Heather Song

by Michael Phillips

  Can a woman love two men?

  Discovering the answer to that question five years before, and making the choice between them, had set me on the path to a destiny I could never have foreseen. But the question had now changed. No choice now confronted me. Only the question of whether love might still exist…or, if dormant, was it reviving again into life, rebirthing itself from out of the past?

  If so, what was I to do about it—flee again to Canada to escape its consequences, to escape where it might lead? Or meet it with honesty, even courage, and find out—yet again—what the future might hold?

  I had run from it before. But my running had only presented me with the inevitable conviction that I had to know what my heart was saying.

  Even as many questions posed themselves again, questions I thought I had put behind me forever, I knew that again there could be no resolution without knowing.

  I had to know.

  Many long walks followed. Much prayer. Time with Journey sitting on my favorite bench, reliving many special moments, playing the melodies that probed the depths of Scotland’s historic melancholy soul, thinking of Alasdair, wondering what he would want me to do.

  Yet could Alasdair, could the Lord himself, help me know what lay in my heart?

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Fear and Confusion

  Why should I sit and sigh when the greenwood blooms sae bonnie?

  Lav’rocks sing, flow’rets spring, and all but me are cheery,

  Ah! But there is something wanting. Ah! But I am weary.

  —“Why Should I Sit and Sigh?”

  The knowing I sought contained no speculation of outcome. As yet I was building no aerial fantasies of renewed romance. At first I did not even envision a meeting. It was simply the waking within myself that I had to understand. I had to come to terms with it so that my own personhood would be whole and complete in its self-​knowledge.

  But is it possible for love to sprout in the human heart without the desire to meet its accuser face-to-face?

  If so, surely it is rare. For love, by its very nature, is compelled to make itself known. I was not thinking consciously in such terms. Yet even then, surely my subconscious had already begun impelling itself toward the inevitable desire to see him again.

  In inquiring about Iain Barclay’s whereabouts, and after Nigel Crathie had successfully tracked him to London, my initial response had been excitement at the possibility of locating Alasdair’s friend. But with the words Banff Hotel, and the flood of memories and emotions that began infiltrating my senses like an incoming tide, I became tentative, afraid of pursuit, afraid of what it might imply about me…perhaps afraid of what it would look like, of what people would think or of what he would think.

  Women did not pursue men. It was supposed to be the other way round. Especially widows in their mid-forties did not do so.

  Iain left Port Scarnose four years earlier for reasons of his own. He had not shared them with me. They were not for me to know. I couldn’t go chasing after him to fulfill some selfish need to know whether my feelings were those of a friend or something more. To attempt to find him again, if it was only to satisfy my own selfish ends, would be wrong.

  What about his thoughts and feelings? He obviously did not want to be found. Otherwise, he would not have gone to such lengths to keep his whereabouts secret.

  The largest and most obvious uncertainty hanging over my conjectures was the huge question of whether Iain was now married. How could he not be after so long? I couldn’t lose myself in a ridiculous whirlwind of thoughts about love if a married man was involved!

  And no matter from which angle the sun shone on the long-buried soil that was being cultivated anew, my love for Alasdair complicated everything tenfold. The question was constantly with me: Was I somehow being unfaithful to that love by allowing myself to think of Iain? Did this hidden sprouting reveal a betrayal of Alasdair’s memory?

  I tried desperately to examine the other side of the coin. I tried to convince myself that Iain was a good friend. Only a friend. He had been Alasdair’s best friend. What if he didn’t know about Alasdair? He needed to know, deserved to know. It had nothing to do with me. As Alasdair’s widow, it was my duty to contact Iain. His probable marriage had nothing to do with it. I still needed to contact him…for Alasdair’s sake.

  This was not about romance or love. It was about friendship with a man with whom Alasdair and I had once been very close.

  At last I convinced myself that such was the right and honorable perspective. I came to terms with it on the basis of the friendship that Alasdair had cherished and had missed during the final years of his life. I came to terms with it by keeping Alasdair in his proper place in my memory. Yes, I had once loved two men. I had married one of them. Those two men had been friends—good friends, close friends, best friends. The one deserved to know about the other. To tell him was my responsibility. It was a debt I needed to discharge on Alasdair’s behalf.

  I must try to find Iain Barclay to tell him of Alasdair’s passing, and that Alasdair had loved him to the end.

  I telephoned Nigel Crathie to ask if there were any additional details concerning what he had learned about Reverend Gillihan’s predecessor.

  “None,” he said. He had contacted Church of Scotland headquarters in Edinburgh to make inquiries. He had been told that Rev. Iain Barclay was not listed among the church’s active clergy. Thinking it a dead end, he did not pursue it immediately. On a hunch, some time later he wrote to the church offices requesting a list of all living retired Church of Scotland clergy. He had received the list only two days before the trial was set to begin. On it was the name of Iain Barclay, residing in London.

  “But no address?” I said.

  “No, only the city.”

  “Surely it could be found with an Internet search.”

  “Probably…but London? It would not surprise me if there are two hundred Iain Barclays in the greater London area. Both are common names.”

