“I’m hungry. Making two sandwiches instead of one is no bother. Have a look upstairs, and I’ll see to lunch.”
“I have some protein bars.”
“Which will doubtless keep until Christmas and taste just as awful when you do choke them down. Upstairs, Mr. Maitland. Grab a shower if you like. The towels are laid out.”
He picked up his knapsack. “Are all Scottish women so bossy?”
“We have to be. We share the country with Scottish men and their offspring.”
Jeannie opened the fridge, expecting she’d had the last word—for now—but Mr. Maitland plucked a pink and white tulip from the bowl on the table.
“Thank you, Jeannie Cromarty. I’m hungry, tired, and far from home, and your hospitality is much appreciated.” He disappeared down the hall, knapsack over his shoulder, tulip in hand, but first he fired off a slight, weary smile.
That smile hinted of sweetness, humor, and even—as it reached his eyes—shyness. Jeannie stared after his retreating figure—knapsack casually draped over his left shoulder, jeans covering long legs, coattails covering what was doubtless a fine, muscular backside.
He turned and pointed with the tulip. “You will please not allow me to nod off again. I’ll never get sorted out by Monday if I take another nap.”
“Away with you,” Jeannie said, waving the bread knife. “I’ve sandwiches to make, and I do not take well to men telling me what to do, Mr. Maitland.”
The smile came again in a faint echo. “Call me… You can call me Max, if that suits.” Then he disappeared up the steps.
Under her breath, Jeannie called him several different things, but not Max.
The cottage hinted of fairy tales and honeymoons, which Max appreciated in a professional sense, though he had no personal use for either. The forest beyond the picture windows was dotted with spectacular conifers, ancient hardwoods, and all manner of soft, leafy undergrowth.
The lot would be a nightmare to clear. The tree-save plan alone would go on forever, though the views from the balconies and porches were just a few gnomes short of postcard-perfect. Somebody had done a good job of designing a dwelling that suited the land and finding land that suited the purpose of the dwelling.
Max glanced at his phone, but it was still too early to call Maura. She wasn’t merely a creature of habit, she was its devoted acolyte.
He used the bathroom to freshen up—he’d shower later—and inspected the choice of bedrooms. Like the rest of the cottage, the master bedroom was simply furnished—king-size bed, dresser, two reading chairs—and the outdoors was invited in by virtue of big windows, a balcony, and a skylight.
He took the smaller bedroom because it boasted that loveliest of all interior design features, an ergonomic workstation with flat-screen monitor, complete with a modem/router flashing its blue light in welcome to the rhythm of Max’s heartbeat. He’d set down his knapsack, taken the oh-so-comfy office chair, and put his fingers on the curved, illuminated keyboard when Jeannie called up from downstairs.
“Lunch is ready!”
Damn. “On my way.”
He brushed his hand over the top of the sleek monitor—I’ll be back, sweetheart—and prepared to make small talk over sandwiches.
Jeannie had made four sandwiches, not two, and opened a bag of chips. The table was set with coordinated place mats, dishes, and mugs all in the same cheerful pink, purple, white, and yellow colors as the tulips. A bowl of apples, clementines, and bananas sat beside a plate of brownies, and abruptly, Max was famished.
Also homesick, which made no sense. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
Jeannie set a jug of half-skim milk on the table and regarded him with a quizzical smile. “You are my guest, Mr. Maitland, and you are in Scotland to develop one of the finest hospitality venues in the Highlands, if your press release is to be believed. Why wouldn’t I show you the same welcome I show every guest at this cottage?”
Max could look at a set of plans and see the finished site. He could scan a spreadsheet and spot the error without having to consciously do the math. When it came to people… He’d erred with Jeannie, not badly, but the same way somebody who wasn’t a native speaker would occasionally square-peg an idiom into a conversation.
“If I eat lunch, I’m usually sitting at my desk, swilling coffee and gnawing—”
“A protein bar,” Jeannie said, taking a seat. “Tell me about your plans for the castle.”
