As if the thought of Kenneth had conjured up his daughter, Moira appeared with little Glenna at her side, and Freda, too. Moira was carrying Pippa’s completed quilt in her arms.
“Oh, my goodness!” Pippa felt incredibly guilty. It had been her job to finish the quilt.
“It was a blessing for us to work on it.” Moira laid the quilt beside Pippa and took her hand. “Ye’re going to have to let us help ye more. Ye’re doing too much.”
Freda chimed in. “I agree. Pippa, ye’ve taken on too many roles.” She motioned to the room of Gandiegowans. “We’ve decided that things will change.”
“Go on, Glenna, give the tag to Pippa,” Moira encouraged.
Glenna held out the embroidered piece of fabric. “Here, miss.”
Pippa took it. The inscription read GANDIEGOW . . . SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY. She knew what it meant. Many times when the day was over and it was time to call it quits, Freda had recited the verse from the Bible:
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
“What’s it mean?” Glenna asked.
Pippa smiled at her, happy the girl was learning to speak up. “It means live in the present and don’t worry about tomorrow.”
Glenna frowned at them as if it made no sense. Children had the right of it; they knew how to live in the moment.
“Ye’ll understand when ye’re older,” Moira said.
Pippa smiled at Freda. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”
“Freda thought it was only fitting to be on yere quilt,” Moira said.
“Thank you, ladies.” She turned to Glenna. “And thank ye, lass. I’ll get some thread and sew this on right now.”
From Glenna’s other hand, she produced a needle and a spool of blue thread.
Freda patted the little one’s shoulder. “Let’s see if we can find some hot cocoa and maybe a snack.” She ushered them away, leaving Pippa alone.
The out-of-towners were at the restaurant for a bite or a drink if they wanted it. In an hour, the festivities would begin. There would be three auctions tonight. The public auction of Pippa’s Gandiegow Hometown quilt, then a silent auction to win a quilt retreat for two, and finally the bachelor auction.
For the millionth time this evening Pippa thought about Max. She missed him. The last time she’d talked to him was when she’d been in his arms on the dance floor, feeling light, free, and wanting him so much. He had a way of making the world a wonderful place to live and her troubles seem small. He could’ve twirled her from the room and taken her someplace private . . . she’d been so compliant in his arms, she would’ve done anything. But he’d suddenly walked away without a word, and she’d been crushed. Since then, she’d been giving herself a stern talking to: She would not bid on the Yank, no matter what! The whole point of this evening was to make money. Let the out-of-towners throw down their cash for Max and the other bachelors; Pippa would sit on her hands during the auction . . . duct-tape them to her chair if she had to when the men came across the stage.
Pippa sewed the tag on in record time, then Moira retrieved the quilt and hung it on the display rack at the front of the room. Freda brought Pippa a plate of venison and homemade bread.
“I thought ye should eat something.”
Pippa smiled up at her weakly. “Thank you. But I feel too jumpy to eat anything.” She was upset at the prospect of someone else spending the evening with her Yank.
Freda looked at her with understanding. “At least nibble at it. Ye need to keep yere strength up.”
“I’ll try.”
Freda left to serve the others.
Moira came and sat next to Pippa. The closer it came time for the auction, the more unsettled Moira looked. She wrung her hands and kept glancing at the door.
Pippa reached over and stilled her. “So ye know then about Andrew being in the auction?”
“Aye,” Moira said. “Amy let it slip. I think on purpose. She has a sneaky streak in her, I’ve found.”
“So what do ye plan to do about our good father? Are ye going to bid on him or are ye going to let some other woman have him?”
Moira stared at her, horrified. “Of course I’m going to bid on him. Deydie made a point to show me which tartan he’ll be wearing.” She shifted away as if embarrassed, her neck and cheeks creeping with red. She picked at the lint on her nicest dress. “I love him, you know.”
Such brave words. Pippa always saw herself as strong, but she was a lightweight compared to Moira.
