Scotland for Christmas

by Cathryn Parry

  Somehow, though, he was drawn forward, propelled to follow Rhiannon.

  “Isabel, would you like to come with us?” Rhiannon asked.

  Isabel darted a glance to him. “Yes, please,” she said quickly. Her hand curled into Jacob’s, and he gave it a squeeze before sliding his arm around her shoulders.

  They passed through a hallway and down a set of back stairs, and then walked outside into the mist for a short bout across a courtyard. The outbuilding Rhiannon took them to wasn’t easily detected from the castle entrance. It simply disappeared into the folds of the landscape, and Jacob felt as though he’d been cleverly fooled.

  “Have you ever been inside here before?” he mouthed to Isabel, and she shook her head in reply.

  “It’s her studio,” Isabel whispered into his ear as Rhiannon picked through a set of keys. “No one but her immediate family and Uncle John ever goes inside.”

  He felt a chill of privilege. But why him? With his left hand, he gripped the notebook more tightly. Forced himself to observe the perimeter.

  Beyond the small courtyard, there seemed to be acres and acres—hundreds of acres, maybe—of raw, unspoiled Highlands. The wind blew across the trees, straight at him, and he raised his elbow to shield his and Isabel’s faces.

  Instinctively he knew that Rhiannon thrived here. She walked these wild lands; she drew her artistic inspiration from this environment.

  Rhiannon smiled at them, opening the door and waving them inside.

  They walked up another turret, shaded in darkness, with uneven stone stairs and a curving line. Jacob felt spun about. He wasn’t sure what was north or south, high or low, night or day.

  Rhiannon led them into her workshop—Jacob smelled the oil paints before he saw anything—and Isabel, slightly ahead of him, made a small gasp of joy.

  The place was... He didn’t know how to describe it. Bursts of color and light. A wide, airy window, south-facing, overlooking that Highlands wilderness.

  He walked across the floor, noticing that Rhiannon had painted a woodland mural upon the boards, and dotted it with glittery designs. It looked like a fairy playground, he thought. But who was he to judge? This was Rhiannon’s private space, and she’d invited them inside. Without a doubt, that was a sacred trust, and he respected that.

  Jacob shoved his notebook into his pocket. Clearly, if he approached this like a technician, he would be lost here, missing what was most important. So he swallowed and kept walking, toward an easel she’d set up, facing away from the windows so the light was at her back.

  “Roses,” Isabel murmured beside him, a smile covering her face. “Look at that, Jacob. Red, red roses.”

  The entire, huge canvas was covered in an eerily lifelike, vivaciously alive panel of pure red roses. He stared, stunned. Jacob had some sketching talent; he’d taken a few art classes as a kid, but this...Rhiannon MacDowall was world-class in her talents.

  Clearly, they’d interrupted her. The brush tip was still wet with green oil paint; the palette rested on a ledge of the easel.

  Jacob glanced around. Where was her still-life display? He saw no photographs or pictures, either. Outside, it was winter—any rosebushes in the gardens would only contain bare, dead branches.

  “Are you painting this from memory?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Rhiannon replied.

  “You heard me sing the Burns poem,” Isabel exclaimed. “At Malcolm’s wedding, didn’t you?”

  Rhiannon smiled, clearly pleased. “Yes, and you inspired me.” She put her palms together. “This painting is for you. I want you to keep it when I’m finished.”

  “That’s...” Isabel hesitated as if tempted to refuse. But then she looked directly into Rhiannon’s eyes, and Jacob saw the tears gathering in her own. “I’m honored,” she said.

  “No, I’m honored.” Somberly, Rhiannon walked to Jacob. He let her take his hand, let her lead him to an alcove, where she sat him on a couch. “I have something for you, too,” she said.

  He had no idea what to expect. He glanced at Isabel, who’d also walked over to stand before him, but she simply shrugged.

  Rhiannon was on her knees, digging inside a huge battered armoire. At last, she pulled out a parcel and stood, bringing it over to him.

