To Scotland With Love (5 page)

Even though Deydie was frowning with more vigor than one person ought to be capable of, Cait stepped through the doorway into the overly warm room.

One woman took Cait's sewing machine. Another got a towel and wiped it off. A third made room for Cait at the table. She recognized several of them.

“Go stand by the fire and get warm,” said an older woman with the same gray braids wound around her head from when Cait was young.

“Mrs. Lamont?” Cait said.

“Well, of course it's me. I'm still Gandiegow's teacher. But now that you're grown, you must call me Rhona.”

“Hi, again.” The girl from the shop stepped forward, eager as a puppy. “I'm Amy, remember? I saw you in the store today. I'm from Fairge. I married Coll last spring. He works at the pub. Have you met him yet? Can I get you something to drink?”

Cait wondered if Amy ever stopped for breath. Before she could answer, her grandmother jumped into the fray.

“Caitie's not staying. I'm sure she's got
more important
things to do.”

Bethia, Deydie's oldest friend, cleared her throat in warning. “Of course she's staying. She brought her sewing machine.” Bethia had withered considerably since Cait had seen her last. But when she finished giving Deydie the
what for
by way of a killer glare, she turned to Cait and smiled, transforming herself into a younger woman. “We get together several nights a week here at your gran's. She has updated electric.”

Amy started jabbering again. “My auntie says, ‘The more the merrier.' We always have tons of goodies to eat.”

“There's always room for one more.” Bethia put her arm around Cait. “Ye'll stay. Your gran wouldn't have it any other way.”

Not agreeing or disagreeing, Deydie plopped down at the table and started up her sewing machine.

Amy handed Cait a mug of spiced cider. “Sit by me. I sit near the end.”

“No,” Bethia said firmly. “Caitie will sit next to her gran.”

Deydie made a guttural noise akin to a harpooned fish.

Amy happily pulled a chair to the opposite end of the table. “The other three won't make it tonight.” She picked up Cait's sewing machine and plugged it in. “What did you bring to work on? I'm making a lap quilt for my auntie. It's a Churn Dash.”

Cait didn't know who the
others
were that Amy referred to but pulled her project from her parka anyway. “A potholder.”

Deydie
hah
ed
loudly.

Rhona put her hand out. “May I?”

The potholder made the rounds, each of them having an opinion: “So many small pieces.” “Ah, this is lovely.” “It reminds me of yere mother's fine work.”

Cait had started it for Deydie for Christmas, her first attempt at making a miniature quilt. She'd assumed Deydie would appreciate that it was both pretty and functional. Wrong again.

When the potholder made it to Deydie, she gave it a cursory glance and then set it aside. Rhona shrugged at Cait sympathetically. “Take your place and get started.” Her old teacher patted the chair between her and Deydie as if to say,
I'll be right here beside you
.

Cait threaded her machine, made sure the potholder was lined up correctly, and pressed the pedal. It felt great to be sewing. But she didn't get to do it in peace for long.

“I heard you had a sleepover last night,” Amy said.

Cait choked on her own breath and stopped sewing. Everyone in the room sniggered, except for Deydie.

So they'd heard. Small towns were exactly as the
world imagined. Everyone mucked around in everyone else's business. Even in Scotland.

Deydie muttered. “Only in town ten minutes and the girl's sleepin' around like a—”

Bethia cut her off with a
tsk-tsk
.

Amy piped in cheerfully. “I saw you leave with Graham from the pub. I was helping Coll with the sandwiches. Graham put his hand on your back as you walked outside. Are you two—”

“Heavens, no!” Cait shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I just met him.”

Bethia said, “And yet you stayed the night with him.”

Cait turned off her machine and gave them her full attention. “Listen. I drank too much and fell asleep on his couch.” She turned to her grandmother. “Tell them, Deydie.”

Her gran remained mute for so long that Cait wondered if her tongue had been sewn to the roof of her mouth. Finally, Deydie begrudgingly set them straight. “'Tis true what she says.” She looked as if she'd downed curdled milk. “Caitie was not in his bed, but on the couch, the dog with her. Graham sound asleep on the floor,
the hound that he is
.”