Her shy friend chewed her lip. “Cait came to visit. She forced me to take an envelope full of cash from her. She said she wanted to contribute to the auction even though she couldn’t bid on a bachelor herself. ‘Graham wouldn’t like it,’ she said.” Moira laughed, but sobered quickly. “Cait also said if I didn’t take the money she’d give it to Bonnie to help her bid.” Her eyes drifted to where Bonnie sat.
Pippa smiled at Cait’s generosity—and her ingenuity for saying just the right thing.
“What are ye going to do with Andrew when ye win him? Are ye going to continue to keep him at arm’s length? Or are ye going to put him out of his misery?” Pippa had used Andrew’s words, being blunt, but they’d known each other their whole lives.
Moira didn’t hesitate. “I’m going to propose.”
That shocked Pippa speechless. And she felt jealous that Moira had the freedom to do exactly as she pleased.
Moira looked off into the distance. “I’ve been a fool. I was worried about Andrew, about weighing him down with so much responsibility. You know, with my da before he passed.” Her voice dropped off to a whisper as if in respect. “And with Glenna, providing for her, parenting, everything. It’s a lot to ask of someone else. I didn’t think it was fair that Andrew should be stuck with my family if we married. But now I believe he really wants me regardless of anything else. He loves Glenna. He said so. He loves me and wants me. And I want him, too. I’m going to take a risk and choose love.”
Pippa never heard Moira say so much. She took her hand. “I’m happy for you.” What else could she say? Moira would get her happily-ever-after and Pippa would get the factory, making payroll, and shoveling snow from NSV’s sidewalks in the winter. She’d never get her true love like her friend. As soon as MTech faxed the completed contract, Pippa would sign it, and Max would go home. He’d probably never think of her again, though she suspected he would always be on her mind, and in her heart.
Before she could dig in and get the details of when Moira and Andrew might tie the knot or where they might live, Deydie hollered.
“Moira, if ye’re done yammering, do ye think ye can get over here and help me center this quilt in front of the table?”
Moira stood. “Aye. I’m coming.” Before she left, she turned back to Pippa. “It’s going to be a wonderful night.”
“Sure.” Grand. It was all so easy for Moira. Andrew loved her. Everyone was cheering Moira on to be with him. But Gandiegow wanted the opposite for Pippa, for her to marry Ross, come hell or high tide. Love never even played into the equation for her.
Once again, Pippa caught herself looking at the door longingly, as if to make Max magically appear. She wanted the fairy tale. She wanted the knight-in-shining-armor to ride in on his horse and whisk her away.
But she wasn’t a wee lass anymore with time on her hands. Wishful thinking was a luxury that had been replaced with hard work and responsibilities.
Besides, she knew better.
Chapter Eighteen
Deydie eyed the door, but Miranda hadn’t returned yet to Quilting Central. “When do ye think she’ll get here?”
Bethia tapped her on the shoulder and gestured toward Pippa across the room. “Are ye sure about her?”
“Stop badgering. Of course, I’m sure.” To Deydie it was always as clear as sunshine, but it usually took Bethia longer to see the truth.
She looked worried. “So do we tell Pippa or not?”
“Nay.”
“But this could ruin everything,” Bethia said.
“Not if we keep our mouths sewn shut.” Deydie gave Bethia a pointed look. She hoped by the time the evening was over that things would be settled irrevocably and she wouldn’t have to say a word.
At that moment, Miranda sailed through the door, looking as if she was going on an expensive dinner date instead of spending the evening with some regular small-town Scots.
Deydie pointed in the American woman’s direction. “Come on, Bethia. We need to go talk to her before everything starts.”
Miranda was a slick one. She was all polished up in her suit like a black onyx, definitely an odd fish who stuck out here on the northeast coast of Scotland.
Bethia wrung her hands, worrying like one of the old women they’d made fun of in their youth. “I’m not sure what we’re doing is right.”
Deydie waved to the air between them. “Ye agreed that we should do this.” Then she motioned to the goblet sitting on the window ledge. “Ye even made the sleeping draft. Ye’re not backing out now. Besides, it’s more important to protect the Yank from her clutches than some damnable moral conscience. Would Miranda think twice if she was in our shoes?”
