To Scotland With Love (6 page)

T
wo hours later, Cait stomped back to the pub.
Things just keep getting better and better.
The meeting with Mr. Sinclair about her cottage hadn't gone as expected. Sure, demolition could take place right away, but most of the rebuilding wouldn't start until spring. Something about concrete not setting up when it's cold, wood and stone orders, and the difficulty of bringing in day laborers from Fairge and Lios this time of year.
Christmas!
Cait wanted to scream it into oblivion. Instead, she marched up the pub stairs and slammed the door.

Where was Graham when she needed him? If he were here, she'd at least have somebody to talk to, a friend who'd listen while she griped, and a shoulder to lean on. And he could lean on hers, too.

She paced about, her emotions bouncing around like racquetballs, battering her insides. Each new thought of Graham caused another jolt. She needed sleep. Instead, she yanked her notebook from underneath the mattress, but found she'd filled it up. She dug out a new one.

Cait wrote down everything that had happened with Graham and Precious and Deydie. Cait was one of those
journalists who had to put pen to paper before putting fingers to keyboard.

Her article about Graham had grown into a novella. She flipped through the pages, cringing, feeling awful about betraying him. But writing this story was her salvation, her way back to real journalism and her way out of her dead-end job of freelance editing. Wasn't it more important that she recover her identity, her
self,
than for some bigwig actor to hide out? Yes. She'd submit the story to
People
magazine as promised, and then she'd be able to write her own ticket. Maybe get a regular feature in one of the big magazines.

She lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, the whole room accusing her of being a traitor and a weasel. The more she got to know Graham, the harder it became to separate her personal feelings for him from the business of selling his story. She rolled over and began sifting through her notes of what she'd learned about him so far.

She had a hard time reconciling the Graham she'd discovered here in Gandiegow with the one she'd seen on the big screen. He'd always stayed at arm's length from the media, not a real person but a superstar living a charmed, glamorous life surrounded by a bevy of beauties—usually one on each arm and a few following behind. Here he was an everyday guy who loved his dog, cared for his neighbors, and hurt just like the rest of the world. Just like her.

Damn.
It wasn't as if she were one of those slimeballs who'd chased Princess Diana to her death. She'd just be letting the world in on where he hides out. Cait rammed the pages under her mattress and grabbed her coat. She
had to get out of here and regain her journalistic perspective, take a walk and clear her head.

The late-afternoon wind barely registered as she tramped along, not getting perspective at all, but worrying about Graham's grief. She found herself walking down the boardwalk, past the businesses, toward his home on the bluff. But outside Deydie's house, her feet stopped.

No windows stood open this time, but there was a light on inside. Cait recalled Graham's advice not to let Deydie be alone for too long. She looked out to the horizon for guidance.

It seemed more enticing to dunk herself in the wintery cold sea than to deal with her frosty grandmother right now.

She kicked a clump of snow. Graham was right. Deydie needed Cait whether the old woman knew it or not.

Cait knocked and waited, hearing slow shuffling steps on the other side of the door. When Deydie opened it, her gran had a crisp clean apron wrapped around her wide body, an irritated glower on her face, and a gleaming butcher knife in her hand.

Cait had seen this movie. It didn't bode well for her, but she pressed her luck anyway. “Let me in. I'm not selling vacuum cleaners or encyclopedias.”

Her gran rolled her eyes and stood back, making room for Cait.

The first thing Cait noticed was a green-and-gold Christmas dish towel draped over her own sewing machine. For a moment, she felt her insides went marshmallowy, thinking her normally prickly gran had laid the towel there to protect her prized possession. When she turned
to thank her gran, the frown inhabiting every nook and cranny of Deydie's wrinkled face convinced Cait that first thoughts were deceiving.

Her grandmother laid down the knife and put her hands on her hips. “Are ye here to help or not?”

Silence ensued. Cait had no idea what Deydie wanted help with—doing away with one of the neighbors? Gingerly, Cait asked, “Are you feeling better this evening?”

Deydie's jowls folded together, making a menacing grimace. “I don't know what ye're talking about.”

