A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel

by Laura Trentham

  “I’m going to call Rose,” Loretta said, dropping her smile and picking up her cell phone.

  Loretta was her elder, and elders were meant to be deferred to and respected. Izzy fought feeling like a little kid in trouble. She had never made the transition to adult in Loretta’s eyes. And whose fault was that? Not Loretta’s, but Izzy’s. She snapped her folder shut and tucked it under her arm.

  “You do that. In the meantime, I can’t guarantee your spot over a vendor who chooses to put down a deposit. Have a good day, Loretta.”

  She walked away on legs transformed into pudding—the Southern kind—fighting the urge to crawl back and apologize. A warm hand slipped to her lower back, offering support in more ways than one.

  “Don’t look back. You did well. Very well.” His whisper held a smile.

  They made it two steps down the sidewalk when Loretta pushed the door to her shop open, an envelope in hand. “Here. The deposit.”

  “Thank you.” Izzy slipped it into the pocket of her folder without opening it.

  “I expect my usual location.”

  “Of course.” Izzy held Loretta’s narrowed eyes and put her hand out. A peace offering and a sign of equality. After a moment’s hesitation, Loretta took Izzy’s hand in a firm shake, a new respect sprouting between them.

  Half a block away, the adrenaline rushing Izzy’s body exploded in a slightly hysterical laugh and fist pump. “I can’t freaking believe I did it!”

  “I knew you could.”

  “How could you possibly know? Loretta has railroaded me for years.”

  “You stood up to me and to Gareth.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “I was—am—protecting my mother.” She put her finger in his face as a warning.

  He grabbed her finger and pulled it away. “After seeing Gareth and your mother together, how can you possibly suspect their affection isn’t genuine?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. She feared her mother’s affection for Gareth was one hundred and ten percent genuine. Now she was less concerned about Gareth stealing something than breaking it—namely her mother’s heart.

  Izzy stepped in front of Alasdair and forced him to a stop. “I assume you’re aware of Gareth’s circumstances back in Scotland?”

  His expression went bland. “Somewhat.”

  “Would he ever leave Scotland? For good, I mean?”

  Alasdair drew in a breath, but didn’t answer beyond a small shake of his head that might have been an “I don’t know” or a flat-out “no way.” Either didn’t bode well.

  “My mother will never leave Highland.”

  “Are you certain about that?”

  She wasn’t certain. Unable to answer, she walked on.

  Her mother was a romantic. A romantic who had given up a promising ballet career to move to the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains for love. Would she give up Stonehaven and move halfway around the world for Gareth?

  “No use in worrying over something that will never come to pass, now is there?” she asked, not expecting or wanting an answer. The Brown Cow Coffee and Creamery beckoned them in with a bracing waft of fresh, strong coffee.

  As she was most mornings, Mildred was behind the counter. Unlike most mornings when she acted like taking an order was a personal interruption, she popped off the stool with a smile aimed squarely at Alasdair.

  “If it ain’t one of our genuine Highlanders.” She drawled out the word “gen-u-ine” to make it rhyme with swine. “I’m not sure I got around to introducing myself the other morning. I’m Mildred, but you can call me Millie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Millie. My name’s Alasdair. Tea, if you please.”

  “Iced or hot?”

  “Hot. I don’t want dysentery.” Alasdair winked at Izzy and a smile turned her lips before she could stop it. How could they already share private jokes?

  “Sure thing, Alasdair.” Millie said his name with satisfaction then poured hot water into a to-go cup and plopped a basket with an assortment of teas on the counter for him to choose from. “The honey ain’t too bad if’n you’re aiming to be healthy.”

  Alasdair chose a classic Earl Grey. While it was steeping, Millie stared at him with slowly blinking cow eyes and a grin so wide a strip of pink gum was visible at the top of her teeth. “Anything else I can get you? A cinnamon bun or a blueberry muffin?”

  “No, thank you, lass.” Alasdair’s lips quirked.

  When Millie didn’t turn her brown cow eyes in Izzy’s direction, she cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Could I have a to-go coffee, Millie?”