What Max had for Brodie Castle was more than a plan. He had a dream, fueled by necessity and determination.
“Brodie Castle will take advantage of the follow-on potential generated by the Scottish tourist industry,” Max said, laying his napkin across his lap. “People will see Scotland when they’re vacationing and go back to the office ready to attend any conference, any industry workshop, any off-site gathering held here. I’ll give them the venue that combines occupation and recreation, with first-rate conference facilities and endless interesting activities, all in a genuine Scottish castle.”
Jeannie pushed the plate of sandwiches at him. “If you announce that plan to Uncle Donald, he’ll sabotage the whole project, and don’t think he can’t do it.”
Max bit into a sandwich made on actual saw-off-one-slice-at-a-time bread. The meat was lightly smoked and also appeared to have been carved, not processed beyond all recognition.
“Uncle Donald is my mandatory family board member?”
“And your worst nightmare if he bothers to take an interest,” Jeannie said, picking up her sandwich. “As stubborn as they come, knows all the castle history, though he’s a Cromarty rather than a Brodie, and he’s been keeping an eye on the project since the late earl signed the first contracts. He’ll have some questions for you and a few suggestions, or he’ll declare the whole business a crashing bore and you won’t hear from him until the fish stop biting.”
The emphasis she put on the word suggestions was a bit too cheerful. “Is this the condemned man’s last meal, Jeannie?”
“Of course not. We’ve supper and breakfast to get through.” She took a bite—not a nibble—of her sandwich.
Elias Brodie had warned Max that Scottish humor was different. “Every development project meets with resistance because change can be scary. That goes with the territory.”
“Change involves destruction,” Jeannie replied. “When change destroys what I’ve known and loved, Mr. Maitland, I’m not afraid, I’m furious.”
He’d finished his first sandwich. She offered him the plate that held seconds.
“Fruit for me,” he said, choosing a clementine. “Though the sandwich was very good.”
The brownies sat not a foot from Max’s elbow, looking gooey and delicious. He knew better than to indulge, because a hit of sugar on top of jet lag was just plain stupid. Then too, taste seldom matched appearance with pretty desserts.
“I’ll show you the paths before I leave,” Jeannie said, “and give you the number for my mobile.” She used a long “i” for mobile.
“I’ll need directions to this place, if the luggage guy is ever to find me.”
“Good point. I can leave those too, though it’s simple enough. Two miles past the village shinty pitch, you look for the fairy mound in the cow pasture on your left. Take the second right beyond that and turn off at the first lane. The sign is in Gaelic and nailed to the redwood stump.”
Her description was as casual as it was incomprehensible. “I deal well with maps,” Max said. “Diagrams, drawings, charts.”
“Right.” Jeannie picked up a small square of brownie. “Engineers love their schematics.”
True, but somehow not a compliment.
She gave the brownie her full attention. When she bit off a portion, she closed her eyes and chewed slowly, a woman in transports. For some reason, this reminded Max that once upon a long time ago, he’d enjoyed sketching. If the project went well, maybe he’d find time to send Maura a few landscapes.
Or he could attempt to
sketch a few portraits. Jeannie Cromarty enjoying a brownie would make an interesting study. For the time it took to consume one brownie, she was a sybarite in jeans, flannel shirt, and battered running shoes. She gave off an air of tidiness, otherwise. A competence that included graciousness warmed just enough to count as genuine rather than professional. Max liked competent women if they pulled their share of the workload and didn’t play games.
He was fairly certain Jeannie did not like him, or didn’t like the notion of developing the castle, which amounted to the same thing. She was pretty—Viking-blue eyes, golden hair that brushed her shoulders, and a light, friendly voice.
Not a hint of flirtation, though, for all she was romancing that damned brownie.
“What will you do with yourself this afternoon?” she asked.
“Dump email and voice mail, do some more research on the financial ecosystem surrounding the castle, review the status reports that are supposed to come in every Friday at close of business.”
