“How can you judge how well it’s going?”
“The growing number of rejections is a pretty good indication.”
His hum was thoughtful. “What makes a novel Southern? Or great, for that matter?”
“Southern novels are full of angst and symbolism and a study of how our troubled past informs our present. As far as great … I want people to study it and debate on it.”
“You want to write serious literature.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“But you’re not serious; you’re … whimsical.”
She twisted around to send him a glare, but it didn’t make an impact in the darkness, so she settled back against him. “That’s a nice way of saying I’m weird, isn’t it? I’m an accountant, for goodness sake. No one is more serious than an accountant during tax season.”
“You’re smart and I have no doubt, you are excellent at your job, but…”
“But what?”
“You named your letter opener Rupert.”
She harrumphed.
“And introduced him to me.”
“I was joking.” She let a few beats of silence fall before she added, “Okay, so I used to make up stories about fairies and witches living in the woods, but just to entertain myself. And the kids at the library on occasion. And in the nursery at church in high school. But, they were mostly for Daddy. He thought they were funny. Since he died … I don’t know.”
“Death is sobering, and you turned to more serious subjects,” Alasdair said.
“Exactly.”
“I hope you write your great Southern novel. If that’s what you really want.” His tone made her think he was holding back thoughts and opinions she might not appreciate.
“It’s want I want,” she gritted out even though her doubts had grown heavier over the last year. “Your turn. Tell me a secret. A deep, dark one.”
* * *
Alasdair took a breath as if gathering his nerve for a bloodletting. Was he actually going to confess all? The darkness whispered encouragements in his ear. The truth was a wound that needed excising, and Isabel would understand. He was sure of it. Sure of her.
“My parent’s marriage broke up because Da had an affair with his assistant. She wasn’t much older than me. Not the first woman he messed around with either, but she was the final straw for Mum. Da moved out and set up house with her.”
“I didn’t realize your parents divorced before he died.”
“They weren’t even legally separated at the time. It all happened so suddenly.” He paused. It was only too easy to put himself back in his seventeen-year-old skin. The anger was still there, along with the regrets. “I was so blasted mad at Da for what he did to Mum and to me and our family. I stopped talking to him and to—” He’d almost given away a secret he didn’t own.
He continued, not pausing long enough for her to question his near slip. “Da called me that morning. The morning he ran off the road.”
“You couldn’t know what was going to happen. It’s not your fault.” Izzy found his hand and clasped it. He hung on as if she were keeping him from falling off a precipice.
“Maybe not. I don’t know anymore. But it happened, and it hurt that I was never going to be able to forgive him. That our relationship would remain stymied in all the bad. I left Glasgow for Cambridge a few months later and Mum followed soon after and never looked back. She didn’t have any good memories of Scotland left.”
“Neither of you ever went back?”
“I’ve been back. It’s where my deep, dark secret lives.”
Her hand tightened on his. “It’s a person. Your father’s mistress?”
He should have known she’d guess the gist. “And her son. My half-brother, Lewis. Kyla was pregnant when Da was killed. I think he would have married her eventually. At least, that’s what she claimed, but after Da died, she was left alone and with nothing. Da hadn’t changed his will and as he and Mum weren’t even separated, everything went to Mum.”
“Did your mother know Kyla was pregnant?”
“No. And I couldn’t be the one to tell her. She was already devastated about the infidelity, the separation, and his death.”
“But you said you’ve been back to Glasgow?”
“It took a few years to get over my anger and grief and guilt, but I finally ran Kyla to ground.” It had been a shock to finally meet Lewis and recognize pieces of himself in the boy’s watchful gray eyes. “Kyla married a nice man who owns a butcher shop and had two more kids.”
“She doesn’t resent you and your mother for everything that happened?”
“No, she’s a decent lass and a good mother. Maybe Da would have been happy with her, I don’t know.” Might-have-beens were dangerous, and he put them out of his mind. “Lewis is eleven now. A fine lad.”
He couldn’t tell Isabel everything roiling around in his heart. Like how he wanted to take Lewis to Cairndow to teach him the joys of fishing and shooting and swimming in the loch. But to do so meant telling Gareth. Even in a place as isolated as Cairndow, thorny vines of gossip flourished and would carry the news to his Mum.
“It’s been a long time. Maybe your mother would understand.”
“Perhaps. But she’ll never forgive and wouldn’t approve of any relationship between me and Da’s bastard child.” He gave a gusty sigh. “Now you know my deepest, darkest secret.”
“You’ll figure out what to do about Lewis and your mother.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I can tell you care about them both. It’ll all work out.” She stroked his arm. Perhaps it was meant to comfort him, but it only made him more aware of her and all the places he wanted her hands. “Tell me about your mother.”
Alasdair barked a laugh. “Her current obsession is getting me married to a woman of her choosing.”
“What kind of girl earns her seal of approval?”
“English, of course. A lady, for certain. Actual title not required but appreciated.” Every single one had been attractive and accomplished and interesting, but he’d been bored. Nothing like how he felt with …
He stopped before he finished the thought, but his arm tightened around her and he nuzzled his nose into the hair at her crown and took a deep breath. He would remember her scent long after he left Highland.