Bethia glanced down at her boots, chewed her lip, and then gazed at the goblet. “Aye. I made the draft, but I don’t think I can give it to her.”
Deydie took the final steps to the windowsill. “Good thing I have sound reasoning, or poor Max McKinley would be stuck with that hellcat.” She motioned to Miranda. “Ye don’t want that to happen, now do ye?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but laid a napkin over the goblet and left it. “Come on.”
Bethia clutched Deydie’s arm as they made their way across the room. Deydie conjured up a smile and slapped it across her face.
“Hallo, Miranda.”
The woman looked at them a bit surprised, but then cocked her head sideways. “Yes?”
“Did ye have good day?” Deydie smoothed out her voice until it was as congenial as a warm cup of tea.
“Yes. But I was concerned about leaving my things at Thistle Glen Lodge. It looks like the place has been taken over by a bunch of other women.”
“Not to worry, dear,” Deydie said. “Yere things are safe here with us in Gandiegow.”
Bethia acted as if she might roll her eyes, and Deydie knew why; Deydie was spooning it on as thick as blood pudding.
Deydie patted Miranda’s arm. “We wanted to speak to ye before our lads are brought out onstage. Has anyone told ye how this works?” She was acting like Miranda’s best friend.
“No.”
Deydie knew she was lying. Bonnie had already confessed that she’d told her everything. “Well, I’m happy to tell ye the procedure.” Deydie went into great detail about how the bidding would work. “Most important, ye pay Amy over there if ye win one of our lads.”
Miranda’s eyes sparkled as if that was a foregone conclusion.
Bethia seemed to want to make a getaway, so Deydie grabbed her arm. “We’re also offering, to a few select people, a little something extra.”
“Oh?”
Deydie had dangled the bait; now it was time to set the hook. “Aye. Bethia here is a certified herbalist.”
Bethia looked down, her face turning red.
“She’s shy about it,” Deydie lied. She pointed to the windowsill with the goblet. “Anyway, she’s made a little love potion, a woman’s Viagra as it were. It’ll make ye randy as a she-goat in heat.”
“Really.” Miranda seemed circumspect.
“For a price, that is,” Deydie added.
Bethia choked.
Deydie pounded her on the back. “Bethia is just getting over a cold.”
The door opened to Quilting Central and the women from out of town were led in by Ailsa and Aileen. The out-of-towners were giddy with anticipation—and liquor.
Deydie pointed again to the goblet. “If ye’re not interested, then I’ll offer it to some of our guests from Edinburgh.”
Miranda looked at them with disdain. She turned back to Deydie and nodded to the windowsill. “Is it safe?”
“I’d be happy to take the first sip,” Deydie offered.
“And you?” Miranda pointed to Bethia. “Would you be willing to taste it first, too?”
Bethia nodded.
“Of course she would. She’s the one who concocted the love potion.” And because Deydie felt ornery sometimes, she added, “I promise ’tis as safe as a sleeping draft.”
Bethia choked again.
Deydie let go of her friend’s arm. “Ye better get some hot tea for that cough.”
Bethia looked as if she didn’t want to leave Deydie alone with Miranda.
“Go on now.” Deydie gave Bethia a shove in the right direction. “Ye get yere tea while Miz Weymouth and I discuss the cost.”
Bethia reluctantly made her way across the room as Kirsty the schoolteacher announced the auction on Pippa’s quilt. Deydie frowned. Freda was winding her way to the front. Why is she up there with the others bidding on that quilt?
But Deydie had bigger fish to fry . . . like a cat shark named Miranda. Deydie smiled and gave the woman her full attention. The sleeping draft was only part of her plan. She had another trick up her sleeve to fleece the American woman who wanted to get her hooks into Max McKinley.
* * *
Max and Ross left the room over the pub wearing each other’s kilts and went downstairs to join the others. The two of them had formed some kind of weird bond, a couple of comrades-in-arms.
