The average one, apparently. Callum and Hugh must see each other infrequently. Annie had never visited Scotland with Callum, she said, and it appeared to have been some years since Callum himself had come home. Whatever it was that Hugh was so adamant that Callum tell Annie was none of his business. Their brotherly problems were their own. He vowed to stay out of it as he ordered steak frites and another glass of a rather fine Saint-Émilion. He felt the embarrassment from overhearing something private fade as the wine went down. Scotland in the rain wasn’t completely uncivilized.
As he emerged from the café, satisfied but wondering what the hell he would do with the rest of his afternoon, Pascal saw Rick and his son standing in the lobby. He greeted them like long lost friends, which was not far from the truth.
“We’ve called a taxi to get into town,” Rick explained. “This weather.” He frowned, shuddering.
The boy, Oliver, looked more excited about rain. His blue eyes danced. “They say it’s a huge storm. Swirling winds and stuff.”
Pascal glanced at Rick who nodded. “Weather bomb. Just what we need.”
“Weather bomb?” Pascal asked.
“Like a hurricane,” the boy chirped. “Wind and rain and crashing waves.”
“Lucky we’re so far from the ocean,” Pascal said. He glanced outside again. “Could I go into town with you? I seem to be abandoned.”
The village was quiet in the driving rain, another river running down the hilly main street, making a pond at the bottom. The taxi splashed through, depositing them outside a menswear shop where Rick and Oliver planned to do some shopping. Pascal shrugged to himself and jumped through the wet into the store which smelled of wool. What else was there to do on a rainy day? And apparently he needed waterproof clothes.
After trying on boots and a long black raincoat that made him look like a cartoon spy but was guaranteed waterproof, Pascal leaned against the counter, prepared to wait. Oliver was trying on a Scottish kilt, a silly affect in Pascal’s eyes but he believed in tradition. The Scot should wear his traditional costume but a man in a skirt was not a man of action. The decision on tartan design took some research but at last came down to the modern Anderson version, a lively sky blue and red. Rick was an Anderson but admitted he was actually Scandinavian. He shrugged, unconcerned.
It took several clerks to get Oliver cinched into the costume. He and his father laughed at the state of the boy’s shins. He’d been playing rugby and had the scars to prove it. Tall socks were the answer, the proprietor said. The kilt had a hefty price but it appeared Rick was willing to get one for the boy.
Oliver was reedy and fair, with an eager, innocent smile. The apple of his father’s eye at sixteen. Pascal felt a strange pang; he missed Tristan. Merle’s son was as close to a son as he had. He and his ex-wife never got around to children. She ran off and, sensing failure, he put domestic life behind him. But today, in the cold, running down muddy lanes with Merle, he felt wistful. Was he getting old? He wasn’t really the sort of man who settled down. He was a policeman— hard, cynical, and driven.
He frowned to himself. Was he?
Rick joined him at the counter. “He says he’s going to go commando like true Scots.” Pascal smiled politely, confused. “Nothing underneath,” Rick explained. “I think that’s the only reason he wants a kilt. Swinging free.” Rick laughed again, shaking his head.
“What are you wearing to the wedding? Also a kilt?” Pascal asked.
“No, just an ordinary black suit. And underwear. You?”
“Same.”
That was settled then.
“Are you meeting the women later?” Pascal asked. He felt a little lost without Merle. There were so many relatives and they didn’t all get along. But he and Merle, they were good. As good as two people who lived four-thousand miles apart could be. “Isn’t there cocktails?”
“At five,” Rick said. “We’ve got some time to kill. Too bad about this storm. I was hoping to go fishing or hiking or find a whisky tour.”
Pascal looked around the shop again. “I might have to buy more clothes if we go straight to cocktails. It’s in the village?”
The drinks party was a meet-and-greet for Mrs. Logan’s local friends, Rick explained, to be held in the back of a local Italian restaurant. Being married to Stasia, the hyper-efficient sister, meant Rick was a font of knowledge about logistics, times and dates and places. They were to arrive at five, mingle for an hour with the old biddies, then head back to Kincardie House for a big dinner. Rick had a satchel full of their clothes for the evening, packed by his wife.
