Glasgow Grace
Glasgow Grace
Marion Ueckermann
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Glasgow Grace
COPYRIGHT 2016 by Marion Ueckermann
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version
(R),
NIV
(R),
Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
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White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First White Rose Edition, 2016
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-521-0
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Noel...
Every day with you is another twenty-four hours basking in the grace of Ephesians 5:25.
What People are Saying
Swoon-worthy romance set against the backdrop of breathtaking Scotland, combined with a powerful reminder of God's relentless grace makes this an inspiring, satisfying read.
~ Heidi McCahan, Author of Unraveled
Callum and Skye drew me into their lives as they faced problems, old and new, trying to discover if love transcends distance and time. Glasgow Grace is a delightful excursion into the atmosphere and brogues of Scotland. Marion Ueckermann charmed me again with her characters, setting, and voice.
~ Judith Robl, Author of As Grandma Says
Once again, Marion Ueckermann’s writing transported me to another place. A magical bittersweet story with a truly beautiful ending, reminding me that our Creator is always in control.
~ Sarah Rowling, Reader
I fell in love with Callum and Skye right away. After reading Glasgow Grace, I wanted to pack my dancing shoes and head to Scotland for music and a shepherd's pie at McGuire's.
~ Janet Ferguson, Author, Faith, Humor, Romance—Southern Style
Glasgow Grace is another must read from Marion Ueckermann!
~ Diane Tatum, Author of Gold Earrings
1
“
My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
~ 2 Corinthians 12:9
That she’d miss spending a warm Christmas and New Year with family and friends this year mattered little to Skye Hunter. Even though she wasn’t home, she was home. She could’ve sung an aria right there in the middle of Glasgow International Airport and let the myriad of holiday travelers know exactly how she felt about being back in bonnie Scotland.
Sixteen years. A lifetime.
She caught her breath. Surely, everything would be different. Everyone. People would’ve moved on with their lives…to other cities, maybe even other countries as she had. Not that she’d been given a choice in that matter. Nevertheless, her life had turned out well for the change.
But, she wasn’t here to rekindle friendships.
Pushing a trolley laden with her baggage, she stepped outside to a gray monochrome sky. One thing had remained the same—the weather. Sheltered beneath the roof overhang, she hailed a taxi. She had so missed these black London-style vehicles.
Once she reached her hotel room, she’d need to call her mother—let her know her precious cargo, marked fragile, had arrived in one piece.
The fact that Rita Robinson hadn’t followed Skye across the globe was a miracle. At least her stepfather’s ill-health had one upside—it kept Mother home where she belonged.
How Skye would enjoy these months of freedom out from under her mother’s thumb.
Snowflakes fell on the taxi driver’s dark jacket as he hopped out of the vehicle. He groaned. “Awnaw-snaw.”
Amused at his protest, her lips curved. She’d forgotten how Glaswegians lowered the pitch of their voices and strung their words together in one sentence.
As he loaded her suitcases into the back of the vehicle, he chatted non-stop. All unintelligible to Skye. But hearing the patter again was good—it had been so long. Adjusting to this dialect would take time, however.
His accent made her think of her Da. She swallowed, blinking away moistness as she brushed the snow from her coat and slid onto the back seat. “Crowne Plaza Hotel, Congress Road,” she instructed as she sank against the worn leather and stared out the window, drinking in both familiar and unfamiliar sights.
They were in the city center within minutes. The armadillo-shaped Clyde Auditorium came into view, reminding Skye of her own Sydney Opera House back home where she’d wooed audiences during the past year. At least that’s what the tabloids reported.
But this was her big break into the global operatic scene.
Phantom of the Opera
. She had finally arrived. Star of the show, her name in lights. First Glasgow, then Edinburgh. Finally, the Royal Albert Hall in London. This would be her year. It wasn’t every day a girl got the opportunity to portray Christine Daaé and sing with her angel of music.
She released a sigh. Once she’d had an angel of music, too. Her mind tumbled back to another world filled with song. Callum McGuire. What had become of him?
A smile touched her mouth as forgotten feelings filled her, warming her like a mug of hot chocolate. She savored the sweetness they left on her lips.
“That wullbi twenty quid.” The driver turned in his seat and pushed up his thick glasses.
Her reverie short-lived, Skye opened her handbag and pulled two ten pound notes from her purse. She hadn’t even noticed the taxi pull up in front of the hotel under the covered drive. The Crowne Plaza. This would be great. The spoils of hotel life and a short holiday, compliments of Mr. Boyd. She’d enjoy it while it lasted. Come January 1, Duncan Boyd, General Director of Opera Scotland, had an apartment rented for her and three other sopranos. Once rehearsals commenced in just under two weeks, she could count on nothing but hard work.
“Huv a nice day.” The driver unloaded her suitcases onto the sidewalk and jumped back into his vehicle. A bellhop rushed to help with her luggage.
Mr. Boyd had arranged an early check-in for Skye. If he hadn’t been away with family in London for Christmas, he would’ve collected her from the airport himself.