  Her expression was clear and solemn. “I drew this for you many years ago.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. I always knew you would come someday. I knew you would find me. When I saw you with Isabel at Malcolm’s wedding, I knew straightaway that the time had come....”

  Jacob’s hands shook. Numbly, he opened the dusty envelope that Rhiannon had brought him.

  It was a pencil sketch, much like the one he’d made of Isabel, but this was more childishly drawn, and it was of him.

  He exhaled hard, dropping the sketch. Isabel gasped, her hand over her mouth.

  “How is this even possible...?” he sputtered.

  Rhiannon sat next to him. “Oh, I see. You think it’s you, Jacob. But it’s not. This is Donald Ross, the man who saved my life.”

  He whirled to face her. He picked up the sketch, studying it more closely. Emotion flooded him. He hadn’t realized he looked so much like his real father. His eyes stung. It made sense, because he looked nothing like his mom.

  This man—his father, Donald—wore a police officer’s uniform. He had a kind face. In the sketch, he was about Jacob’s age, and he was smiling.

  “He told me he had a son named Jacob,” Rhiannon said.

  Jacob’s eyes stung harder, and he blinked fiercely. “He spoke of me?”

  “He said you were in America, with your mother, and that he thought of you every day. Someday, he hoped to go see you. He said this several times, so it was important to him.”

  Jacob had never expected... He’d never...

  “I’m sorry, Jacob. Your father deliberately took a bullet that was meant for me, and that’s all I’ll ever say about that night. Can you understand?”

  Wordlessly, he nodded. Jacob knew about taking bullets. He knew about that sacred trust....

  “People always want to hear more, don’t they?” Rhiannon said to him. “The therapists are kind, and they want to be helpful. But there are some things that are meant to be kept to ourselves, at least until the time is right. I didn’t want to talk about Donald Ross with anyone else but you. Only you. Because I knew you would find me when you were ready to know.”

  Jacob sucked in his breath. He glanced at Isabel, and she was already crying for him. Her hands were covering her mouth and her eyes were glistening with tears. Pain welled in his chest, and he knew he was losing control. For an instant he thought of Isabel that first day when she’d vomited all over the floor in that coffee shop. He was going to lose his composure, too, and it couldn’t be stopped.

  “Rhiannon, I need to go....” He stood, wanting to say much more, but he couldn’t form the words.

  He took the sketch she’d made and rolled it as carefully as he could, then tucked it inside his jacket pocket. He wasn’t letting this go, ever.

  “Yes, I’ll show you the way downstairs,” Rhiannon said. “It’s all right. Come back and see me anytime, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, thank you,” he managed to say.

  She put her hand on his. “Farewell, Jacob. As we say in Scotland, haste ye back. I do hope to see you again someday.”

  And then Jacob was stumbling outside, face into the mist, sinking onto the bench at the edge of the garden.

  * * *

  ISABEL’S HEART WAS breaking for Jacob. She went downstairs with him and watched from the doorway. He sat with his head in his hands in that dead winter courtyard. His back was to her, and his muscles moved as he took in deep breaths.

  She put her hand to her chest, crushed by the sight of his pain. Waiti
ng, she stood guard over him. Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer and went to him, pressing her body over his.

  She covered him as a blanket, her cheek on his back, her arms hugging him, passing him all her love. If she could take his pain into her own body, she would do so in a heartbeat.

  “Jacob, I’m sorry.” She kept her words close to his ear; otherwise, they would have been swept away by the wind.

  “I didn’t know...” His voice was faint, as though all of his intense emotion was spent. “I was wrong about him.”

  She hugged him tighter. “He loved you,” she said softly. “He thought of you all along.”

  “My mom doesn’t know. We thought...he’d failed us.”

  “Maybe he just needed more time.” She paused. “He was a hero to Rhiannon.”

  “He was,” he whispered.

  “I’m glad you know now.”

