Must Love Scotland (3 page)

Then why make your living at it?

“An ability to plan ahead is an asset. Do you still want to take photos of the flowers in the village?”

“Yes.” She tapped at her cell phone, possibly checking the time in two different zones an ocean part. “No. Let’s keep moving.”

Niall buckled up, vaguely disappointed with her reply, though they’d see lots more flowers. His nearest neighbor, the dratted Declan MacPherson, grew flowers as a form of horticultural revenge.

On what or whom, Niall had yet to fathom.

In any case, Julie Leonard would see other, more impressive flowers in the next two weeks, though Niall nearly told her that rain would wreck the rest of her afternoon’s plans. She struck him as a woman who’d endured a fair amount of disappointment already, so he kept the weather report to himself, and let her figure it out when the first fat drops splatted against the windshield.

One of the booby traps awaiting any litigator was the surprise witness, the credible purveyor of unexpected truth who, without warning, turned the entire case on its head.

Julie hated surprise witnesses, and she hated more that at Niall Cromarty’s prompting, she’d testified against herself.

I came to Scotland because I am ashamed, Niall, and so damned pissed off I couldn’t trust myself in the courtroom any longer.

Shame following a divorce based on adultery was as predictable as it was irrational. Julie’s domestic relations attorney, Jane DeLuca, had assured her of this. People who’d been cheated on felt ashamed. Jane had also suggested Julie get in touch with Jane’s in-laws, and go vacationing in Scotland.

“What are you plotting over there?” Niall asked as they tooled through more green, lovely,
wet,
countryside.

“It wasn’t supposed to rain here today,” Julie said. “I checked before the plane took off, and checked again when I landed.”

“Scottish weather isn’t to be trusted, except to be untrustworthy.”

“Apparently so.” Exactly like a husband.

Niall fumbled around behind the seat—his arms were that long—and produced a bottle of water.

“Probably a good idea to hydrate,” he said.

“Thanks.” Julie took the bottle and unscrewed the microscopic, environmentally responsible cap just as the car hit a pothole. Water splashed over the thighs of her jeans.

“Sorry,” Niall said. “Tissues in the glove box.”

He sounded genuinely contrite, suggesting his survival instincts were in good repair.

“It’s only water.” But a smarter woman would have seen the pothole up ahead. A smarter woman would have held the bottle in front of her, not over her lap. A smarter woman would not have blurted out revelations that proved her to be an embittered fool.

“Will you drink the water, or merely glower at it?” Niall asked.

He was Scottish, in his vowels and consonants, in the inflection that didn’t quite rise as high at the end of the question as an American’s question would.

Julie took a cautious sip and recapped the bottle. The rain went from a gusty shower to a steady downpour, turning the countryside into a blur of green fields, big trees, and grazing livestock.

“Fairy hill there on your right,” Niall said as they passed a sheep pasture. The center of the field was a bump on the landscape, a tree-covered mound where a half-dozen pale sheep and two shaggy red cows had gathered under the foliage.

“What’s a fairy hill?”

“Could be nothing more than an artifact of some glacier, could be a prehistoric burial mound. The farmers tend to leave them in peace, and the animals benefit from the shade. Why do you want to leave the courtroom, Julie?”

Even the surprise witness—especially the surprise witness—was subject to cross- examination.

“I don’t plan to leave the courtroom. I’m a good prosecutor, and I make decent money. A judge works in a courtroom, too, and makes even better money.”

Niall slowed the car as they passed through another flower-bedecked, white-washed, stone-sturdy village. Nobody was on the sidewalks except a fluffy white Scottie dog trotting along in the rain as if he were late for the municipal meeting he was supposed to chair.

The dog knew where he was going, while Julie was abruptly adrift.

“Do you enjoy your work?” Niall asked.

“It’s meaningful.”

She’d said the same thing to her father, as he lay in the bed the hospice people had so kindly set up in the living room for him. He’d scoffed, and told Julie meaning and joy weren’t supposed to be strangers.

“Golf isn’t meaningful,” Niall said, “but it saved my life. The game, not the show that can obscure it. Meaning alone can make a cold bedfellow and a poor drinking companion.”