“This morning. Precious—”

Deydie grabbed the knife again and jabbed it into the butcher block. “Either help with the supper or go back to the pub.”

“Help,” Cait said. “I'm here to help.” She took her place at the table.

“Good. The chicken's not going to cut itself up.” Deydie plopped a metal pan in front of Cait, a scrawny raw chicken lying inside.

Cait hadn't touched a whole chicken since she'd last been in Scotland. Boneless, skinless breasts, perfectly carved and wrapped in plastic, had been the closest she'd gotten to poultry in close to two decades. She peeked at the bird in the pan. This one looked freshly dead, with a couple of feather shoots poking off the wings, the last remnants of life.

Cait stalled, going to the sink, desperately hoping to find a way to tell Deydie she didn't know her way around a chicken. She'd have to be delicate about it or risk losing a wing herself.

“Hurry up. We need to eat before we go. The cookie exchange starts at seven.”

“Cookie exchange?” Cait asked.

“Aye. My quilting ladies have one every year at Christmastime.” Deydie went to the refrigerator and dug around.

“But I wasn't invited.”

Deydie came out with a dozen leeks and a sack of onions, looking chagrined. “You were. I must've forgotten to tell ye. It's at the twins' house this year. Before you go arguing that ye have no cookies to bring, I've made yeres.” She straightened up her hunched shoulders. “No more talking. If that chicken isn't in the pot in the next five minutes, ye'll have to go on an empty stomach.” Her gran's frown shifted upward for an instant, almost into a furtive smile.

Cait washed her hands and dried them. “About the chicken,” she hesitated. “I don't exactly remember how, uh, to dismember one.”

With Deydie's half smile gone, her frown reached new heights of scary. “Do ye not have birds in America?”

“Our chicken is prepackaged at the grocery store. Already cut up.”

Gracefully, Deydie grabbed the chicken by the back leg. In one smooth motion, she reached for the butcher knife, pulled it from the block, and sliced where the thigh met the body. With a snap, she cracked the thigh bone out of the socket and cut it off the carcass. With another precise placement of the blade, the thigh and leg fell away like friends who'd parted forever. She did the same with the other leg and went to work on the rest of the bird. Part butcher and part Iron Chef, Deydie had that chicken begging for mercy and in the pot within minutes.

Her gran looked up at her. “Chop the vegetables. Surely, they don't have those prepackaged, now, do they?”

No way would Cait admit to buying precut vegetables back in the States. She picked up the paring knife and
grabbed the leeks off the counter, settling herself at the table, near her gran. But not too near.

They both filled the cast-iron pot with their fare and then sat by the fire while it cooked. Cait wanted to ask her grandmother what she'd done today, how she'd passed the time, but knew it wouldn't do any good. They sat for a long time with the only conversation between them bubbling in the cooking pot.

There was a knock at the door. Cait got up and answered it, expecting one of the quilting ladies. It was Graham.

He gave her a sad sort of smile. “Hallo,” he said.

Deydie shouted from her rocking chair, “I'm not heating the entire coast, Graham. Get yere arse in here.”

Cait waited for him to obey before asking, “How are you doing?”

He only nodded, as if the jury were still out on that one. He turned to Deydie. “I came to tell you I'm off to London for a few days. Can you watch things at the house?”

“Of course. I always do,” Deydie barked. She pushed out of her chair and shuffled to the refrigerator, retrieving one of the baker's boxes from the top. She gave it to Graham. “Some Christmas shortbread for the trip.”

“Thanks. I do love your shortbread.” Graham gave her a peck on the cheek.

She batted him away. “Off with ye.”

Cait couldn't believe the things Graham got away with. Deydie would've taken the butcher knife after her if she'd tried to give her a kiss.

As Deydie made her way back to her rocking chair, Graham and Cait had a scrap of privacy.

“Did you stay busy today?” she asked.

“I put up Duncan's tree. Then, Mattie and I went to the store and bought candy canes.” Instead of Graham looking like he'd had some early Christmas cheer, he seemed bone weary. He might as well have been grave digging all day.