Cow-eyed and gushy, Amy laid her chin in her hand. “Will you be seeing him again?”

Cait huffed, sounding surprisingly like an exasperated Deydie. “Of course I'll see him again. Gandiegow is a small village.”

“What we want to know is—” Rhona struck her teacher's pose. “What are your intentions toward Graham?”

Bethia laid her hand on the table, kind of like a judge bringing down a gavel, soft but firm. “He's a son of Gandiegow. No different than if he were me own. It's our job
to keep a lookout for him. And Duncan and Mattie. That's why Duncan had the MacKinnon name from the start and not Buchanan. To protect him—and now to protect Mattie. 'Twas Graham's mother's surname. We'll not let any harm come to our own.”

Deydie bore down on Cait like a freight train running over an injured dog. “We know ye're a reporter. We'll not be lettin' you hurt Graham. Do you ken?”

As if Cait had dunked her head into hot bubbling stew, heat flooded into her face.
Did they find out about
People
magazine and what's written in my notebook?

Amy's voice was all sunshiny. “Don't take it personally. They warned me, too, when Coll brought me to Gandiegow after we married. I can't even tell my own auntie about Graham. Deydie threatened to beat me with a broom if I breathed a word to anyone. And, of course, if I didn't treat Coll right.”

“And I'd do it, too.” Deydie smiled at Amy.

Something in Cait's heart squished together. Deydie's snaggle-toothed grin. When was the last time she'd seen her grandmother smile? Before Mama got sick? Anger surged up inside Cait. Why in the hell did Amy, a chirpy motormouth, deserve Deydie's affection and Cait didn't?

Maybe she'd been too boneless to stand up to Tom and come for a visit. But leaving Gandiegow hadn't been Cait's fault. Gran needed to get over it—quit blaming her and stop acting like Cait had had any say in the matter.

Unlike now. Now it was her choice to write a piece on Graham. After the article came out, well, then she
would
be blameworthy—the village villain.

The tarlike sticky feeling of guilt coated her insides.
Deydie ought to save up her nastiness for later, when she would actually have good reason to dislike Cait.

“Are you planning on coming to the pageant, Caitie?” Rhona asked, her tone a one-eighty from moments ago. “It's next Wednesday night. The children are so excited.”

The conversational shift threw her off-balance. But not as much as the flashback that came on its heels, hitting hard enough it would've knocked most women from their chairs.

Her last Christmas in Gandiegow, she'd played Mary sitting in the manger with Donald Elliot as Joseph. She'd loved wearing the white cotton panel over her head and the blue robe. But that's when Jesus had been her friend and she'd been honored to be his mother, if only for an hour. Cait shook off the feeling because it wasn't true anymore.

“Caitie?” Rhona said.

“Yes, Mrs. Lamont, I'll be there.”

“I told you to call me Rhona. Makes me feel decrepit when a grown woman calls me ‘Mrs.'”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Thankfully, the conversation turned away from Cait and onto the gossip of the village. Amy gave a blow-by-blow account of everything she'd heard at the store and the pub. The rest of them commented on the comings and goings of Gandiegow. Relieved not to be asked more questions, Cait worked silently on her potholder.

At five minutes to nine, the quilt ladies packed up their projects, their machines, and notions. As Cait did the same, Bethia came to stand by her.

“Leave your machine on the table,” Bethia whispered. “It'll do your gran some good.”

“But—”

“She needs a part of you to stay here. That way she'll know ye'll be coming back.”

Cait had always thought of Bethia as a wise woman and trusted her judgment. What she didn't trust was her gran. She wouldn't put it past Deydie to chuck her very expensive machine in the sea as soon as Cait was gone.

Cait hurried up and slipped into her parka, not wanting to be the last one out, left alone with Granzilla. She said goodbye to them all, including Deydie, who only snorted and rolled her eyes. Cait opened the door, fled the warmth of the cottage, and got the hell out of there.