Amid the fatigue, disorientation, and anger crashing around inside Julie like luggage loose in the backseat of an SUV, she endured the realization that Dad would have understood Niall.

Liked him, even.

Which, perversely, only made Julie more irritable. She checked the road ahead, saw no potholes, and took another swig of Highland Spring.

“Golf is a game,” she said. “How can it save a life?”

“Golf sorts you out. You walk onto the course, thinking you’re fit, rested, familiar with the terrain, and ready to give it your best. The course tells you that you’re resentful, tired, arrogant, and trusting the wrong people. You have to listen to the game, though.”

He said this easily, neither mocking himself nor preaching.

“I want to improve my game, Niall, not resolve family of origin issues.”

He turned the car down a lane that ran between big trees, bracken, and grassy shoulders full of ferns and rhododendrons not yet in bloom.

“Those are some big-ass pine trees,” Julie said, which again conflicted with her image of Scotland as all windswept crags and misty beaches. This was the woods in spring, the canopy a lush green, no landscaped paths or convenient benches disturbing nature’s designs.

“We have redwoods to go with our oaks and maples. The first managed forestry in Europe happened in Scotland, and where we can grow them, we take our trees seriously. Behold, your home away from home.”

A small dwelling sat in the middle of a clearing. Somebody had decked the porch with buckets of blue, yellow, and white pansies, and the trees seemed to lean slightly toward the cottage, as if imparting friendly gossip as they grabbed a spare ray of sunshine.

“More fairies,” Julie said, though she was so tired, and abruptly so dispirited, that what came out of her mouth no longer made sense.

Niall got out of the car, so Julie did likewise, shoving the tightly capped bottle into her shoulder bag. The air was cooler than she’d anticipated and the wet spots on her jeans cooler still.

“In we go,” Niall said, hefting Julie’s suitcase from the backseat. “Place should be unlocked.”

The place
was isolated. Julie could see no other dwelling, no other driveways, no signs of human habitation at all. A squirrel hopped from one branch to another, precipitating a shower of raindrops on the cottage roof.

For all the woods were gloomy, and Julie’s mood gloomier still, the bright pansies, the chattering squirrel, and the fact that nobody had to lock the front door created a sense of welcome.

“Come in out of the rain, Your Honor,” Niall said, moving off amid the boulders and ferns between the car and the porch steps. “We’ll brew you a pot of peppermint tea, scare up some scones, and have you—”

Julie trailed after him, but as if somebody had shoved her hard between the shoulder blades, she stumbled, and would have gone down but for crashing into Niall Cromarty.

His reflexes were such that he caught her, one-armed, and broke her fall against his chest.

“Mind your step, Julie. The wet leaves and muddy ground can be treacherous.”

So could marriage and criminal prosecution.

Julie intended to stand up straight, plaster a clumsy-of-me smile on her face, and march into the cottage, wet jeans, aching head, wrecked schedule and all. Then she’d put down her rage, exhaustion, and even her dignity for just one damned hour.

“Julie? Are you all right?”

Niall’s second arm came around her. Julie gave up trying to muster some self-discipline and surrendered herself to his embrace. She didn’t know him, but he smelled good, he was sturdy, and in two weeks, she’d never see him again.

“I fell asleep, in the Ladies’,” she said, more surprise testimony. “Sitting right there, I fell asleep. If somebody hadn’t banged the door, I’d probably still be napping on the damned throne.”

For some reason, this recitation made her weepy.

“Already tired when you got on the plane, then?” Niall asked. The rain pattered down, but he didn’t seem to mind. His hand on Julie’s neck was warm, his embrace was loose and unpresuming, and the happy little squirrel had shut up.

“Tired for as long as I can remember.” Since Dad had died, more than five years ago, maybe since starting law school.

“Rage is a heavy burden. I’ve carried my share.”

“I ought to move.”

Niall said nothing, but let Julie have his warmth, his physical presence, his patient company in a terrible, horrible, awful, mortifyingly stupid moment. He had the knack of a hug that set down roots right where it was planted and went nowhere, no innuendo, no flirtation, no hints at greater intimacies.

Maybe golf had taught him this too?

“Here you go,” Niall said, passing her a wrinkled hankie. “Let’s get you inside before your suitcase melts.”