In Maryland, that had been easier, because close of business in Scotland was five hours ahead of close of business on the East Coast. Then Max had had plenty of time to take Maura out for dinner and, for a short time, put aside the whole week’s frustrations and challenges.
Maura would miss him—she had assured him of this repeatedly, which made calling her soon imperative.
“You’ve likely had one hour’s sleep in the past twenty-four,” Jeanie said. “Can’t that email nonsense wait?”
That nonsense was Max’s livelihood. “If I nap again, I won’t acclimate as quickly.”
“Right.” Jeannie patted his hand. “You have a year at least to acclimate, but why put off until Monday what you can accomplish by overtaxing yourself today?”
She rose and took her plate to the sink. Her comment hadn’t been judgmental so much as… a lament. For him, for all the fools who failed to have a life beyond the next project deadline. If the castle renovation went well, Max might acquire the luxury of sharing her perspective.
Perhaps she’d also been lamenting her own circumstances? This cottage, modest though it was, occupied a corner of the hospitality industry in a country that thrived on tourism. For the high season at least, Jeannie was likely kept busy.
“A hike by the river sounds like a good idea,” Max said. “I need to move, and the natural light will help get my circadian rhythm synced to local time.”
Jeannie ran water over her plate while Max ate his clementine and longed for a brownie that tasted as good as it looked.
“We can hike, or we can go for a daunder,” Jeannie said, “because it’s a beautiful day to stroll by a lovely river, and all those emails, voice mails, and reports will be there when the sun has set.”
Max brought his plate to the sink. “Along with a hundred new ones.”
“If a hundred people feel entitled to intrude on your peace in the space of an afternoon, Mr. Maitland, you need an assistant.”
She was… right.
She also smelled good up close, woodsy with a hint of mint. A scent to pipe into a designer hotel’s conservatory. Max passed her his plate and used his phone to make that note.
They tidied up in companionable silence, the brownies going into the bread box. Jeannie washed the dishes by hand rather than using the dishwasher, and Max got the job of shaking the place mats out on the deck.
“So the birds can enjoy the crumbs,” Jeannie said, tearing off a pinch of bread and crumbling it onto the place mat Max held.
Maybe wasting bread on birds was a Scottish good-luck custom. Max did scroll through his email and voice mail while on the back terrace and found nothing marked urgent. He’d cleared the decks in every possible regard to prepare for traveling, but to manage the development of a property was to live in a minefield, especially on Fridays.
Jeannie came out onto the deck and folded the place mats Max had draped over the rail. “Letting the folks back home know you’re safe and sound?”
“Making sure I have reception.”
“Let’s make sure you have a little fresh air.” She marched off down the steps and into the lovely, leafy forest.
Max jammed his phone into his pocket and followed her.
Scotland had been awarded the honor of Most Beautiful Country in the World, and Max Maitland was too busy checking his email to notice. Jeannie didn’t begrudge him a nap on the way from the airport, but to stand amid the lush greenery of Perthshire without even looking up…
She would not attribute such blasphemy to all Americans—some were nature hounds—but perhaps it was a failing of many engineers. Alas for Mr. Maitland, Jeannie was determined to steal some time out of doors, even if she had to drag him kicking and scrolling to the riverbank.
“Nobody knows how old these trails are,” she said. “They probably date back thousands of years, as long as the river has run in its present course.”
The Tayside forest was lovely in all seasons, but Jeannie hadn’t been on this path since last autumn. The summer version of the woods was busy with birds, squirrels, breezes, and the sound of the river. The scent was as beautiful as the greenery—verdant, fresh, earthy.
“That’s Niall’s property,” she said, gesturing to a rooftop peeking from the trees to the right. “Designed and built it himself. You and he could probably share a wee dram while sketching ideas on napkins and comparing the calculator apps on your phones.”
Mr. Maitland kept up easily. “Does your family include an engineer?”
Not anymore. “I’ve run across a few. Watch your step. We had a good rain on Wednesday. The ground can be boggy.”
