by L. A. Fiore
“I’ll have that.”
“You got it. You’re Brianna’s grand niece.”
“I am. Did you know her?”
“Everyone knew her.” There was a bit of censure in her words.
I didn’t need to explain, but I did anyway. “I didn’t know I had a great aunt.”
Her brows furrowed. “Your ma didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
She leaned closer. “Seems to fit with what people say about her. She is not at all popular around here.”
She was definitely outspoken. It was refreshing. “I’m definitely getting that vibe.”
“Stop badgering the customers, Bridget.”
“Just being friendly.” She winked as she strolled back to the bar.
The door opened and Fergus entered. “Pull me a pint, Blair, and a plate of haggis.”
Haggis? Yuck.
He pulled the chair out opposite me and sat down. “Seeing the sights?”
“I am. I would like to take a trip to Edinburgh and farther north to Culloden Moor.”
He did the sign of the cross. “Terrible history, beautiful place.”
Thinking about my odd conversation with Tomas I said to Fergus, “I met Tomas O’Connell at the cemetery.”
“You did? Odd place for him.”
“I had the sense he followed me in.”
Fergus flashed me a grin. “He just might have. He likes the ladies, the prettier the better.”
“He asked me what I intended to do with Aunt Brianna’s inheritance.”
Fergus’ brows furrowed. “Not his business.”
“No.”
“He is blunt as stone.”
I thought it was more than that, but Bridget returned with our food so I let it go. Fergus drank his pint in one swallow and called for another before he started digging into his haggis. I knew what haggis was, but I had to admit it smelled delicious. My soup certainly was.
The door opened again, this time a hush fell over the place. Fergus wiped his expression and yet his focus was glued to the newcomer. Curious as to who would cause such a reaction from the dynamic man across from me, I twisted my head to the door. It was the man that watched me with the cows that day. He was dressed entirely in black, the fabric stretched tight across the muscles of his shoulders and biceps. He wasn’t a beautiful man, his features were too severe or perhaps it was his expression that looked to be carved from stone. Not even his pale blue eyes softened his appearance because they were cold, like chips of ice. He strolled to the bar in an easy, yet deceiving stride because I was sure he was very aware of everyone in the pub. His focus never shifted to me and yet a shiver went down my spine in awareness, like prey when sensing a predator. A bag was waiting for him. Not even the friendly Bridget met his gaze, focusing too hard on filling the sugar containers. He dropped a few bills on the bar top, grabbed the bag and as silently as he entered, he left. It took a minute before the noise level in the pub resumed.
The words were out before I even considered them. “Who was that?”
“Brochan McIntyre.”
My eyes flew to the door. That was Brochan McIntyre, the man who was or was not a werewolf? I could admit he had a presence, one worthy of the rumors circulating around about him. Still, he was only human…I was pretty sure.
“You would do well to stay clear of him, lass. He’s a kind of trouble you don’t want knocking on your door. I’m not kidding, Lizzie, steer clear of him. Some people don’t want fixing.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just that help doesn’t work when the one you’re trying to help doesn’t want it.”
Brochan intrigued me, even more so now. Besides, I liked forming my own opinions so I told a little white lie, “I’ll steer clear.”
“Good. Now finish your soup and we’ll split a cranachan.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Trust me, it’s delicious.”
I needed groceries. I had gone through what Fergus had brought. I wasn’t sure what to expect of the markets, particularly the food, but I was looking forward to the experience.
The parking lot was a challenge; it sat on a kind of rise and all the cars were tilted at slight angles. The land surrounding the parking lot was muddy from the constant run off. Any car that rolled into that mess would take quite an effort to dig out again.
The market wasn’t much different from the markets in the city, but then I was used to smaller markets. Wooden shelves lined much of the store and there was a small section for fruits and vegetables. One difference, there was no meat department or bakery because both the butcher and bakery were right down the street. Another difference, the packaging was brighter than at home with lots of loud colors. It was pretty and definitely eye catching.