He picked up her luggage and preceded her up the porch steps, leaving Julie to follow, dabbing at the raindrops trickling down her cheeks.

Never had a woman been more in need of double rounds for a week straight, and never had Niall wanted less to be on hand for them. Julie Leonard was that most dangerous of ticking bombs, the woman who didn’t realize she was about to explode.

Fortunately, the person who could set matters to rights sat at the cottage’s kitchen table, enjoying a cup of tea.

“Uncle, I hope you left some in the pot,” Niall said. “Our guest has arrived.”

Donald favored the kilt and had as far back as Niall could recall. Today Donald wore the Clan Urquhart modern plaid, which involved dark blues and greens with the occasional dash of red and white. Donald also favored pretty ladies.

“Donald Cromarty,” he said, rising stiffly and taking Julie’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Julie Leonard, Mr. Cromarty. That smells like peppermint tea.”

No lawyer-smile for Donald. The smile Julie turned on the old flirt was the most impish smile Niall had seen from her, also the most tired.

“The peppermint goes well with scones,” Donald said. “Niall, why don’t you take the lady’s suitcase up to the bedroom, and I’ll fix her a nice hot cuppa? Has Niall decided which course you’ll tackle first?”

Niall set the suitcase down. “I could do with a spot of tea myself. Did you have time to look in on Helen, Uncle?”

“We passed the time of day in Liam’s backyard.”

Proving Donald’s back was in sufficiently good form that he could march around the neighborhood, braving slick terrain on the trails by the river, Liam’s porch steps, and other hazards, but he’d been unable to fetch Julie Leonard from Edinburgh.

“I can take my luggage upstairs,” Julie said. “I need to change my clothes before I do anything else.”

Niall snatched up the damned suitcase. “I’ll show you up.”

Donald sat back down, his display of creaking, wincing, and sighing going to waste as Julie left the kitchen ahead of Niall.

“Pour me a cup, Uncle,” Niall said. “Because we’re about to have a wee chat.”

Julie was halfway up the stairs. She caught her toe on one riser but steadied herself on the railing. Maybe she was a naturally clumsy woman, maybe she was that tired.

Donald might suggest the fairies were plaguing her.

“This is lovely,” she said, when they arrived at a bedroom that was mostly windows and skylights. A king-size bed dominated the room, a red and green wool tartan serving as a bedspread, with red and green throw pillows arranged in a heap at the foot of the bed.

“Jeannie takes the comfort of our guests seriously,” Niall said, setting the suitcase on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. “The windows open, as does the skylight, and the office across the hall has all the internet access you’ll need, as well as maps of the walking trails in the neighborhood. Jeannie’s number is listed by the phone, as is Donald’s. His house is a few hundred yards to the south, and—”

Julie shrugged out of her blazer and dropped to the bed. “I’ve given up on today’s schedule, Niall. You can relax.”

No, he could not. Not until he’d scolded Donald into resuming the duties of a golf instructor for the next two weeks. Jeannie depended on the money the guests brought in, and one scathing review loose on the internet could queer the entire business.

“The courses will wait for you,” he said, taking her blazer and hanging it in the closet. “You can’t play at your best when you’re exhausted, and you’re more likely to end up with an injury.”

She stared straight ahead, as if trying to fathom a great mystery or fall asleep with her eyes open.

“Julie, get your shoes off and get under the covers.”

“I don’t normally let guys handle my stuff, Niall.”

“I’m tidy by nature, and I suspect you are too.” He fished in her black bag, which presumption she bore with an expression of mild curiosity.

“You’ll want to keep this on hand,” Niall said, putting the water bottle on the nightstand. “Aspirin is in the medicine cabinet. We have stronger over-the-counter headache remedies than you do, so use them carefully.”

“Right. You can go now,” Julie said, “and have whatever argument you need to have with Donald. He seems nice, and he looks like he walked right out of a commercial for shortbread.”

She wasn’t too tired to pick up on familial tensions, apparently, though Donald had actually modeled for a whisky advert. Niall knelt before her and slipped her loafers off her feet, because she needed to nap, and Niall needed to be about killing his uncle.

“Donald is a scheming old man,” Niall said, offering the polite version of his sentiments, “and he benefits from a regular thrashing, but he knows a lot about golf.”