“Posh Spice.”
He was getting used to not knowing how the words that popped out of her mouth connected to the subject at hand. “What is that?”
“You know, Posh Spice from the Spice Girls.” When he made a sound of puzzlement, she elbowed him in the ribs. “The gorgeous one married to David Beckham.”
He smiled as the connection clicked into place. “Exactly who my mum would set me up with.”
“But not who you would choose?”
“Not my type. At all.”
“What is your type?” she asked innocently. Except she had grown rigid against him as if his answer was important.
What could he say? He’d dated but had never contemplated marriage. Even a weekend away with a woman had seemed too much of a commitment. But, if he had to choose a type …
“Someone who makes me laugh.” Until Isabel he couldn’t recall a single girl he’d been out with that met this one requirement.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Throw me a bone here. Blonde or brunette? Thin or curvy?”
“She has to smell good.” Like wildflowers, he didn’t add, afraid the truth would give too much of himself away.
“A funny girl who wears deodorant. You might want to set your standards a bit higher.” Her voice lilted with her amusement, which made him feel lighter.
“I don’t know. I’ve dated a string of woman and none of them have met my standards.”
“A string, huh? I don’t think my exes would even constitute a line fragment,” she said on a self-depreciating laugh.
He smiled and rubbed his chin against her temple, her soft hair tickling him. Instead
of shying away like he expected, she shifted toward him.
In the darkness, reality ceased to exist. The strange cupboard in the middle of the Highland Baptist Church didn’t abide by the laws of the universe. He and Isabel could have been trapped for minutes or hours or eons.
He cupped her cheek and stroked the silky skin of her jaw, his fingers guiding his lips in for a landing in the dark. He made contact with the corner of her mouth, but adjusted and caught her gasp. Their breath mingled, the moment achingly intimate.
He’d kissed other women before, of course, but all of a sudden, he couldn’t recall when or whom. Her lips erased his memories or perhaps shoved them into a file labeled “insignificant.” She took fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him closer. Her boldness jerked his heart into a gallop but she had surprised him at every turn, so why had he expected her kiss to be mundane?
“Alasdair.” His name came on a wisp of her breath, turning stone to flesh inside of him. Hearing his name in her honeyed Southern accent sent blood rushing through his body.
He scooted down on the door and pulled her half on top of him, her leg notching between his. He nipped her bottom lip and when she opened, he touched his tongue lightly to hers. Little by little, the kiss deepened until their tongues twined, and their breathing grew rapid as if they were pacing each other in a race.
Her body molded against his, and he allowed his hands to wander down to chart the arch of her back, then through the curve of her waist to grasp her hips. She wiggled closer and his fingers glanced over bare skin where her shirt had ridden up. He took the invitation and slid his palm over her silken skin to the dip of her spine.
Even though he couldn’t see her, he was aware of her every breath and movement. He’d never been so in tune with a woman both emotionally and physically. She wanted more as much as he did, but what would happen if they were discovered naked in a church cupboard? Would Isabel be run out of Highland by the townspeople with pitchforks?
Noise penetrated the isolation. Her tongue retreated, and his lips stilled. His heartbeat played a pagan rhythm in his ear, but that’s not what had yanked him out of the carnal daze. Muffled male laughter. The clomp of feet. A fist pounded on the door, slicing them apart.
“You in there, Izzy?”
“It’s Preacher Hopkins,” Isabel whispered. “We should…”
He was gratified to hear the hint of reluctance in her voice. Once they were out, what would happen? “Yes, we should.”
She scrambled to her feet, pounded her fist on the door, and called out, “Yes, it’s me! Can you get the door open?”
“Wilt and I should be able to manage,” the preacher called out.
While the men on the other side of the door discussed strategies, distance and dissonance grew between them. He hadn’t felt as close to anyone as he had to Isabel in a long time, but had it only been a side effect of the darkness and confinement like a prisoner confessing all to his captor?
He didn’t try to diffuse the rising tension between them, and for once, Isabel seemed at a loss for words.
Preacher Hopkins called out. “Are you ready to push from your side? We’ve oiled the hinges and levered up the door from the bottom.”
“Allow me.” Alasdair shifted over, bumping Isabel aside, and put his shoulder to the door.
“Ready!” Isabel called.
The men push-pulled on the door. Light blinded Alasdair and he sucked in a lungful of cool air. Two men stood on the other side. One was wiry with a graying Afro; the other was younger with a thick neck and brown hair, his thumbs tucked into a pair of braces.
The older man glanced between Alasdair and Isabel as if there was a game of tennis being played. “Ah, you weren’t alone, Izzy. I’m Elmer Hopkins.”
Alasdair took his hand in a shake, introduced himself, then added, “It was my fault. I let the door close on us, sir.”
“No, I feel responsible.” The preacher clapped a hand on Alasdair’s shoulder. “It’s high time we change this door. Wilt, this door is next on your to-do list.”