* * *

Deydie watched her quilting ladies go and shut the door behind them. That all-too-familiar lonely feeling hit her right in the chest. She'd lived alone a long time but had never gotten used to the long nights. Blast Hamish McCracken! He'd taught her to love and then got swallowed up by the sea, leaving her to single-handedly raise their little daughter, hardheaded Nora. But then Nora had left her eighteen years ago, and the loneliness had become unbearable, a constant thorn pricking her heart—morning, noon, and night. Deydie needed her quilting ladies like she needed fresh water. Of course, she'd never let them know that. The minute you admit out loud you need someone, that's when they up and disappear at sea or die of some hellish disease. No, they were better off thinking she didn't need the lot of 'em, not one tiny bit. And she didn't. Not really. Not much. After all, she had her fire to keep her warm.

She shivered and shuffled around the table, righting it for the morning. But stopped.

Caitie, the little devil, had left her fancy sewing machine.

Deydie slowly made her way over to it, planning to set the blasted thing in the corner, or even better, outside in the snow—anywhere out of sight would do. But as she stood over the machine, she noticed that Caitie had left her work. Deydie grabbed the potholder to get a better look.

It was exquisite, the postage-stamp-sized pieces in a Colorwash pattern that took her old breath away. Nora's fine, detailed craftsmanship had been passed down to her daughter. A bud of pride welled up, and try as she might, Deydie couldn't squash it down.

She gently set the little masterpiece back where Caitie had left it and decided not to toss the extravagant machine in the corner after all. She left it on the table.

But she couldn't look at it all night either, so she grabbed a clean dish towel and threw it over the confounded machine. When Deydie crawled into bed, snuggled under the stack of quilts, and switched off the light, the moon shone through the window. Its rays lit up Caitie's covered sewing machine and the strangest thing happened.

Deydie didn't feel quite as lonely as before.

O
n the way home from Deydie's, within a few yards of the pub, Cait heard footsteps running behind her. She whirled around and found Graham, winded.

“Why the hurry?” she asked.

“It's Precious.” Worry lines etched Graham's forehead. “I've got to find Doc.”

Her heart went out to him. “What can I do to help?”

“Come with me,” he said.

They rushed into the pub together and found Doc waiting on his drink. He wore the same square spectacles Cait remembered, but the years had turned his hair shock white.

Graham grabbed Doc by the arm. “Precious is sick,” he said, his Scottish burr thick with panic.

Doc laid a bill on the bar and grabbed his ever-present medical bag from the seat next to him. The three of them were off, the snow crunching under their boots as they rushed back through town and up the bluff.

“She wouldn't eat breakfast,” Graham said. “And I couldn't get her to drink anything all day. She just lies there. No matter how much I coax.”

“This happens with old dogs,” Doc soothed, his voice as comforting as a quilt.

Graham wasn't consoled, though. “What can we do?”

“Let me examine her first,” Doc said.

They hurried into the mansion, Graham and Doc not even stopping to remove their boots. Precious was lying on her big fluffy pillow in the parlor. When she saw Graham, she raised her head slightly and wagged her tail once. Her head dropped back down as if the weight of it were simply too much. The yearning in her eyes said she wanted to get up, but she didn't have the energy.

“See, Doc?” Graham paced back and forth. “She looks all wrong.”

Doc bent down and checked her eyes and belly and listened to her heart. Finally, he rose, laying his hand on Graham's shoulder, not meeting his eyes. A subtle shake of his head brought the angel of death screeching into the room.

“No.” Graham shook his own head as if to counter Doc's prognosis.

“You need to prepare yourself, lad.” Doc's hand fell away.

“No,” Graham said again, quieter this time.

Doc nodded in the way that old men do—patient, tired. He seemed to know enough about Death to know how this dance played out. “I'm sorry, lad. Precious has had a long life. Longer than most dogs.” He pulled a vial from his bag. “Give her a drop every hour for any discomfort.”

Graham didn't say a word, only nodded his head—a man adrift in a life raft, alone and vulnerable. Cait knew what he was going through, and she didn't want to be there. It felt damned uncomfortable.

Death had been her lifelong companion, but that didn't mean they were friends. Friends shared common interests like gossiping over coffee, shopping for shoes, or constructing the perfect quilt. Death was only interested in causing misery, anguish, and isolation. Death gripped anyone hanging around and doled out lasting sadness and pain.

Doc left, and they were alone.