  Jacob stood suddenly and pulled her into his arms, hugging her back, fiercely. “Thank you, Isabel. You’ve brought me such light.”

  “Rhiannon did that.”

  “No,” he said hoarsely, “it was you. You’ve brought me what no one else could. I think...I always needed to hear what she said up there....” He pulled back to look at her.

  “I brought you to Scotland with me because you love me,” she said softly. “And I know I haven’t told you yet, but I do love you back. With all my heart.”

  He put his forehead to hers. With a gentle hand, he smoothed her wet, tangled hair from her face. “We should get out of the rain.”

  “Yes, we should.”

  “I do love you, you know.” He stared into her eyes. And then he led her back, into the shelter of the building that housed Rhiannon’s artist studio. The heavy door shut behind them, and they were alone in the silence of the cool stairwell, smelling of damp wood beams on centuries-old stonework.

  They both paused, as if not sure what came next. Isabel knew this was the moment. Soon Rhiannon would come down from her studio, or Malcolm and Kristin would wander in looking for them, and then she and Jacob would be headed back to the city again, and their time would be done.

  “Jacob? I haven’t said this to you because I’ve been afraid to think about you leaving. But I don’t think that holding back is very wise for me anymore. What if I never see you again and I didn’t say it to you while I still had the chance?”

  Slowly Jacob exhaled, stepping back.

  Her gaze dropped. He knew what she was going to ask. She studied a planter of leafy green holly in the corner, and nervously she reached to pluck a sprig, rubbing the sharp edges between her fingers.

  When she looked at Jacob again, he was staring past her, rain and mist still on his face. He didn’t want her to ask him to stay, she sensed. She was taking such a risk in doing so, and it scared her.

  But not telling him the truth scared her more.

  She sat on the stair beside the holly bush. “It’s Christmas Eve.” She gazed up at him. “May I tell you what I most want for Christmas?”

  His face was a statue, the emotion unreadable on it. Jacob had fashioned himself into a bodyguard; he had been one for most of his life. But after hearing Rhiannon’s story, how could any woman who loved him want him to continue that life?

  “What I would most like,” she said bravely, “is for you not to take bullets for other people anymore, because I selfishly want you to stay here with me.”

  His expression didn’t change.

  Her vision blurred, and she lowered her head.

  After a moment, she felt his gentle touch on her chin. “Will you wait for me?” he asked, kneeling before her.

  She dared to look at him, and his eyes were compassionate. She nodded wordlessly.

  “I need to go home and share what I’ve learned,” he said quietly.

  He wasn’t asking her to go with him, she noticed. Neither was he promising to return. But he hadn’t turned her down, either.

  “Will you stay for Christmas dinner?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “It’s better for you if I don’t go.” He cupped his hand to her cheek. “Make this about you, and what you want. You’ll get more from your uncle without me there to complicate it.”

  She put her arms around his neck, and her forehead to his, not wanting to let him go. But he was right. She had to trust him. And trust herself.

  * * *

  WHEN THEY RETURNED to Edinburgh that evening, Jacob phoned the airlines and reserved himself a seat on a commercial flight to JFK the next morning. Isabel got up early with him, and she watched the taxi pull away and whisk him down the street away from her. Only then did it occur to her that it was Christmas Day, and she had forgotten to wish him a happy Christmas.

  Isabel showered and dressed alone, in a red dress with a sprig of holly in her hair. When she was ready, she drove to her uncle’s home.

  As she knocked on the door, and he let her inside, she felt a small triumph even through her sadness. She took comfort in knowing that she’d been true to herself. She’d done her best, her way, not only for herself, but for the people she loved, too.

  Uncle John answered the door himself, and took her coat. She gave him a kiss, and he seemed surprised. “You decided to come alone,” he remarked as he hung up her coat.

  “I did.”

  He brought her into a sitting room and poured them each a small glass of sherry. “Rhiannon called me this morning,” he said.