“Are we in a hurry, Ms. Cromarty?”
Jeannie slowed her pace. “I haven’t come this way in too long, and I miss it desperately. The cottage is usually booked straight through the high season, and I never have time to enjoy the property lately.”
Never had time to enjoy much of anything, other than an hour or so of reading before bed, until she fell asleep with the book still in her hands. Everybody said life after a divorce grew easier with time, but everybody had also said that Jeannie and Jack had been perfect for each other.
The quiet of the forest gradually overtook the breathless, never-on-time anxiety that had dogged Jeannie for months. Mr. Maitland did her the courtesy of remaining silent, meaning the whisper of the river going by and the occasional birdcall could sink into her weary soul and soothe the tumult.
The past year had been hard. The next year loomed as another bleak slog. Finances were an issue, exhaustion was an issue, as was the sheer boredom that came with—
Mr. Maitland halted. “Osprey.”
Jeannie shaded her eyes, but couldn’t make out any large raptors in the trees ahead. The osprey was white across the breast and head and banded brown elsewhere. Among the shoreline trees, they were nearly impossible to detect when still.
“Where?”
Mr. Maitland turned her gently by the shoulders. “The notch of that big oak, about thirty feet up.” He pointed over Jeannie’s shoulder, standing close behind her. “Mama’s serving lunch.”
What mamas did best.
“They stopped breeding here for more than a hundred years,” Jeannie said, getting out her phone. “But they came back, and the population is gradually increasing.”
She adjusted the zoom and snapped a picture. Not that the nest would be easy to spot even in a photograph. Still, an osprey family was a hopeful image, and she needed those. She put the phone away and stood watching the mundane miracle of lunchtime at the Osprey household. Mr. Maitland remained motionless at her back, and that was…
Nice, in an odd way. Jeannie wasn’t keen on his plans for the castle, she wasn’t keen on men generally, and she wasn’t keen on people who lived glued to their jobs. That Mr. Maitland would notice the birds, point them out to Jeannie, and appreciate them let her like him a little, nonetheless.
No harm in a little liking.
“Shall we go back?” Jeannie asked. “I could spend all after
noon tramping these trails, but I’m sure your email is calling you.”
And Jeannie was overdue to check in with Millicent.
“If you’d like to hike farther, I can find my way back on my own.”
She was tempted, tempted to simply sit and watch the river go by, something she hadn’t done in far too long.
“I’ve places to go, people to see,” she said, turning. “My time is not my—”
Never hike wearing trainers. Jeannie formed that thought as one foot slipped, her arms flailed, and she nearly went down amid the bracken.
Mr. Maitland caught her and drew her back against his chest. “Careful. The ground can be a bit boggy, I’m told.”
He was strong and utterly steady—solid, to use his word. For an instant, Jeannie nearly let herself lean against him, let herself feel again the security of a male embrace. By virtue of shoving and cursing, she got herself righted.
“My apologies. Shall we be on our way?”
She gestured up the path, and though she was blushing, and Mr. Maitland was smiling, he was gallant enough not to remark on her mortification.
So much for daydreaming. They returned to the cottage without further incident—Jeannie was very careful of her footing. She passed him the set of keys she kept for guests and emailed him the link to the directions on the cottage website.
“I’ll be along tomorrow morning about eight,” she said. “That will get you up to the castle well before noon. We can stop along the way for provisions, though Aldi’s delivers to the Baron’s Hall.”
“I have an international driver’s license,” Mr. Maitland said, accompanying Jeannie to the driveway. “Give me your phone.”
Was he daft or simply rude? “Why should I give you my phone?”
“So I can call myself, and then we’ll have each other’s numbers.”
Jeannie passed over her phone.
“What’s the plan if my luggage hasn’t caught up with me by tomorrow?”
“Explain to the nice people how to get to the castle. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Maitland. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen and call me if you need anything.”
Scotland to the Max: Trouble Wears Tartan — Book Three Page 4