Cait knew what was coming next and she wanted out. But at that moment, Graham took her hand.
No!

“Glad I don't have to do this by myself.”

But wasn't that the point? Death epitomized loneliness.

He squeezed her hand.

Crap.
She had no choice now but to stay.

He let go of her and sat down next to Precious. Those little doggie eyes lit up with complete love and devotion. He unscrewed the lid on the vial and squeezed a drop of liquid into her mouth. “There you go, girl. It'll make you feel better.”

Reluctantly, Cait sat down on the other side of the fluffy pillow to keep vigil with him.

Graham put his hand out, and Precious licked it. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes going soft with an old memory. “She was the size of a softball when I got her. All fur. I'd made up my mind to get a blue merle from the litter, but this sable fur ball kept tugging at my shoelaces, trying to get my attention. I picked her up, and that was it. I was in love. She was such a good girl—cute, funny. Never gave me a minute's trouble.”

“I can tell.” Cait reached out and stroked the dog.

Precious's eyes moved to Cait, then back to her master.

“I couldn't have asked for a better friend,” he said, caressing the dog.

It was silent for a few moments, and Cait couldn't stand it. “You said you took her on location, filming.” She hoped it was the right thing to do, to keep him talking.

“Aye. She went everywhere with me.” Graham smiled. “I even took her to the Oscars. When this obnoxious reporter bent down to pet her, she tried to take a chunk out of him. I gave her extra treats for that one.”

They stayed like that for a long while, making a circle with their bodies around Precious, as she labored to breathe. Graham told more stories, his brogue getting thicker with each one. He got up periodically to put another log on the fire, and every hour he gave Precious another drop from the bottle.

At three thirty
A.M.
, Cait awoke. She reached over and laid a hand on Precious. Her fur was warm, but Cait couldn't feel her diaphragm moving up and down, no more air flowing in and out.

The dog was dead.

Graham leaned over and kissed Precious. “Goodbye, girl.” His voice cracked, and he pulled in a couple of deep breaths.

A familiar smell reached Cait's nose. The smell of Death.

Graham swiped away a tear. Cait handed him a tissue.

For a long time, they sat on the floor next to Precious's body, both of them silent. Both of them tangled in their own thoughts.

Cait had been alone with Mama when she died. Her father was at work, and the nurse had gone to the kitchen. Cait was sitting next to Mama's bed, working on a quilt block for her while she slept. Without warning,
Mama gasped and jerked. She didn't open her eyes; she didn't say goodbye. Death, the bastard, had strolled into the room and snatched Mama right from under Cait's nose.

Cait looked over at Graham. He wasn't shaking Precious's dead body, screaming for help, or looking as if the walls were closing in on him. He appeared at peace.

He patted Cait's shoulder, then rose. From the sofa, he removed the lap-sized Jacob's Ladder quilt and carefully spread it on the floor. He picked up Precious, who'd started to stiffen, held her close, and then laid her body in the center of the quilt. He wrapped her up gently, lifted her, then carefully rose to his feet.

Still in unchartered waters, Cait followed him up the stairs and into his room—a funeral procession. He put Precious on his bed and laid his hand on her once again. Maybe to make sure she was really gone.

“She was a good dog.” His voice was thick and jagged. “I'll take her to Doc when the office opens and have her cremated.” He paused a moment longer over the Jacob's-Ladder-quilt bundle.

Cait leaned against the doorjamb, not knowing what to do now. Go? Stay? Death was a lonely business, but grief was damned awkward. Surely, Graham would want to be alone, lick his wounds in private.

He trapped her with four little words. “I'm glad you're here.”

God, what could she do now?
“Me, too,” she finally answered.

He switched off the light and closed the door. She followed him downstairs to the parlor. For several minutes, he stood over Precious's bed, looking at it as if it were a hollow casket. Once again, she didn't know what to do.
How was she supposed to ease his grief? No one sure as hell had ever done it for her. Out of sheer desperation, she wrapped her arms around him, hoping to console.

They stood for a long time like that, holding each other. Finally, they went to the sofa and stretched out together, lying quietly, not speaking. After a while, they both fell asleep.

Cait woke suddenly with Deydie standing over her with her hands on her hips.