  “Yes, Uncle. I know you typically spend Christmases with her and Malcolm’s family.”

  “And I know you typically spend Christmas with your family.”

  “I do.” She smiled at him. “But I’m glad it’s just you and me for now. Perhaps you’ll join me and visit my mum and brothers later, after dinner. They’ll be watching Christmas movies. It’s a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol. Maybe Elf for Stewart. We’d love to have you.”

  Her uncle smiled. He held up the glass in a toast. “Maybe I will.”

  “Please do.”

  He took a small sip of sherry. “Rhiannon told me about yesterday’s visit.”

  “I’m glad.” She took a sip of her sherry, as well. It was sweet—sweeter than she’d expected.

  He nodded, lost in thought, and seemed troubled. “I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to her,” he said.

  Isabel put down her glass and took both his hands in hers. “I wish you would, Uncle. You know she doesn’t blame you. No one in the family does.”

  He nodded shortly. He seemed to be struggling with emotion. Finally, he met her gaze. “I’m sorry I can’t name you CEO, or even president.”

  She had expected that. She nodded.

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “When I confronted you in your office yesterday, I knew I had forfeited my chances.”

  “But you did it anyway.”

  She nodded, sipping her sherry again. “I did.”

  “And your father,” he said. “I know you made a promise to Dougal.”

  “In the hospital, the last day I saw him alive, yes.” She lowered her gaze to the bright red sherry, their festive drink for Christmas. Her father had so loved the holiday. She found herself smiling. “But I think he’s proud of me, after all.”

  She gazed up at her uncle. She had stood up to him, which her dad had never done. That would make him proud.

  Last night, driving back from the castle, it had occurred to Isabel that her dad wouldn’t want her to spend her life doing something that made her unhappy, just to please him. The only way she would fail him was if she denied her own heart.

  “I think there’s a more appropriate role for me at Sage,” she said. “One that suits me. One that I think can benefit the company.”

  “I’m interested in hearing your thoughts,” her uncle said. />
  “I enjoyed working in the Cosmetics Division. I’d like to head up that department. Reporting to you, if I may.”

  Her uncle nodded. “I’ll see to it.” He stood. “Well, are you hungry? I arranged for the traditional dinner. Turkey with the trimmings.”

  “That will be lovely,” she said.

  She followed him into the dining room. And at her uncle’s Edinburgh mansion, all decorated for Christmas, a table set with a lovely meal for two, Isabel Sage participated in the first adult conversation she’d ever had with her uncle John that had lasted longer than ten minutes.

  Away from the office, she discovered, outside of the pressure of business, he wasn’t half-bad.

  In any event, it was something to build upon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JACOB MADE IT to his family’s house in Connecticut by midafternoon on Christmas Day. He’d slept a good part of the flight home, still shell-shocked from meeting Rhiannon, still thoughtful about all that had happened in Scotland.

  He needed to tell his mom what Rhiannon had told him. That was the most important thing at the moment.

  A light snow had fallen, dusting the porch, as he stamped his feet on the welcome mat. The front door was adorned with a balsam wreath like the ones his mom had made every year when he was a child, even when they’d had little to live on.

  But the home was warm inside and smelled like mulled cider. Emily greeted him, skipping over and making a fuss over him. He’d forgotten he still wore a small bandage on his neck. He felt a bit stiff and he’d probably always have a scar there, but that wasn’t why he’d come home.

  He finished giving Emily a bear hug, and then took off his shoes in the entryway. “Where is everybody?” he asked.

  “In the den. Zach is showing us his skills with his new video games.” She rolled her eyes.

  It was nice to know some things didn’t change.

  “Did you bring your gun with you?” Emily asked as she walked beside him.

  Playfully, he tugged on her messy ponytail. “Absolutely not.”

  “Good.” She led him into the alcove off the family room.

  There they were, his family, snuggled on the big sectional couch and looking somewhat sleepy, except for Zach, who was jockeying with a game console.