After checking in, Skye headed up to her room, taking in the view from the glass elevator that clung to the side of the building. She searched for her childhood home on the ground below. Nothing. Perhaps she’d see it from her hotel window.
The ride to the fourteenth floor, and the walk down the corridor to her room, afforded her time to think of how much she’d love a full Scottish breakfast now. A rasher of bacon, a banger, black pudding, and haggis. On the side, half a tomato broiled with cheese on top, sautéed mushrooms, baked beans, and a potato—or tattie scone, as she fondly remembered it being called. Finally, a slice of toast and an egg fixed just the way she liked it—sunnyside up. All this mouth-watering goodness washed down with piping hot tea, milk in first.
Sadly, it was already lunchtime. Breakfast would have to wait until tomorrow. She set her handbag down on the bed and told the bellhop where to place her luggage. After tipping him, she closed the suite door and ambled toward the window. She stopped beside the writing desk where the room service menu lay open. Running her finger down the contents, Skye settled for a smoked turkey and Stilton sandwich and a pot of tea. She dialed room service.
The view from so high was inspiring—Millennium Bridge on her right, Clyde Arc to her left. Both structures had been built in the time she’d been gone. In front of the hotel—Bell’s Bridge. She smiled. Bell’s held so many special memories. If that bridge could talk… Anderston Quay, too.
A knock at the door interrupted her trip down memory lane. Brunch.
Skye thanked the room service attendant, poured a cup of tea, and moved back to the window. She sipped the warm liquid and nibbled her sandwich as she watched the River Clyde ferries amble along their wet path. She and Callum used to sit for hours watching the construction of the pedestrian overpass. In their teens, they’d crossed it hand-in-hand, walking between his home and hers. They, too, had managed to bridge the watery divide between their worlds.
Gazing at the way the River Clyde mirrored the gray heavens, Skye shivered. She needed a hot bath and a nap once she had finished her tea and the sandwich.
After hanging a “Please Do Not Disturb” sign outside the door, Skye ran a bath and soon soaked in hot water and bubbles. She closed her eyes and allowed the memories—of Da and of Callum—to wash over her.
When her skin was wrinkled and her mind spent, Skye stepped out of the bath, dried, and put on a soft white robe. She walked to the bedroom, her long hair wrapped in a matching towel.
The velvet furnishings radiated warmth, banishing thoughts of the cold outside. These warm, fuzzy feelings, combined with the heat clinging to her skin, threatened to put her to sleep before she could crawl between the sheets. She was exhausted. Had been for weeks.
She’d just finished a long season at the Sydney Opera House—probably the reason for her exhaustion and sore throat. Was there such a thing as too much singing? Perhaps. That’s why she’d insisted on coming to Glasgow ten days early. She needed a break—on her own—and what better place to do that than where she’d grown up.
Skye closed the curtains and set the phone on the desk to “Do Not Disturb” before she moved to the bed. Pulling back the covers, she brushed her hand over the sheets. Egyptian cotton. She would sleep well—until tomorrow morning for sure. She drew a deep breath as her head sank into the scented feather pillows. Lavender. But despite having the makings of dreamland Utopia, sleep eluded Skye.
~*~
Callum McGuire sat on a wooden stool and plucked at the guitar strings. After a hard day at work, there was nothing like getting up on a chair in his father’s pub, strumming his guitar, and singing his favorite Scottish ballads and jigs. Especially the Skye Boat Song.
He strummed. The twelve silvery lines created a fullness of sound that could never be obtained by six. His smooth tenor filled the rustic pub. “Sing me a song of a lad that is gone. Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul, he sailed on a day, over the sea to Skye.”
How often he’d wished he could sail across the seas to his Skye. But Australia was far away. And she had never written.
“What a dreich day.” Mary McGuire pulled back the lace curtain and stared outside. She shook her head. “Dreich.” She let the fabric fall back in place, and then wiped the table just below the window. “It’s puir baltic oot there.”
Callum’s voice trailed off. His strumming slowed. “Ma. It’s winter. It’s to be expected.”
“Och, dinnae mind me.” She waved her rag. “Yi carry oan an play. Ah love that tune.”
Callum strummed the guitar strings again.
“So, daeyi think she’ll cum tae visit?” his mother interrupted once more.
He stopped playing and stood, placing the guitar back on its stand beside the stool. “Who?”
“Awa’wi’yi. Yi knaw verra well who.”
Callum gave her a blank stare, calling her bluff.
Mary dropped the cloth on the table and shoved her hands on her plump hips, her freckles seeming to darken as her face reddened. “Dinnae think ah didnae knaw yi’ve funn oot she’s noo a fancy opera singer.” She snatched up the cloth and moved to the next table. “Skye Hunter, is who.”
Callum knew better than to pull one over on this small, fiery woman. “Ma, she’s probably forgotten all about us a long time ago.”
“Aye, mibbe. But yi haven’t, though God knaws how hard yi’ve tried. Buried yirself in yir studies, yir work.” She lifted a glass ashtray and wiped beneath. “Ah’ll wager yi’ve already bought yirself tickets tae that Phantom oh the Opera. An let me guess—they’ll be right in the middle a the front row.”