“And here ye are again, Caitie Macleod. Do you not care about yere reputation and yere virtue? Ye're as loose as a kindergartener's front tooth. Why aren't ye in yere own bed? Ye do have one, don't ye?”

Cait nodded.

“Then use it,” Deydie commanded. “Have you seen that damned dog? I've looked everywhere for her.”

Graham gave Cait a sad, knowing look. He got up and went to Deydie, placing his hands on her shoulders. “We've some bad news. You'd better sit down.”

“What are ye yabbering about? If you mean to tell me you've had yere way with my granddaughter and she might be in the family way, I've no need to sit.”

“It's about Precious.” Cait tried not to chew on her lower lip.

Deydie squinted hard at Cait, her mouth riveted shut in an iron frown.

Graham gently squeezed Deydie's shoulders. “Precious passed away in the night.”

Deydie's face contorted as if squished between a young child's hands. She pushed away from Graham. “I don't believe ye. Precious? Precious?” she called out.

He looked helpless. “She's gone. I laid her upstairs on my bed.”

Her gran bustled away and up the stairs. Moments later, Cait heard the initial sob. Deydie hustled down and out the back door.

“I have to go to her.” Cait grabbed her coat.

Graham reached out and clutched her arm. “Your gran wouldn't want it.”

“I don't care.” Cait tore out the door and down the path.

When she caught up with Deydie, she tried to put her hand on her shoulder. “Gran, wait.”

Deydie hurriedly swiped at her eyes before turning to Cait. “Get away from me. I don't need ye. Why don't ye go back to where you belong?”

She might as well have slapped Cait in the face. Her grandmother propelled herself down the path, her large hips bouncing from side to side.

Cait wiped her tears. Gandiegow had promised to be her haven, not her hell. What would she do now?

Graham caught up to Cait. “Your gran didn't mean it. It's the grief talking. Give her time, but not too much. Then go to her, and be with her, whether she wants you to or not.”

* * *

Graham came back from Duncan's house feeling restless and uneasy. Duncan had taken the news of Precious well enough, but something wasn't right. He was off. He seemed so tired these days. Graham knew that raising a boy on his own wasn't easy, but he worried it was something more.

Everyone in Gandiegow helped with Mattie, babysitting while Duncan made a living on his boat, fishing. If only he could find a wife for Duncan. But few women wanted to live in a secluded village on the northeast
coast of Scotland. Mattie's mother had only stayed long enough to drop him off. Graham paced the parlor. He would have to step up his efforts to find Duncan a wife. A fisherman needed help—backup—couldn't be a single da and all alone.

Caitie Macleod came to mind. She loved Gandiegow. She'd shown what a good heart she had by the way she'd handled Precious. Caitie had a nice smile.
An even nicer body
. She smelled like the ocean and spring all at the same time. Being nestled up beside her all night had soothed Graham—she'd been a balm for his grieving soul
.
She had a lot of good attributes and would make a fine wife.

For Duncan
, Graham reminded himself. As soon as he uncovered the secret Caitie was hiding, he would see about bringing them together.

So why couldn't he imagine Caitie with his son, or with anyone else for that matter?

Graham had to put his mind on something else. He grabbed his phone and called his agent.

“Sid, it's Graham.”

He held the phone away from his ear while Sid shouted obscenities— Where had he been? Why hadn't he told him he was disappearing again?

After a minute, Graham interrupted Sid's tirade. “I haven't missed any contractual dates. Do you still want me to do the RSPCA public-service announcement or not?” It would be a nice way to honor Precious's life.

Sid gave him an exasperated “Yes.”

“I'll be in London by tonight. Keep it low-key,” Graham ordered. “No press this time. No stunts.” He hung up.

He was too restless to stay in the house, and it was too early to go to the pub. Unless it was to see Caitie. But she was probably napping after their long night.

Graham decided to go back to Duncan's and put up the Christmas tree with Mattie.
Just Grandda and grandson.
Let Duncan rest; give him a breather.

Graham pulled his collar closer around his neck and stared out at the sea. Yeah, he'd be helping Duncan, but he wasn't kidding himself. Right now, he needed them more than they needed him.