  Millie pried her attention from Alasdair with obvious difficulty. “Sorry, Izzy. I kind of forgot you were there.”

  “We can’t all be tall, hot as sin, and in possession of a sexy accent, I suppose,” Izzy said dryly.

  Alasdair swung around with wide eyes, and Izzy’s snicker got stuck in her throat. Thinking it was bad enough, why had the opinion migrated to her mouth?

  “I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing. Which I’m not. At all. I prefer the complete opposite, in fact.” Why was she still talking?

  “Short, ugly, and with a terrible accent?” Alasdair tossed his tea bag and sipped from the steaming cup, his eyes dancing over the rim. He propped his hand on the counter and leaned closer to Millie. “Do you know a man who fits that description, Millie?”

  “No shortage of short, ugly men around here.” Millie handed Izzy her coffee. “Holt’s not bad to look at though, eh Izzy?”

  Alasdair’s eyebrows hunched low with a scowl to match. “Who’s Holt?

  “Izzy’s beau.”

  “He’s not!” Izzy exclaimed.

  “He’d sure like to be though, wouldn’t he?” Millie elbowed Alasdair’s arm. “He’s been pining for our Izzy going on two years. Local farmer. Soybeans and pigs mostly. He’s done well for himself even if he does trail eau de manure. But you’d never be short of barbecue or bacon, so that’s a plus.”

  “A surplus of pork products is not a good enough reason to date someone,” Izzy finally said.

  “Or is it?” Millie asked as if she was prescient. “I sense something big happening soon, Izzy. Be on the lookout for a sign.”

  Old gossip about Millie’s grandmother having the sight sent Izzy shuffling backward toward the door. Had Millie inherited the ability? “A sign like a plague of locusts? I think I’ll pass. We’ll catch you later. Alasdair and I have to pick up decorations over at the church.”

  Alasdair followed, albeit reluctantly and fighting laughter.

  Millie called out, “You’re going to sign up for the competitions, aren’t you, Alasdair?”

  He stopped at the door. “Competitions?”

  “The athletic competitions. The caber. Hammer and stone throws. I’ll bet you’d be great.” Millie’s cow eyes and gummy smile were back. “Izzy and her mom give the winners a trophy and a kiss. I’ll bet Holt enters every single competition so he can get some of your sugar, Izzy.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  “I’m afraid I won’t still be here for the festival,” Alasdair said.

  “That’s a shame.” Millie’s smile had turned into a pout, and Izzy couldn’t tamp down her own disappointment.

  Alasdair gestured Izzy through the door. Once they were out of earshot, he asked, “What did she mean by getting your sugar?”

  “Sugar is Southern-speak for a kiss. If you give someone sugar, you’re kissing them.”

  “This Holt bloke is after your sugar and is willing to win it by engaging in the Highland games competitions? Sounds like something out of Robin Hood.” The tease in his voice skated on the edge of laughter.

  “It’s not like I’m going to French the winner. It’s a closed-mouth peck.” Izzy chewed the inside of her cheek and shot him a side-eye glance. As nonchalantly as possible, she said, “You’ll be missing a good time if you jet back to London before the festival.”

  “It can’t be helped, I�
�m afraid. I’ve been gone too long as it is.” His laughter morphed to something closer to longing. He stopped on the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. “I’ll admit when I first drove up, Highland seemed like the punch line to a joke.”

  “And now?”

  “It’s growing on me.”

  “Like a fungus? Maybe I’ll suggest that if we update our catchphrase.” She tapped the writing on the pocket of his T-shirt. “Stay awhile. Let us grow on you like fungus.”

  All joking aside, she was proud of Highland. Maybe to outsiders Highland was a gimmick that provided a day or weekend of fun for tourists to laugh about later. Except, Izzy remembered what it had been like as a kid before the festival had taken hold. More storefronts had been empty and derelict than occupied. The gaily painted brick fronts had been blackened from time and inattention. Most young people left for college and never came back.