“What’s the house like?” Rick asked.
“Massive. From the time of Queen Victoria, they say. Country château.”
“Oliver and Willow will love it,” Rick said, fiddling with his phone. Was he unimpressed with mansions? Rick worked in banking or stocks or something. Money seemed to be the thing if you lived in New York. But he was a likable man with thick brown hair, big hands, and a prominent chin, the type who wore V-neck sweaters and boating shoes when not in a sharp suit. “Did you see Callum today?” Rick asked.
Pascal shook his head. Technically he’d only heard him. “No.”
Rick frowned, leaning in. “I don’t know if I should say this, but he and his brother and some woman were having a huge knock-down argument outside the hotel in the parking lot, before the rain started. Shouting. I wonder if everything’s all right there.”
Pascal groaned internally. But it might be nothing. “Hugh’s wife? Black hair, tall, bit of a looker?”
“Right! Very pretty. That’s Hugh’s wife?” Rick raised his eyebrows, whistling appreciatively. “We only met Hugh for a second at breakfast. I was just out getting some air, you know. Caught a few words. Appeared that the argument was about the wife. She stood there with an angry look and they kept pointing at her.” He pulled a face, his voice low. “But I shouldn’t say. I don’t know any of them.”
Rick left to help Oliver decide on the rest of his Scottish attire, the black jacket, the furry purse, the socks. In the end Pascal bought a second Mac in a Sac for Merle, a new pair of wool trousers and a dress shirt (black naturally), socks, and waterproof chukka boots. He drew the line at waterproof socks. His feet had a petite odor problem. No foot sauna was required.
He tried not to think about Hugh and Callum and Davina and whatever they were arguing about. He blocked out the natural curiosity of the policeman. It wasn’t his affair. If Rick was going to gossip about the in-laws that was his choice. But Pascal was going to rise above that. How he wished he’d walked away when he first heard them talking in the room. He was at fault. People needed privacy. They deserved it.
By the time the kilt was fitted and packed, all their purchases were wrapped carefully in tissue and put into plastic bags against the weather, it was four-thirty. Time to hit the pub, Rick announced, getting directions to the best and closest from the grateful shopkeeper. Pascal pulled on his sinister trench coat that nearly brushed the toes of his ruined boots. Oliver laughed and said he was going to call him ‘the man in black.’
Pascal flipped up the hood dramatically and cocked his head like a pirate. “You will laugh, my son, when I am dry and you are very, very wet.”
9
The afternoon was well along, the rain settling in for the long haul, when the retired caretaker of Kincardie House heard the knock on the door of Moss Cottage. He’d just sat down from poking the fire and groaned, pushing himself upright again. The ten steps to the door went slowly. Craigg cursed his old body, the bowed legs, the creaking knees, the knotted hands. How had this happened, he asked every time he had to walk. He sometimes shook a fist at the sky. How had he gotten so old?
But it was Vanora at the doorstep, all smiles with a plate of something under a rag. He waved the housekeeper in, welcoming the company and the vittles. It had always been the basics for him as a rule, no frills or coddling. Even— especially— when he was caretaker, way back when old McRoberts was the laird. Righ
t after the war when he’d arrived here, all vim and vigor, working all day without a break, climbing the yonder ben, feeling the strength in his shoulders. His service in the war had toughened him. Craigg didn’t want to get soft and lose the ability to carry on through harsh winters, through the lambing, through the forest walks and heather runs. He wanted to keep up with the dogs so he kept himself to himself, maintained discipline and eschewed strong spirits and rich food.
And look where it got him. Vim and vigor turned to piss and vinegar, sour to the taste. Unable to walk ten steps without pain. Mebbe giving up pudding wasn’t such a brilliant plan.
Vanora seemed to think cakes and pies were just the thing. He wasn’t going to argue. Not when the worst was done and he had to live with it. He waited while she set the plate on the kitchen table and pulled a bottle of whisky from her pocket.