  “Unless he is still using the Rev.,” I suggested. Even as I said it I knew it was a stupid idea. “Forget it,” I said. “Iain always hated the ‘Rev.’ in front of his name, even when he was the curate of a church. He would certainly not be using it now.”

  “Do you know his middle name?”

  “Actually, come to think of it, I don’t even know if he has one.”

  “We can find out. He was born in Deskmill Parish, I believe. It will be in the records. What about other family?”

  “All I know is that he has a married sister. It seems she may have married an American, but I could be wrong. I really know very little about his family. Both their parents are dead, I believe.”

  “Not much to go on. Would you like me to pursue it?”

  “If you don’t mind. Maybe I will, too—though I’m not very Internet-savvy.”

  “What about Alicia’s friend Tavia Maccallum? Isn’t she a computer whiz? As I recall, she does Internet research for some firm in Sydney—​​all by e-mail and online.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She probably knows how to track folks down. People who know what they’re doing can practically google a picture of someone walking along the pavement in front of their house.”

  “Really!”

  “Well, maybe not quite—but it’s amazing what people can do these days.”

  “I will talk to her.”

  I would have been reluctant to mention such a request to anyone else in town. Can you imagine what Mrs. Gauld would do with a tidbit like my trying to track down Iain Barclay!

  But Tavia had faithfully kept our plans and movements secret when Alicia came for me in Canada, and then when she and I had snuck into the castle without Olivia getting wind of it. I knew she could be trusted to keep it confidential.

  When I went to visit her and told her of my request, she did not seem to think it so difficult an assignment.

  “Sure,” she said. “I can find him. Knowing he is in London is the main t
hing. If Nigel—Mr. Crathie—is certain of that, I can do the rest. In a worst-case scenario I should be able to narrow it down to two or three possibilities.”

  She glanced toward the window a little nervously.

  “Are you expecting someone?” I asked.

  “Actually…well, yes, but it’s fine. I’m all ready.”

  “Whoever it is, it must be special—you look very nice.”

  Tavia dropped her eyes in embarrassment.

  I stood. “Well, I’ll be going then. So you will see what you can find out…And have a good time,” I added with a smile.

  Tavia nodded.

  I left the house. As I walked toward the Volvo parked on the street, a familiar car drove up and pulled in behind me. It was the BMW with the Buchan license plate. Harvey Nicholls got out and greeted me with a sheepish look on his face.

  Confused for a moment, I turned back toward the house. There stood Tavia at the window.

  The light dawned. How intriguing, I thought, smiling to myself. I wasn’t the only one around here with secrets!

  Chapter Forty-nine

  London

  And when he came to his true love’s dwelling,

  He knelt down gently upon a stone,

  And through the window he whispered lowly,

  “Is my true lover within at home.”

  —“The Night Visiting Song”

  Even as I boarded the plane for London, I was still convincing myself that I was doing this for Alasdair, for the friendship, for the past, to tell Iain that his friend was now with God…that it was my duty to bring all things full circle, including the relationship that had been so pivotal in my life and Alasdair’s.

  By the time I landed at Gatwick, however, I was far more keyed up and excited than duty as a widow could account for. After all the fuss I had made over packing for the trip, the little glances at my hair in the airport bathroom, wondering what dress would be best to wear, those were not the signs of someone on an errand motivated by a sense of duty!

  London was big, loud, overwhelming, confusing, tumultuous. As I really did not know much of the city, I thought about trying to do a little sightseeing. Alasdair and I had come down once for a play, but that was my only visit. Now that I was here, I was far too distracted about what I had come for to be able to enjoy even so much as a bus tour. I walked a little that afternoon, gathering my courage, and spent the whole evening in my room pretending to read. But all I could do was think about what awaited me.

  Over and over I rehearsed what I would say:

  “Hello, Reverend Barclay,” I would begin, preserving the formal note and extending my hand.

  “Why, Mrs. Reidhaven,” he would say, “what brings you to London?”

  “Some sad news, I am afraid. I have come to inform you of the passing of my husband. You and he were such good friends, I felt you deserved to hear it from me.”

  “Thank you. That is very kind of you. May I extend my deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you come in and have tea?…I would like you to meet my wife…”

  And so it went as I played out every possible scenario in my mind, so that I would not act like an idiot and fumble over my words when the big moment actually came.

  As I left my B and B the next day, I took a good long look in the mirror, adjusted a few strands of hair, then sprinkled on a dash of perfume. I hesitated, then went back into the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and gave my face and neck a quick scrub to remove it.

  Perfume…This wasn’t a date! What was I thinking?! Get a grip, girl!

  The address I gave to the cabdriver supplied by Tavia landed me in front of a row of old but respectable brick flats on a pleasant and quiet street in Holborn. Once I had the street located, I asked the man to drive slowly by number 716, then drop me a block away.

  Slowly I got out and began to walk toward it.

  A postman was coming along in the opposite direction, stopping at each house in succession. I watched as he made deliveries to 714, 716, 718, and 720. As he then approached, I walked toward him.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “that house you left back there, number 716—is that the Barclay home?”