  Izzy would never forget the wonder and excitement of attending her first festival as a seven-year-old. It started as a small county fair with a Scottish flair. The bagpipes and dancing had been magical, and that magic had breathed new life into the town. Now, they embraced and nurtured and protected Highland’s small town charm at all costs.

  Millie had stepped outside the Brown Cow and was leaning on a broom and talking to a couple of tourists who were taking selfies with their phones. Mrs. Younts, the librarian, was watering the red cascading flower baskets hanging on the iron light pole in front of the library.

  A man in tartan britches tucked into black rubber boots bustled toward them. Dr. Jameson was a veterinarian, the mayor, and the leader of the Highland Pipe and Drum Corps. He took all his jobs seriously. He was a bachelor and an eccentric and was dedicated to all things Scottish. The perfect ambassador for their town.

  “Izzy! Glad I ran into you before practice.” His smile was a mile wide and all encompassing.

  “Dr. Jameson. This is Alasdair Blackmoor, a friend of Gareth’s.” Izzy performed the requisite introductions with a true smile.

  A small, wiry man with graying hair and boundless energy, Dr. Jameson took Alasdair’s hand in an energetic shake, looking up and smiling into his face. “A real pleasure to meet yet another Scot. Believe it or not, we don’t see many of the real thing around here.” His old-fashioned drawl juxtaposed humorously with his all-Scottish all-the-time wardrobe.

  “Nice to make your acquaintance as well.” Alasdair chuffed a charming laugh. “To be fair, I’m only half Scottish, although I grew up in Glasgow.”

  “Half, whole, still a pleasure.” Dr. Jameson looked back and forth between them. “Are you helping our Izzy with the festival?”

  “She’s got things well in hand and doesn’t need my paltry help.” Alasdair said it like he meant it.

  “How are tickets to the opening night whisky tasting selling?” Izzy asked.

  “Like hotcakes as usual. Preacher Hopkins left the storeroom door unlocked for one of us to pick up the table decorations. I’ve got practice then a foaling to attend. Would you mind running by and storing them in the barn?”

  “I had already planned on it. Even better that I’ve got a pair of extra hands with me.”

  Dr. Jameson was off like a dervish, jogging into the street, almost getting clipped by the bumper of a truck, then stopping to have a laughing conversation with the driver.

  “Did you just volunteer me for manual labor?”

  “Hey, you’re the one that keeps offering to help.” They strolled down the sidewalk toward Bubba’s Fix-it shop and her truck. “Is Bubba going to fix you up?”

  “It will be ready before he closes up today.”

  “Is twelve hours of no contact killing you?”

  She was teasing, but his voice was thoughtful when he answered. “It’s been refreshing. Freeing even.”

  Mr. Timmerman poked his head out of the Dapper Highlander like a turtle. His attention to detail and his keen eye made him an excellent tailor and purveyor of men’s clothes. “Excuse me, Izzy. I was wondering if you could take a tartan to Mr. Connors for his approval.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Come in and cool down while I grab the sample.” Mr. Timmerman slid back inside and disappeared into a back room.

  Izzy ran her fingers over a traditional red and green tartan cloth that reminded her of Christmas. Alasdair fingered the hem of a kilt adorning a headless mannequin who also wore knee socks and fancy black shoes.

  “Do you have a closetful?” Izzy came up next to him.

  “I vaguely remember donning one for a school play when I was young, but I don’t have one of my own.” His smile didn’t release into a frown, but she sensed a burgeoning tension around his mouth. “If my mum could have, I think she would have filtered my Scottish blood out.”

  She blinked up at Alasdair, his stare boring through the mannequin to a time and place beyond where they stood. She wanted to drag him back from the cliff’s edge of sadness, but considering her track record of saying the wrong thing, she remained silent.

  Still standing shoulder to shoulder, she brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips. His hand jerked, but instead of scuttling away like a crab, his fingers linked with hers, their palms pressed together.

  Mr. Timmerman returned with a length of beautiful green and gray tartan fabric. A pair of reading glasses had scooched down his nose, held in place by the bulbous tip. His ruddy cheeks and barrel-like body meant he had been tapped as Highland’s Santa in the Christmas parade for the last decade or more.

