced.
Elise was first in the fitting room. The older sisters had privately whispered their relief that she’d shed a few pounds for the ceremony, for her health obviously.
What would they do if they hated the dresses? Wear them, of course. That’s what every good bridesmaid did.
When Elise stepped back into the room, a look of fixed horror on her face, there was a silent moment. Stunned, they stared in wonder at the dress. It looked well enough on Elise, pinching at her waist a little but she had it zipped up. It was the amount of material. Gad, it must weigh a ton.
“What the — freaking — bonny — Highland — hell.” Francie said with her dramatic flair. On her feet she pulled out the tea-length navy chiffon skirt, layers upon layers of froth like a fairy princess dress, until it went all the way up toward the ceiling. Yards and yards of chiffon, and under that yards and yards more of varying shades of blue and white. “I am speechless. Speechless, I tell you.”
“If only,” Annie whispered.
Merle blinked, taking in the enormity of the dress as Elise spun to show them the back. The bodice of the dress was tartan, done in shiny satin. The plaid itself wasn’t unattractive, the same as Annie’s shoes, navy and green. As tartans go there were uglier ones. There was just so much of it, draped awkwardly across the chest, arms, and back like a cape, plus the sleeves down to the wrists, followed by cuffs of lace that hung over the hands. Even the lace had trim: a ribbon of tartan on the edge. A white satin sash circled her waist, complete with giant bow, tipped with— wait for it— more tartan. Somebody couldn’t decide when enough was really enough.
“Check these out,” Elise said, pulling up the voluminous skirt and sticking out one foot. The shoes were red heels, chunky and matronly. And on the back, more tartan in the form of a big bow on the heel.
The seamstress, Mrs. Begbie, hung back, eyes wide and hand over her mouth. She was a fortyish woman, slender and elegant, with sensible shoes and strong, capable hands. Her dark hair was pulled back severely into a bun but she had a pretty face, now marred with concern.
“It fits fine, thank you,” Elise said, a bit tetchy. “It’s the dress itself. Was this your idea, Mrs. Begbie? This— sash? Is this supposed to be attractive?”
Annie rose at last, gaining her voice after the shock.
“It’s not that bad,” she said. A chorus of protests from Elise, Stasia, and Francie, angry, furious, and opinionated. Merle kept her mouth shut. The dress was over-the-top, way too fancy for Annie. Like something from— ? The land of Brigadoon, that was it. A fairy-tale romance of a Scotland. Not something for a practical, down-to-earth, hippie-girl wedding. Annie’s dress was understated and elegant, age-appropriate and tasteful. It fit her personality to a T. The bridesmaids would completely overshadow the bride. No one would even see Annie in the ocean of plaid and chiffon. But the sisters would wear the dresses, come hell or high water. That’s what a bridesmaid did.
Merle had been an attendant many times over the years including at Stasia and Rick’s wedding. And at Francie’s wedding to the flyboy, a pilot for Virgin Atlantic. That hadn’t lasted but the ceremony was everything modern and sophisticated, as you would expect from the ultra-fashionable Francie. It was natural that she was most offended by this dress, although Elise was a close second.
Let them have their outrage. But it wasn’t their wedding. They would wear the stupid dresses, get Annie married, and go home. It didn’t matter. One thing Merle had learned after years of marriage and losing her husband was that the wedding day was just a blip. The real adventure was living the life that came after.
“Mrs. Begbie did not design the dress. Mrs. Logan did.” Annie turned to her sisters, hands on hips. “She sent me a photo from a magazine. She said that was her inspiration but it wouldn’t be exactly like it. That it would be unique.”
A disapproving harrumph exploded out of Francie. Annie glared at her. “And as special as her son is, to her and to me. As she hoped the wedding day would be for both of us. I didn’t know it would be this— elaborate. But she let me see her ideas ahead of time. And she paid for them. So here we are. The dresses are done. We have four days until the wedding. You knew there was a chance you wouldn’t like them. So you don’t. That’s on you. You are not going to spoil things by making a big fuss and hullaballoo about— about tartan and chiffon.”
The sisters hung their heads, chastised. Stasia was first to apologize, giving Annie a hug.
“Of course we won’t spoil things. We are all excited to be here for you on your wedding day. And I have to say, I like it. The dress is— what it is. Very Scottish and— festive. Like a celebration.” She glanced at Francie who glowered fiercely while clutching a handful of chiffon in her fist. Elise tugged on it but Francie was latched on.
“Let go, Francie,” Stasia demanded. “It will be all right.”
Francie did nothing, frozen in her anger. Then Elise said she was sorry. “I apologize too, Mrs. Begbie. You did your best. It’s very well-made.” She sucked in her stomach and the tops of her breasts bulged precariously above the neckline.
Merle went to Francie, uncurling her fingers from the fabric. A set of wrinkles marred the chiffon. “Francie apologizes too, don’t you?”
Her angry eyes switched around the room, from face to face. Francie had done something different with auburn hair today, wound little braids over her ears, quite odd and not very attractive. Her mascara must have run in the rain, leaving dark blotches under her eyes. She looked slightly deranged.
Francie nodded at last, lips clamped together. “Say it,” Merle whispered.
“Sorry, Annie.” Her voice was hoarse with fury.
Merle frowned, trying to both figure this out. That was what the middle sister was for, deescalating a crisis. But what was going on with Francie? She hadn’t been herself on this trip. Normally she was a happy, energetic person, outgoing and charming, plus being one of the five of them who really loved the law.
