What Lies Between (8 page)

“Less peaceful than you might imagine. Castles were often built this way, at the edge of the water, for protection. Most had their share of invaders. Scotland didn’t get its reputation for war and conflict without cause.”

Soon we reached the outskirts of Inverness. Ben pulled into a drive behind a house and parked next to a Mercedes passenger van. “We’ll park the truck here and drive the van up to the meeting location, next to the river.”

We transferred our gear and a few minutes later pulled to a stop near the foot of a busy four-lane bridge arching over a wide rush of water.

“Here we are. That’s the River Ness there. If you’re back up here sometime, take a walk through the wee islands in the middle, farther down.” He pointed to his right. “They’re connected to each other and both banks by footbridges and you can take a relaxing stroll through them on a nice day.”

“I’ve never seen a place like this—a castle watching over the city, steeples of old churches lining the river, Highland hills rolling along the horizon. I’m enchanted, I have to admit. I definitely would like to spend more time here.”

“Once you’re comfortable driving, you can visit anytime. The cafés are across the bridge in the city centre. You have thirty minutes to get your coffee.”

“Do you want some?”

“My good old cheap stuff suits me fine.” He lifted the thermos and raised his eyebrow in a gesture of superiority. “Low maintenance.”

“Too bad. High maintenance is much more interesting.” I turned, hiding the sly smile I couldn’t suppress.

“Is it now?” he murmured.

I was sure his eyes followed me as I strutted away. Scotland was more interesting than I’d imagined, and Calum was right—I needed to relax and explore before hitting all the work ahead. Joining this tour couldn’t have been a better decision; I would get to know the area, and it was the distraction I needed from the stress of the past several weeks.

Hurrying back across the bridge, cappuccino and scone in hand, I could see five tourists encircling Ben. The seven of us would be together in a small van for the better part of three days. I had conveniently forgotten that the tour was with a group of strangers. This could either be a nice time full of lovely memories or the kind of nightmare that inspired people to write epic blog posts deriding the experience as the worst thing they’d ever done and swearing off tours forever.

Ben introduced me as his apprentice-in-training. Chiding myself for having too much skepticism and with my freshly caffeinated exuberance kicking in, I extended my hand to each of my fellow passengers in an enthusiastic greeting. The last woman I met clasped my hand in both of hers. She had a meticulous kind of beauty with a perfectly polished and capped smile frozen on her face.

The woman scanned me up and down. Her pale blonde hair, bronzed skin, and expensive clothes hugging perfectly formed curves couldn’t have been more different from my mess of brown waves, a body with not much in the way of curves except for the slope of my nose, and pale skin that didn’t understand a thing about tanning. I had grown to appreciate having girl-next-door looks and a lean physique that served me well in sports, but this woman’s ballsy assessment stopped me short. To make matters worse, I had to look up to meet her eyes, and I was on the tall side.

“My name is Shayne, nice to meet you. Crazy a cheerleader from Texas would be this far from home, but here I am. You said your name was what?”

Her face relaxed with the confidence of a woman who has sized you up and decided you’re not worthy competition, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or offended. Forcing a smile onto my face, I withdrew my hand. “I didn’t say. I’m Ellie. We’d better load up.”

Shayne reminded me of two people I never wanted to see again: my ex-boyfriend’s baby mama, Courtney, and Malika, the resident kleptomaniac in my second foster home.

Allowed to bring a few personal items when I was first taken into foster care, I chose to bring Buddy, the sock monkey my parents had given me the Christmas before they died. Two days after I got there, Buddy disappeared. I was sure Malika had taken him. My foster parents believed her denials and punished me for lying. Her angelic face made people believe the words that came out of her mouth.

Child Services came to move Malika to a new home, and we were all rounded up to say goodbye. Malika held up Buddy in the rearview window, a wicked grin on her beautiful face. I couldn’t look away, caught in her triumphant glare until the car turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Courtney was nearly Shayne’s doppelganger with the airbrushed, perfect beauty and entitled arrogance. Courtney hadn’t been satisfied with just having Matt; she’d ground the loss into me, sending a letter full of intimate details about their affair and making sure it arrived on my birthday. Letters seldom brought good news into my life. I spent my birthday driving to the lake and sat in the car until the sun came up the next day. Then I drove home and kicked Matt out of the house.

“You work with our guide, right?” Shayne shrilled. “Would you get my luggage? Be real careful, now, with my leopard-skin bag. I’m sure it cost more than you can afford to pay if you damage it.”

I sucked in a long breath and let out an equally long groan.

Shayne.

I had a feeling this would be my one-word response to anyone asking how my tour had gone.

5

Even though my brain understood my overreaction to Shayne, I couldn’t help but be annoyed by her snobbish demeanor. And where had Ben’s gallantry gone? He hadn’t offered to pick up her luggage, leaving me to lug it into the van. He was probably basking in her attention. Clearly time to practice my relaxation breaths—I had come on this tour to see the Highlands and didn’t need to get worked up over other people’s behavior.