She wanted to reach out and take his hand but couldn't with Deydie only a few feet away. “Will you stay for dinner? I'm sure there's plenty, and Deydie won't mind.”

“Can't. The helicopter's on its way. I've already said goodbye to Duncan and Mattie.” Graham directed his next comment to Deydie. “Can you check in on Duncan while I'm gone?”

Cait piped in first. “I can do it.”

Deydie growled at her. “Do ye believe me not capable?”

Cait cowed. “What I mean is that I'll help. You do so much already.” Why did her gran always think the worst of her?

“I really appreciate it.” Graham surprised Cait by taking her hand and squeezing it. He gave her a killer smile, looking as genuine as the Rolex on his wrist.

A rush of gooey warmth flooded her, melting her, and she wouldn't have been surprised if she'd dissolved into a squidgy puddle on Deydie's clean floor. Cait had the urge to recite poetry. Cuddle by a romantic fire. Walk hand in hand forever.

Ridiculous drivel.
Those thoughts were completely nonsensical. She didn't trust men. Didn't believe that the whole lot of them could be depended upon for anything. Especially to be loyal and faithful. It was stupid to get
caught up in Graham's spell. He didn't mean anything by squeezing her hand or
GQ
-smiling at her, except maybe a little gratitude for her offer of help. She couldn't afford to be dumb enough to put her heart in danger again, chance getting it sliced up into pieces, just like Deydie's scrawny chicken.

Cait dislodged her hand from his. “Don't mention it.”

He ran his hand through his hair, hesitated for a moment, then slipped a key into her hand. “It's to my house,” he murmured. “The electric at the pub is atrocious. You probably have a laptop or cell phone that needs charging. Come and go as you please.”

She frowned at him. Did he always go around giving his key to someone he just met? She could be with the paparazzi for all he knew, could take advantage of this situation.

She peered at the floor, the thought hitting her like a story hitting the presses. Two days alone at his mansion. At liberty to ransack his place, dig up all sorts of dirt.

Excitement pumped through her veins. She could investigate the things readers really wanted to know—skeletons in the closet, hinky old tax returns, and of course, the answer to the age-old question:
Boxers or briefs?

He tipped her chin up and looked her straight in the eye. “Stay there. The pub is loud and cold. The alarm code for the house is seven one one. No one here would ever try to break in, but I worry about the press finding me.” He did it again, that troubled expression crossing his face. “It's the least I can do for you. For all you've done for me and Precious and for offering to help my family.” It sounded more like,
I'd better not regret trusting you.

Guilt washed over her, but she tried to keep it from
engulfing her face. She took the key. The way he stared at her lips made her wonder if, or worry that, he might kiss her there and then. But he snapped out of it quick enough when Deydie unceremoniously cleared her throat.

“I'll be off.” He turned and was gone.

When Cait returned to her rocking chair, Deydie was eyeing her like an ace detective. “What was all that? My ears might be old, but I'm not deaf.”

“It was nothing.” But it was. Cait would stay at Graham's. She'd get her story, guilt be damned. After a time, the townsfolk would forgive her for exposing their favorite son to the world. They'd see that one little story wouldn't change anything. It'd be a big deal for all of two days; then Gandiegow would be back to normal.

Wouldn't it?

* * *

Holding the box of shortbread close to him, Graham walked toward the beach as the helicopter drew nearer. He almost hadn't given Caitie his house key, feeling a twinge of guilt about the surveillance cameras he had up and running. But he had to know. He'd find out once and for all if he could trust Caitie Macleod.

Trust was key. If he could trust her, everything would fall into place. Caitie would make a good wife—for
Duncan,
of course.

The helicopter blades beat the wind into a fury, the latest snow flying all around him. He did know one thing for sure about Caitie. Most people didn't see
him
for
him
. His fans saw him only as a cutout from a movie poster. The London and Hollywood crowds saw his fame and fortune. Gandiegow saw him as their favorite son.

But not Caitie.

Caitie saw
him
.