“Something for the rheumatism, ol’ Craiggie?” she grinned like a cat.
He didn’t like that name, not the ‘old’ part nor the ‘Craiggie part.’ He didn’t want to be old or given a baby name. He did want some of the drink though. It made the pains go soft for a while.
They drank in silence for a minute, letting the golden liquid do its magic. Then Vanora began to talk. She was a talker, filling the quiet with stories of people in the house, the weather, the animals. He waited until she took a long sip of her dram.
“What of the sheep?” Craigg asked. “Has Gunni got them in the pasture?”
“I don’t rightly know,” the housekeeper said, surprised. “You want I should find out for you?” She batted her eyelashes like the young woman she was not. She was a girthie thing, round in the middle and greasy on her crown, with a trace of a mustache that Craigg found fascinating. Sometimes he couldn’t keep his old eyes off it.
He shrugged. “They’ll be all right. Just some rain.”
“Oh, it’s a biggun, Craiggie. I listen on the radio. They say it’ll get worse before it gets better. It’s a huge storm, coming down from the North Sea.”
She babbled on about the rainstorm, quoting some man she heard, talking of things she knew nothing. May was not the time for such a storm. It would fizzle out over the Shetland Islands, as these storms often did. If it came from the West, more likely in winter, the Hebrides would shield the coast a bit.
A wee bit of rain? What was she blathering about? Scots knew rain. It was their ugly second cousin, the one who comes early and leaves late, pisses on the flowers and ruins the party.
He asked her about his Highland pony, Annabelle. “And my shiltie, she’s still good and warm? She’s not out in this muckle.”
“I checked on her on my way here. All cozy, she is. I took her a carrot.”
He frowned. “I can feed her, woman. I was in the barn this marnin’.”
“Of course you can, Craiggie. She loved the carrot anyway. It’s not fattening.” She patted her own middle and laughed. “Only vegetables,” she cackled.
“Annabelle ain’t fat.” The woman was wearing out her welcome.
His shiltie was a pretty little thing, white as a fairy flower, with black dashes on her forelock and soft mane and tail. The Highland pony was a sturdy breed with a heavy coat, they could stand this rain much better than a gawky housemaid could.
Craigg sighed, draining his glass. He coddled the pony. She wasn’t young either. He loved his little Annabelle. They had grown old together.
“If you have to feed her give her oats,” he grumbled. “Tell Cook thanks for the supper.” He hoped the scunner would get the hint but Vanora poured herself another dram. He waved his hand. “No more for me. I’m feelin’ tired.”
Vanora took her time but eventually she did leave him alone with his thoughts and his cold supper. He put a kettle on, poked the fire, and when tea was done, settled in under a blanket to listen to the wind whistle and the rain thrum on the roof.
Moss Cottage wasn’t much: small, dim, and damp, cold in winter with mice in the attic. But Kincardie was home, to him and his Annabelle, and forever would be.
He closed his eyes and thought of that day, the day he climbed high into the hills, his legs strong and sure. Looking for stray ones, calling to his best dog Bhric, the one with the spots on his nose, watching the flowers color up the vale and the sun slice through the clouds like gold lightning. Sitting on the ruins of the bothy, communing with the stones that once sheltered many a sheepman like himself. When the land, and all that roamed there, seemed free and easy.
Now that was a day.
* * *
Jinty stood at the kitchen window, watching the light fade from the hills and the raindrops streak across the glass. Dinner was almost ready, a haddock tonight. Cook was dashing around, tasting sauces and barking orders. For the Kincardie caretaker the last few days had been brutal, especially compared to the sweet springtime air, the leisure before the American guests arrived. Jinty had to make three runs into town for food and supplies in the downpour, grabbing the last batteries on the shelf while she was at it. This storm would be the death of her, she could feel it.
The only saving grace to the day was having Killian chauffeur her on the shopping jaunts. It was a rare and wonderful feeling, looking at the back of his head. He rarely spoke to her but she didn’t mind. Just being out and about with him seemed adequate. There was an odd smell to the Rolls, like there was a problem with the gas line. She mentioned the odor as they arrived back at Kincardie.