I recognized some labels: PG Tips, Cadbury and Walkers, Robertson’s and Crosse & Blackwell, but I had fun strolling the aisles because there was a lot not found at home. Like canned haggis. Perhaps haggis was like scrapple, a Philadelphia favorite but how it was made was not something you needed to know.
I reached for a can and read the ingredients. It didn’t sound too terrible. Could I really be in Scotland and not try their national dish?
“It tastes better than it sounds,” a deep voice said to my right. I started to reply as I turned to him but the words got stuck in my throat when I saw Brochan McIntyre. My head tilted back to see his eyes, a blue so light they almost looked white. There was no smile on his face and no warmth in his gaze.
He gestured to my hand. “By your death grip, I’m guessing you are on the fence as to whether to buy it.”
Why are you talking to me almost rolled off my tongue. Based on all the accounts I had heard of him, he was a loner and a scary one at that, and yet he was encouraging me to buy canned haggis.
“What does it taste like?”
“A hearty stew, kind of like shepherd’s pie.”
“But it’s made from a sheep’s heart, liver and lungs.”
“Traditionally. Nowadays, it’s usually beef or lamb…sometimes liver is added. When in Rome, right?”
He strolled toward the register before I could reply. I still held a death grip on that can of haggis but for an entirely different reason. The town’s werewolf just encouraged me to purchase it. I dropped it in my basket. My focus was no longer on the market or the loud and brightly colored stock. I had expected Brochan McIntyre to have fangs or claws or be antisocial. I hadn’t expected small talk in the grocery store.
I paid for my things and headed to my car. Distracted, I didn’t notice the small crowd until my name was called. The crowd parted to show Tomas O’Connell leaning against the back of his beat-up truck. An unpleasant feeling moved through me, the scene causing a wicked case of déjà vu.
“Evening, Lizzie.”
The town was ready to crucify Brochan, but it was Tomas I found grating. He acted far too familiar for someone who didn’t know me at all.
“Tomas.”
“We were heading over to the pub for a few pints. Want to join us?”
“No, thanks. I’m working this evening.”
He pushed from his truck and approached. I continued to my car. “Yeah? Doing what?”
My business wasn’t any of his business, so I answered being as vague as possible. “I’m painting.”
“What are you painting? Already making the place your own.”
Moron.
That sexy black car pulled up across the street. Brochan. Tomas’ head whipped around but not before I saw the look that crossed over his face. Hatred. He turned back to me and moved in a little closer.
“You’ll want to stay away from him,” he said as he gestured to the car. “Dude is bad news. He thinks he’s tougher than he is, but he’s still trouble.” Tomas leaned even closer and touched his temple. “I don’t think Brochan is right in the head.”
His posse started to laugh, egging him on. That was why it seemed so familiar. It was Nadine all over again. I didn’t k
now Brochan, but of the two it wasn’t Brochan’s character I found lacking.
I closed the trunk. “Didn’t you ever hear the expression, if you don’t have anything nice to say...”
He didn’t like that, his lips curled into a snarl, but my focus had shifted behind him. At first I thought I imagined it, but no, his truck started rolling. Never had I seen karma swing back so quickly. I could have told him, alerted him that his truck was about to roll into the muddy swampland. I didn’t. I even went so far as to linger a few seconds to make sure the truck gained some momentum to do the most damage before I offered a farewell and climbed into my car. I waved then drove off. I had just reached the road marker indicating I needed to stop when I heard him cursing. The sexy black car was still there; I drove right by it and my heart slammed into my ribs when he pulled in behind me. Despite what I had told Tomas, there were enough warnings shared about Brochan McIntyre that I’d be stupid not to heed them; so having him behind me was a little scary. It crossed my mind he was only making sure I got home safely, since I had deliberately allowed Tomas’ truck to go down that ditch. But he was rumored to be cold and unfeeling so why would he care? I felt my pulse all over my body; it was throbbing so hard and fast. I turned off at the lane to the cottage and held my breath. The sexy black car drove past. My hands were shaking as I continued down the lane. When I reached the cottage, I locked myself in then double-checked the locks. I kept all the lights on that night.