She’d changed since the events in France last summer, for the better, becoming more appreciative of the little things in life. More ready to laugh and embrace whatever came along, even when she abandoned her cheese importing idea. Had that been a bigger blow than she let on? A black cloud hung over her in Scotland. And there was the incident on the plane when she somehow got her hands on three or four mini bottles of vodka, hiding them in her pockets. That made Merle wonder.
She ran her hand down Francie’s back, trying to calm her. Her shoulders felt hard. Tension radiated from her spine. She twisted away, stomping to the other side of the room.
“All right then,” Stasia said, clapping her hands for attention like a camp counselor. “Who’s next?”
8
Kincardie Hydro
Pascal sat in the mostly empty garden room café at the old hotel, sipping his third espresso and reading a newspaper he found lying on a table. The Roman baths had been just the ticket, as the Americans say. He felt warm and relaxed, his clothes mostly clean and more importantly dry. His favorite leather boots would never be the same after the drenching but at least he’d always remember Scotland.
The newspaper was full of stories of young farm families and their animals. A lottery winner, a corrupt politician. He sighed. Relaxed he might be but the coffee made him a bit itchy. As a Frenchman, and a policeman, he was accustomed to sitting around for hours, drinking coffee, and watching people, but he’d never liked it much. It bored him to imagine what people were saying to each other, what inane opinions they had on politics or religion or football. If he couldn’t actually hear their voices, respond to their comments, and take them in for questioning, what was the point? The French could be so lazy at times. He preferred action.
He downed his coffee and stood up, handing the newspaper to an elderly gentleman sitting alone at the next table. He was dressed in tweeds, with leather patches like a hunter. How odd, Pascal thought, as he left the cafe in search of action without weapons.
Outside the glass doors at the front of the hotel the rain fell in sheets, blown by gusts of wind, running in a river down the pavement. He asked the clerk at reception how long it would last. Perhaps he could walk back to the château if it stopped.
“Even umbrellas will be no use today. I shouldn’t go out again if I were you,” the red-haired clerk said slyly. He must have been on duty when Pascal and Merle made their wet appearance.
Pascal frowned and glanced at his watch. The women were all going to lunch together in the village. What were the men doing? Callum had presumably come into town with Annie. It was nearly noon. He would find Callum, get lunch or a ride back to the house.
“Can you give me a room number for a guest?”
“I’m sorry, no. But I can connect you on the house phone.” The clerk pointed to a telephone on a far table. Pascal stepped to the telephone.
“Connect me to — um.” What was Callum’s brother’s name? “Hugh Logan, if you please.”
A woman answered.
“Mrs. Logan?” Young one or old one? It must be young one. Pascal could only remember how attractive she was, not her name. “This is Pascal d’Onscon. Merle Bennett’s friend. We met last night at the house?”
“Yes, Pascal. How are you today?” Definitely the young one. She had a lovely Scottish accent, more so than her husband who probably worked with bankers from all over the world and had to sound more English.
“Bien, merci.” He spoke French and wondered why. “I am looking for Callum to see if he wants to get some lunch. Perhaps you would like to go as well?” he added, just to be polite. His subconscious was flirting, speaking French. Stop, Subconscious. The curse of the French. He could get himself into trouble.
Thankfully she was engaged to help her mother-in-law with flowers for the wedding. “Callum and Hugh should be here in a few minutes. Room 311.” Wait ten minutes, she said, and the men should have returned.
Pascal found an out-of-the-way bench to check email on his Blackberry then made his way through the w
arren of hallways and additions to the third floor, east wing, second staircase. He paused at room 311, his fist at the ready. Voices were raised inside the room.
“What the hell are you waiting for?”
“Fuck off. It’s my decision, not yours.”
“You will regret this. You need to tell her now, Callum. Before it’s too late.” That must be the brother, Hugh.
“Too late for what? You think she won’t marry me?”
Pascal took a step back and lowered his arm. He really didn’t like eavesdropping. He should leave.
“Who bloody knows? She’s your fiancée.” Hugh was shouting now. “You’re being a right idiot. You know that.”
“You’re so high and mighty. Always right. You told Vina then?”
“Of course. Don’t be so scared. You’re being a child. Listen to me. You have to tell her the whole story. The unvarnished truth. Give her a chance!”
“A chance to what? Pull out of the wedding? Is that what you want? You never wanted me to be happy. You and Mother both blame me for leaving. You never wanted me to go to America. And now I’ve found real happiness and you want me to throw it away.”
Pascal had heard enough. He put his head down and tried to stop his ears as the brothers continued shouting. The hallway was well-carpeted, thankfully, and as soon as he got to the stairwell their voices faded.
Back in the lobby he escaped into the café for a nice quiet lunch by himself. Not so boring after all. Taking a table near the windows overlooking a duck pond and a soggy croquet ground he sank into a chair and ordered a glass of wine from the waiter.
His own brother popped into his mind. Pascal rarely saw Stephane. He lived in Brussels with his large family and returned to France for holidays only. They met last year for a short visit in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. The children wanted to visit a chocolatier and his wife did some shopping at the market. Stephane and Pascal had a pleasant lunch. They talked about the children’s chances at admission to the grandes écoles, the important colleges. Pascal had thought nothing about the visit actually, not that it was awkward, or rare, or pathetic. Now he wondered. What sort of family were they?
The Things We Said Today Page 4