  “Yez, mum, ’at’s right,” he replied in thick Cockney.

  “Iain Barclay?”

  “Yez, ’at’s it, mum—Mr. Barclay an’ Miz Barclay.”

  “Mrs.?” I repeated.

  “’At’s right, Miz.”

  I had expected it, assumed it, planned on it. Yet suddenly knowing it stopped me in my tracks. I stood like a block of granite as the postman continued down the pavement on his appointed rounds. I had tried to prepare myself for every contingency. I told myself over and over that Iain was sure to be married. Yet somehow I had not quite managed to thoroughly convince myself. Suddenly all my energy drained away.

  This had all been a mistake! What a fool I was. I couldn’t go through with it!

  I turned and began to walk away.

  I had taken only half a dozen steps when I heard a door open behind me. A rush of adrenaline surged through me. My heart began to pound. What if it was him?!

  I stopped, and slowly looked back. Huge disappointment dashed my momentary hope.

  A woman was coming down the steps of number 716. She turned onto the pavement and began walking toward me. I stood where I was, staring as she came. She approached. I tried to speak but could find no words.

  She glanced at me with a questioning expression, then continued along the pavement.

  “Please…excuse me,” I said after her. “Are you Mrs. Barclay?”

  She turned back toward me.

  “I am Miss Barclay,” she answered. I thought I detected a hint of the Scots tongue.

  “I don’t…I mean,” I said, fumbling for words, “is Iain Barclay your husband…Rev. Iain Barclay?”

  “He’s not a reverend just now.” She laughed lightly. “I’m sorry for laughing, but it always sounds funny in my ear to hear him called that. And no, he’s not my husband…he’s my brother.”

  “Your brother!”

  “I have been living with him since my husband passed away. I went back to my maiden name.”

  “Is your brother…married?”

  “No,” replied Miss Barclay, then hesitated. “He says he once met an angel,” she added. “After that, he said, he had no interest in marrying.”

  The dormant seed suddenly exploded into flower as a full-​blossoming plant!

  “Go in and see him if you like, ma’am,” she said. “He’s home. He’s just working on his book.”

  She turned and walked on, leaving me standing on the pavement gasping for breath. At last my legs began to move. I numbly walked toward the house, turned from the pavement, and climbed the steps.

  How long I stood in front of the door—five minutes, ten, two hours. All proportion of time lost its meaning.

  Finally I raised my hand, then lifted the brass knocker. The sharp echo as it dropped sounded like a gunshot in my ear.

  After an interminable wait, steps approached. The handle turned…the door swung open—

  Suddenly there he was!

  Orange hair…wild and gloriously uncombed…those pale blue eyes just like I remembered them…his face uncharacteristically stubbly and unshaven.

  He stared at me as if gazing upon a specter…expressionless, stunned, awestruck. I stood trembling, mouth half open in an agony of joyful terror, afraid to utter a peep.

  His head slowly began to shake…his lips quivering for speech. He blinked several times. His eyes, now red, flooded with tears.

  “Marie! ” he whispered in disbelief. “I can’t believe…Is it really you?!”

  At the sound of his voice an electric tingle swept from my head to my toes.

  He opened his arms. I rushed forward, bursting into sobs, and fell into his embrace.

  Time stood still. My eyes gushed a river of pent-up release and relief. Iain trembled as he held me. I knew he was crying, too.

>   I was the first to speak.

  “Alasdair is dead, Iain,” I said in what was scarcely more than a whisper.

  “Yes, I know,” replied Iain softly. “I am so sorry, Marie.”

  I nodded, my head still leaning against his chest.

  “The dear, dear man,” he went on. “Did he…Was it prolonged? Did he suffer?”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “It was slow but peaceful—exactly like dear Gwendolyn. He was listening to her harp music when he went.”

  “How wonderful—the music of the angels…and his own little red-haired angel.”

  A moment more we stood. At last Iain stepped back and gazed deeply into my eyes. His face was wet but aglow. He wiped several times at his eyes, then chuckled.

  “I forgot I hadn’t shaved for two days!” he said as his hand passed over his face. “A luxury I allow myself on my days off—not a very presentable picture for a reunion. Oh, but it is so wonderful to see you! As often as I have played out this day in my mind, it is even better than my imaginings. You look so beautiful, Marie—radiant, at peace. Marriage to Alasdair obviously agreed with you.”

  I nodded. “Oh, I have so much to tell you,” I babbled, “about Alasdair…about everything. You won’t believe all that’s gone on with Olivia. And I have been back to America…My father was also dying and I took care of him, too.”

  “Is it over…Is he gone?”

  I nodded. “He died about eight months ago,” I said with a quiet smile.

  “Oh, Marie, I am sorry,” he said tenderly. “You have had to face much grief.”

  “Yes, but I think I am stronger for it. I hope so. It is all still fresh. It takes time to put it into perspective.”

  “Tell me everything. I want to hear it all, every detail, though it take days! Come in— Oh, this is so wonderful! I still cannot believe you are here—Angel Marie in my home again!”

  I laughed at his exuberance. I couldn’t believe it either!

  Chapter Fifty