Killian had glanced sideways at her and mumbled, “I’ve been working on the engine, that’s all it is.”
Now, at the window, she could see the lights on in the coach house. Killian would be tinkering with the old automobile, she reckoned. And there was Vanora, pulling on her green mackintosh and floppy waterproof hat as she shut the door to Moss Cottage. Jinty ground her molars. The housekeeper was a disaster: unreliable, inefficient, and irritating in her backtalk. Nobody wanted to take orders from a toonser brat, she’d told Jinty earlier, right out there in the open, plain as day. What did she expect, coming here with her uppity city ways? Well, she expected people to respect her position, Jinty thought. To do their jobs, not run off and swill whisky at every opportunity.
Even Mrs. Logan was beginning to get the full picture about Vanora, not that she could change anything now, in the middle of wedding preparations. They’d just have to muddle through, try to keep the woman sober enough to tidy up. They had a break tomorrow, no big dinner for sixteen like tonight. That would be a relief but one Vanora would no doubt take advantage of by getting blootered.
Gunni appeared in a yellow mac, lumbering out of the barn, jamming a rain helmet on his head. Vanora stopped when she spied him and called out to him. He kept moving toward the pasture. Vanora followed him, her mouth flapping. Gunni kept walking in his big rubber boots, splashing in the drive. She kept after him like a runty duck, finally grabbing his arm to get his attention. Jinty tensed. Gunni didn’t like to be touched.
He stopped all right, staring at Vanora’s hand on his arm. Then he glared up at her and shook her off. She took a step forward— what the hell is she doing— and Gunni brought his arm down in an arc, backhanding her, hitting her smack across the shoulder. Jinty gasped. But it must not have been a hard blow as she only staggered awkwardly. Vanora righted herself, put her hands on her hips and watched him skulk off into the rain.
“Jinty!” Mrs. MacKeegan screeched. “Time for wee nibbles in the library. Where is me help? Lordie, we will never make it through this night.”
* * *
The drinks hour was halfway through when Merle excused herself from her parents and found a quiet corner of the library to sit with her wine. It had been wonderful to see her parents again but she was a little worried about her father. The overseas travel had been hard on him. He was taking some medication that made it hard for him to sleep on the flight, he explained. Jack Bennett was no longer young. Merle was thrilled they had made the journey to see their oldest daughter get married but concerned they were overdoing it. Their mother Be
rnadette, Bernie to all, seemed no worse for wear but they both were tired, she said, and they had decided to take a taxi back to the hotel for a quiet dinner and early to bed. A good plan, Merle thought. Pace yourself.
Her sisters seemed calm enough, Stasia and Rick with their kids, exclaiming over Kincardie House, Elise hanging on Bruno like they were glued at the hip, Annie glowing, smiling too much which was sort of odd. Francie was Francie, throwing back wine. It had been a trying day, made worse with the miserable weather. Between the fitting with the hideous dresses and the cocktail party for all of Mrs. Logan’s old friends in the village, Merle was ready to make it an early night herself.
She smoothed her purple dress, glad she’d brought enough clothes for all these various events. At least Mrs. Logan had been correct in the number of soirees and formality of each. The sisters had laughed at her lists but they were a good thing. Merle appreciated a good list.
Merle gazed into the red wine swirling in her glass and hoped no one would bother her for a few minutes. She couldn’t think when she was forced to make chit-chat with all these people, even if they were mostly family members. She needed a break to mull over her talk with Annie, to decide how serious it was. As they’d dressed this afternoon, before returning to the village for the cocktail party, Annie had confessed to Merle that she was having, well, she called them pre-wedding jitters. But they sounded suspiciously like old-fashioned second thoughts.
“It’s the age thing,” Annie said, climbing into the four poster bed in her room and sitting cross-legged next to Merle. “I just can’t seem to get past it. He’s so young, Merle.”
The Things We Said Today Page 5