Ross’s brothers, John and Ramsay, came into the pub. John had a stack of square pages in his hands, and Ramsay had a single sheet of paper.
“Deydie said we should get ye to Quilting Central,” John said. “But first, we’re to give you yere number and ye’re to pin it to the bottom of the kilt. That way, the women will know which of ye to bid on. Read them off to me, Ramsay.”
“Kolby, number one. Wylie, number two.” And they continued until only Ross and Max remained.
As John held out Max’s number, he gazed down at the switched kilt and raised an eyebrow. “Och, so ye’re an Armstrong now? My new brother?”
Max smiled at him. “Only for the evening.”
“Good. I need my brother Ross to man the nets in the morning. I doubt I’d get as much work out of ye.”
“Because I’m a Yank?”
“Nay.” John looked puzzled. “Because I hear yere gift is with the hammer.”
Max pinned the number sixteen to the bottom of his kilt.
“Are ye ready, lads, for me to herd ye like sheep?” Ramsay chuckled at what he thought was a joke, but the bachelors weren’t laughing. Ross looked too miserable to even punch Ramsay in the arm. Most of the bachelors looked as embarrassed as Max felt. Maybe they should have one more shot of whisky before they left. He had to keep reminding himself that he was doing this for Pippa’s dad.
Coll put the CLOSED sign on the front door as the men filed out the back. They walked the path behind the buildings in silence with John at the front of the line, Coll walking along at the middle, and Ramsay bringing up the rear. The married men seemed to be enjoying their job as security guards, keeping the bachelors from skipping out now, though they wanted to.
John opened the back door to Quilting Central. “The women have hung curtains so no one can see ye.”
There was some comfort in that. This whole ordeal was embarrassing enough. Max was getting a clue what women might go through for beauty pageants. It was excruciating, and Max vowed to never watch another one again without remembering this experience.
Kit, Ramsay’s wife and the matchmaker, was waiting for them. “Relax, everyone. This is all in fun. And for a good cause. Tonight’s events are only that . . . for
tonight. It’s not for the rest of your lives! So when you’re won, I want everyone to smile.” She frowned at them. “None of the sourpuss looks you have right now.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You all look like you’re channeling Deydie.”
Ramsay put his arm around Kit and kissed her hair. “Don’t waste yere breath, wife. They can’t hear ye in the state that they’re in.”
Kit beamed up at Ramsay. “I know. Unmarried men are a miserable lot, aren’t they? I bet you’re glad you signed on for life with me.”
Ramsay smiled at the group of them. “After tonight, come see my wife. She’ll find yere true love for you.”
Max envied Kit and Ramsay—the love between them, the surety—and it was an odd feeling. He’d never thought he’d want to be married.
Kit let go of her husband. “Okay. Everyone go onto the stage and move on down to the end. Stand on your place; it’s marked by the green tape on the floor. When Deydie gives the go-ahead, I’ll raise the curtain.”
Max couldn’t believe that he’d helped to make the damned stage now.
The men moved down to the end and Max found his spot.
“Quiet down,” Deydie hollered to Quilting Central. Max imagined her brandishing her broom. The people on the other side of the curtain went quiet. “Pippa, go ahead.”
Max’s breath hitched.
“Welcome, everyone, to our evening of Strapping Lads in Plaid.”
Max rolled his eyes.
“We’re so happy that ye’ve come. We know ye’re going to have an evening ye’ll never forget.”
Ross guffawed beside him. “I wish I could.”
There was a grumble of agreement down the line.
“Deydie, I’ll hand it over to you to explain the rules.”
The stage creaked as Deydie stepped up, the curtain between them and her.
“First, and most important, Amy is manning the cash register, over there at the table. Amy, wave yere hand so they’ll know where to pay.”
“Hi, everyone,” Amy hollered.
Deydie cleared her throat to silence Amy. “Here’s the long and the short of it, lasses. Our bachelors are lined up here behind the curtain.”
The Accidental Scot Page 25