“Very good, Preacher.” Wilt snapped his braces then pulled a measuring tape from a pouch in his tool belt. “I’ll give it a measure right now.”
“What time is it?” Isabel asked, still squinting against the light.
“Half past two,” Wilt said.
They’d spent two hours in the closet together. Alasdair shook his head, trying to reconcile time. He’d emerged a changed person. How could that happen in a mere two hours? Days should have passed. Weeks even.
Then again, opinions could change in a second. Decisions debated in mere minutes. Whole new theories formulated in a half hour. Why couldn’t their connection shift in two hours?
Preacher Hopkins helped them load the decorations and tables, all the while regaling them with stories of his afternoon spent visiting parishioners at the nursing home. Even the reverend’s everyday voice held a cajoling, sonorous quality as if prepared to lead sinners back to Christ whether he ran into them at the grocery store or the petrol station.
With the extra set of hands, the truck was loaded with the decorations and tables in no time. The preacher retreated after inviting Alasdair to church. Then, he and Isabel were alone.
Isabel met his eyes over the truck bed for a blink before she looked anywhere but his direction. Was that anger, indifference, or regret radiating from her?
He was coward enough not to ask.
Chapter Seven
After a brief stop for Alasdair to pick up his repaired mobile, the ride back to Stonehaven was accomplished in silence. He gripped his mobile tightly in one hand and the plaid fabric for Gareth in the other. Two different worlds seemed to call to him.
Although, for all the attention Isabel paid him on the ride, he could have made his calls right then and she wouldn’t have noticed. He felt invisible. From the corner of his eye, he studied her. Perhaps she wasn’t as detached as he assumed. While her gaze was on the road ahead, her hands clenched the wheel so tightly her knuckles showed white.
In retrospect, kissing her had been ill advised. Yet the universe had asked too much if it had expected him to ignore her wildflower-scented hair and soft curves. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d lost himself in a woman. And they hadn’t even made it to any of the really good stuff.
The really good stuff would have involved them naked and breaking a commandment or two in a church cupboard. At the very least, his invitation to sit in the front pew at Sunday service would have been rescinded.
Isabel didn’t seem the sort to indulge in an affair, and as an ocean separated their lives, it was all they could afford. She deserved more. Better. Perhaps Holt the turnip farmer could make her happy.
His lip curled even though Holt might be a veritable saint who treated his crops and livestock with respect and compassion. A shudder ripped through him imagining Isabel laughing and kissing and teasing Holt. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he was angry. At her, at himself, at Holt, at Fate.
“I’m going to unload everything. You can go on in the house. I don’t need your help.” Isabel stopped the truck close to the red barn and hightailed into it with a box of candles before Alasdair could put in a gentlemanly protest.
She obviously needed space. Well, so did he. Or at least privacy to put out fires and soothe hurt feelings. Bypassing the front door, he made for the cover of a row of evergreens at the edge of the field, the trees providing privacy and shade.
The first call was to his mum. She answered before the first ring ended.
“Alasdair, darling, I’ve been worried.” While she wasn’t a warm, emotional mother, she actually did sound distressed.
“I cracked the screen of my mobile and had to get it fixed. Sorry. But everything is fine here.” He almost barked a laugh at the understatement.
“And your uncle?”
“He’s fine too.” If he told his mum Gareth might be in love, she’d treat it as a deadly disease.
“You’re a fount of information. W
hen is he coming home to see to your inheritance?”
“Jesus, Mum. Could you sound any more cold-blooded?”
“I’m realistic. Have you met the woman yet?”
“Rose Buchanan is her name, and she’s very nice and charming, and the two of you would get along splendidly. Especially since you’re around the same age.”
“That is a relief.” His mum’s voice took on a less strident tone. “When are you leaving?”
“I don’t know yet. Soon.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” she said even though he hadn’t specified when “soon” might be. “Ta-ta, then. Love you.”
“Love you too.” He disconnected and stared at the blank screen. His assurances would only satisfy her for so long, but he had bigger issues to tackle at the moment.
He skimmed his email, which didn’t include the information on Stonehaven he’d requested. Not only did George hand the information off to Richard, it seemed he was screwing Alasdair altogether. It was evening in London, but Alasdair guessed George would still be at work. He punched his name and was rewarded by a clipped, very English, “Hullo. George Garrison.”
“George, you little twit. Why did you hand the Stonehaven information off to Richard?”
“Alasdair. Having fun on your little retreat, are you?”
George came from an upper-middle-class family, had gone to Oxford, and made no bones about his ambition to climb at Wellington. His usual deference toward Alasdair had shifted to slight condescension, which could only mean, Alasdair was on Richard’s “list of piss,” which was a fearful place for any employee to end up.
His hand suddenly clammy, Alasdair adjusted his grip on his mobile. “Why did you hand it off without consulting with me first?”
“Because I keep my ears open and knew the Saudi was interested in just such a property in the States. Richard is salivating to acquire it, and your lack of cooperation has been noted.”
If George had been within arm’s length, he would have earned himself a well-deserved punch. “Richard will have to focus his efforts elsewhere. Stonehaven is not for sale.”
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 11