  “Gareth asked me if I could obtain his family’s tartan, and I believe I managed it.” Mr. Timmerman ran a hand over the folded sample as if it was shot with gold thread and precious.

  Alasdair took the tartan out of his hands before Izzy could reach for it. He traced the lines of plaid with a finger. “It’s lovely.”

  “It is rather. Not as vibrant as some, but I prefer the understated colors. I imagine the men wearing it would blend with the trees and grasses for successful hunts.”

  “What you’re saying is this is the tartan version of our camouflage?” Izzy grinned, but both men ignored her. Mr. Timmerman had tilted his head to study Alasdair.

  “Are you and Gareth kin?” Mr. Timmerman asked.

  Alasdair pressed his lips together and bobbed his head in what could have been a yes or a no. “We’re friends.”

  When it became clear Alasdair wasn’t offering additional insights, Mr. Timmerman stepped back with a salesmanlike smile. “If you’re in the market for a kilt for the games, come and see me.”

  With Alasdair still in possession of the fabric, Izzy led them back outside. He glanced over his shoulder. “How does a specialty store like that survive in such a small town?”

  “Mr. Timmerman has orders come in from all over the United States and even other countries. He’s the real deal when it comes to kitting out people for reunions or Highland games or simply because they love the look.”

  Alasdair made a sound of disbelief. “It boggles the mind that many people want to live in the past.”

  Izzy rolled her eyes. “You haven’t spent enough time in the South. As a people, Southerners are obsessed with the past, no matter how problematic and complicated. But you should be proud of your Scottish roots.”

  As if the universe was trying to prove something, a single clear note from a bagpipe reverberated off the brick to settle in her chest. The Highland Pipe and Drum Corps had commenced their practice in the courtyard behind the Dancing Jig.

  More bagpipes joined in, and the march they played made her heart ache with an emotion she couldn’t categorize. Sometimes it was better to feel than understand. She and Alasdair locked eyes, and she grabbed his forearm to strengthen the connection.

  “Do you feel it?” she whispered.

  His lips parted but he didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She could sense the effect the music had on him. They remained locked together on the sidewalk for the duration of the march. Izzy had a vague recognition of people walking pa
st them, but it was like they were invisible to everyone but each other.

  The note faded and clapping erupted from the tourists and locals alike. The noise broke the spell binding them. Alasdair pulled his arm from her grasp and rubbed the heel of his hand over his breastbone.

  “I left Glasgow for Cambridge with conflicted feelings about Scotland. I even tried to shed my accent and adopt something more posh sounding, but I soon gave that up as impossible. Whenever I get upset or excited, my brogue intensifies.”

  “Why were you so conflicted?”

  “Because my da was Scottish and I wanted no part of him after … after everything that happened.”

  All Izzy knew was that his father had died in a car accident. Whatever else had happened seemed equally as devastating as the loss. Not sure if he would welcome her prying, she bit her lip and worked to formulate a reply.

  “Izzy!” A familiar deep baritone had her tensing and looking around like a hunted animal. Holt Pierson took ground-swallowing lopes across the street toward them. “I was going to ride out to Stonehaven this afternoon.” Holt towered over her and had at least three inches on Alasdair, who he favored with a curious glance.

  Whereas Alasdair moved with a feline, arresting grace, Holt was more like a bull. He was attractive in a good-old-boy way, his smile ready and wide, his blond hair sunstreaked, and his blue eyes crinkled in the corners from being outside. He was open and honest and uncomplicated. Because Izzy’s mind never seemed to slow, his simple approach to life both attracted and repelled her.

  Even though there was absolutely nothing going on with Alasdair—or Holt for that matter—Izzy’s face went hot. Holt had been forthright about his interest in her. It had been refreshing and flattering and convenient. Except for the very inconvenient fact that she wasn’t drawn to him.

  She’d hoped she could cultivate an attraction, like tending a fragile green shoot in the garden. But that shoot withered and died right there on the sidewalk between them. Her instant attraction to Alasdair hadn’t required tending; it grew like she had planted magic beans.