Aunt Brianna’s white Mercedes was old. I didn’t know much about cars, but I was guessing it was circa nineteen sixties or maybe seventies. The interior was in surprisingly good shape. She started when I took her out the other day, not at first, but after coughing out some black smoke she roared to life. There was the slightest floral scent in the car, her perfume. The realization brought a smile even as my heart twisted a bit. Unfortunately, my good luck with the car didn’t last. I made it just outside of town when she died. I stood on the side of the road, staring under the hood without a clue as to what I was looking at. Cait had put an app on my phone before I left, she knew me so well, so I was able to find the closest garage. It was going to take at least an hour for the truck to get here. I’d sightsee, but I was in the middle of nowhere. It was the main road into town and still there was nothing on either side of it but fields for as far as the eye could see. I didn’t have games on my phone. Cait had offered to add some, but I had been adamant that I’d never have time to play them. She did load up a bunch of songs. I scrolled through the list and at one title I actually laughed out loud. Hanson. Cait apparently had been obsessed with them as a kid. I’d seen her rocking out to them a few times. In honor of her, I selected ‘MmmBop’. To my shock, my feet started tapping to the beat. I had teased her enough over the years, but the joke was on me. It was a very catchy tune, enough that by the end I was dancing to it. I didn’t know how many times I replayed the song, shaking my booty on the side of the road. I didn’t hear the car until it pulled up alongside me, that black sexy car. The passenger window rolled down. My face was on fire because I had been really getting into it, a song my friend loved when she was ten.
Mortifying.
I peered into the car.
“Car trouble?”
I answered in my head because there was a disconnect from my brain to my mouth. For a loner, Brochan was pretty social.
“Is a tow truck coming?”
Even if one weren’t coming, I’d have lied. Self-preservation. “Yes, any minute now.”
“That’s Brianna Calhoun’s car.”
“I didn’t steal it.” I didn’t steal it? What the hell was wrong with me?
He had the blankest expression, like the muscles in his face didn’t work, so his deadpanned reply surprised me. “Good to know.”
He didn’t drive off, didn’t say anything, just stared. I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to do something, maybe dance again because I definitely had a groove going on when he pulled up. The silence dragged out so long it got awkward. I almost asked if he wanted fries with that just to break it.
“Did you try the haggis?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re Brianna’s kin.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?” Did he want to know because I was Brianna’s kin or to report me as the crazy lady dancing on the side of the road to Hanson? I wondered from what direction the paddy wagon would come.
“Lizzie Danton.”
He offered no reply. Not his name, not welcome to town, not a critique on my dancing. Nothing.
“And you are?” I knew who he was, but he should have offered.
A beat or two of silence followed my question before he answered, “Brochan McIntyre.”
“Thanks for checking on me.” Though I didn’t really have the sense he cared one way or the other, so it was odd that he stopped at all. I thought of his home, charred and ruined and almost opened my mouth to ask why he allowed it to remain that way, but the intrusive conversation with Tomas popped into my head. It wasn’t my business.
More silence followed before he shut off his engine, climbed from his car and strolled to Aunt Brianna’s car. He leaned over to inspect under the hood, my eyes following the motion. Shamelessly, I studied his shoulders and back and the defined muscles the shirt didn’t hide, then to my horror my gaze moved lower to his faded jeans covered ass. What the hell was I doing?
“Why didn’t you ever visit her?” My attention jerked to his face to find him studying me out of the corner of his eye.
“I only learned of her when her lawyer called. She sounded like an amazing woman. I didn’t know you could miss someone you never knew.” Her photos, how much I would have loved to know why she chose to hang the ones she did. To watch her interact with the butcher, a stodgy man who actually smiled when sharing stories about her. She had a life here, but more, she was loved and she was missed. I didn’t know her, my only family and I learned of her too late.
I didn’t realize Brochan had turned and was now studying me, a lot like the other day when I was chatting with the cows. Remembering that, I felt my cheeks burn. I shook it off and gestured to the car. “Any luck?”
Before he could reply, not that I was holding my breath for one, the tow truck arrived. A kid climbed down, but his focus was on Brochan’s car. “Nice wheels.” His attention shifted to Brochan and I swear he looked even more interested in the car’s driver.
“Thanks again for stopping,” I called to his retreating form. Not surprising, he didn’t reply.
“Do you know him?” the kid asked.
“No.”
“But he stopped for you.”
“He recognized the car.”
“Brianna, she was a cool lady. Hey, wait. You’re her kin from the States.”
“Yes.”
“Cool.” Then he sobered. “Sorry, I mean…sorry. Sweet lady. Funny too. Do you want a ride back to the cottage?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“They’re still adorable. And I told you it was a very danceable song. I still rock out to it too.”
“Not to an audience like this man.”
Cait chuckled, “You should have taken his picture.”
“Yes, because that would have been the icing on my crazy cupcake. Let’s get a selfie, scary, sexy man.”
“Sexy? You didn’t mention sexy.”
“He was sexy, but he was more scary.”
“I don’t understand you. A handsome stranger stops to help you and you think he’s going to kill you.”
“I can’t explain it. It was just a vibe. I’m not into crystals and all that, but this dude definitely had a dark energy.”
“I think you’re letting your surroundings influence you.”
“Maybe. I’m thinking about staying here, Cait.”
Silence.
“I never felt like I belonged in New York, but I feel something here. And to be living on the same land my ancestors lived on. I
have a family I never knew of. Sure, they’re gone, but they’re still here in a way. I can’t wait to set up an easel.”
“I thought that might happen. I know you never really felt like you fit here. I’m happy for you, Lizzie, and I can’t wait to see how you translate this new chapter in your life into your art. I am sad though, because I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t lose me, it will just take a little longer to see each other.”
CHAPTER SIX
LIZZIE
The area between my shoulder blades tingled again. I’d been feeling that same sensation for the last week. I had the distinct impression someone was watching me, but whoever it was might as well be a ghost because I never saw them. Maybe it was a ghost; maybe it was Brianna. She had said she’d be stopping by often for a visit. The thought made me smile.
I studied my painting. I was behind the cottage and though there were endless images I could have captured—her gardens, the hills, the cottage itself—I found it was the woodpile that stirred my creative juices. The wood was weathered, several seasons from the look of it. Long, green grass grew around it. I guess weed whacking wasn’t big here. And mushrooms, those beige and brown mushrooms that popped up when it was particularly wet, grew on many of the logs. It struck me as whimsical and had I been home I likely wouldn’t have looked twice at the pile, let alone paint it, but in this setting I could imagine the sprites that called the woodpile home. And as I painted, I painted those sprites. Delicate, iridescent wings, long, willowy bodies and bright eyes in colors like purple, pink and green. My work was usually dark, a vein of sadness weaved through the images that though beautiful were also tragic. But this, it was light, almost hopeful. And I realized as I studied the happy image I was bringing to life that the weight of sadness I’d carried since I was a child wasn’t so heavy here.
Birds took flight from within a patch of trees, as if they’d been scared off. Likely an animal, but I was feeling fanciful so I called out. “Aunt Brianna?” It was shockingly easy to hold a one-way conversation with a ghost. “I painted sprites. I don’t paint sprites. My work has always run toward the dark, but not here.” I touched a leaf on one of the trees, emerald green with veins forming a pretty pattern. I’d have to bring my sketchbook out later to capture a few of them. My thoughts turned a bit melancholy. “She was wrong to turn her back on you. She was wrong to ignore your wish to reconcile, but thank you. I’ve never felt home, not anywhere, but I do here. Clearly, since I’m painting sprites. I wish you were really here. That we could actually have this conversation, that I could hear your laugh and see your smile. I missed that, we missed it, but your photos paint your picture so beautifully.” I hadn’t expected the tears. I wiped them away; today was a happy day. “I should probably get back to painting before someone happens along and sees me talking to myself. I’ll hang this painting in the living room, over the fireplace. It belongs here.”