Then right on cue, Shayne slid her national television-worthy rear end into the front seat, staking her territory next to Ben. The moment threw me back in school in an instant, the strange, quiet girl sitting on the outside looking in at all the cool kids. It wasn’t easy shaking the lousy past out of my system; I never could get it to leave completely. But I refused to let my history get the best of me.

“Hope it’s all right to sit up here with you, Ben,” Shayne purred. “I’m afraid I’ll get carsick if I sit back there.”

“No bother. Suits me fine,” Ben replied.

I bet it did. Shayne’s short skirt and floppy sandals would make for interesting hiking, or maybe not. It looked like Ben wouldn’t mind pitching her over his shoulder firefighter-style and carrying her up and down the hills.

Wanting as far away from the front as I could get, I climbed into the van’s third row; the woman who had introduced herself as Li climbed in beside me. Li said she was a teacher from China who lived in London with her husband and kids and needed a break. She started telling me a story of hectic London life, providing a welcome distraction from my unwanted imaginings about what was going on in the front seat.

Karen and Bill, a couple from Illinois, settled into the second row, and Todd, an Australian who gave a rundown of his Scottish roots, grabbed the spot next to them. Bill announced he would share after Todd, apparently having decided each of us needed to provide a brief bio and declare why we were visiting Scotland. I hated this sort of thing. I’d reached my lifetime limit of circle sharing by age nine. How did I feel? How was it going with my new family? What issues was I burying?

“I sold my company . . . 
we
sold
our
company,” Bill corrected after an intense stare from Karen, “for enough money we can travel the world for, how many years did you figure, Karen, twenty? Nah, I’m joshing. We figured we could go for sixty-two years and three months, isn’t that right, honey? And first class too! Scientists need to determine how to keep us alive that long.”

Bill didn’t wait for Karen to comment; his vigorous laughter and jiggling belly turned the entire van into a giant vibrator chair.

Shayne’s high-pitched laugh, at either Bill or whatever conversation she and Ben were having, carried to the rear. Todd elbowed into their discussion, sticking his head in between them and spreading his arms out in an effort to catch Shayne’s attention by taking up space, with no success. Shayne’s eyes and lashes and body were honed in on Ben.

Groups. Enough said.

Huge beads of rain plopped on the windshield before we had gotten outside the Inverness city limits. In seconds it blanketed our windows, a never-ending carwash. Instead of the Highland scenery, we would only be able to see each other for far too many miles.

“We’re crossing over a sea inlet, the Moray Firth, home of a large school of bottlenose dolphins,” Ben said. “On a clearer day, you could probably spot a few. You won’t be able to see much of the Black Isle on the other side of the bridge either. It’s not what its name implies; it’s not an island, and it’s mostly green. Its name comes from its fertile soil. On a less Scottish day, you’d see the loads of Highland farms in the area.”

The others laughed. I didn’t. I’d inherited the weather along with my new home and didn’t know what it would be like over the course of a year. Hopefully the weather wouldn’t live up to the reputation Calum and Ben gave it.

Not being able to see anything out of the windows left me feeling claustrophobic, made worse by Bill and Todd’s nonstop chatter and Shayne’s annoying laughter at pretty much anything Ben said.

I looked from person to person, studying them, taking apart their features, their sounds, the rise of a brow, curve of a mouth. These people possessed breath and life in the cells of their bodies. They had choices. They had time. They were here, unlike some. My father. My parents. My “almost dad,” Alan. Who was alive and who wasn’t felt unfair and random, and banged up against the bizarrely remote chance that this group, each of us, would end up in this small van on this rainy day attempting to see the sights in a country other than our own . . . and our only view would be of each other.

It started without warning. The laughing, then snorting and sucking in loud inhales like a dying seal. I couldn’t stop even when everyone ceased talking and turned to look at me. The laughter welled up from my belly, deeper even than that, and bent me sideways in the seat—the only direction my body could go in the compact van—and I rolled over onto Li. Couldn’t be helped. I lay nearly in her lap. Our eyes met. Then she started laughing. We leaned on each other, roaring, red-faced, tears streaming, until, miles later, we sobered up.

They stared. We stared back like chimpanzees in the zoo, watching to see what the strange people would do. Only when Ben exited onto a side road and flipped on his microphone did they turn back to the front.

I’m sure a counselor would tell me too much grief had lodged itself inside me and this strange experience was perfectly normal. Normal or strange, I didn’t mind—it was the most free I’d felt in ages.

“We’re headed to our first stop, the Clootie Well. Did everyone remember to bring a piece of cloth with you?” he asked.

Did I? In my rush to get ready I had no idea what had ended up in my pack and sighed with relief to find my cloth safely coiled in the bottom of the largest pocket.

Following Ben’s suggestion to bring a cloth belonging to someone I wanted to say a prayer or a wish for, I’d found an old blue shirt Gerard had left hanging in a closet and cut off its sleeve. Taking one of my white shirts, I cut off its sleeve as well, wound the two sleeves together, and tied them into a circle.

The rain had eased into a fine mist by the time Ben parked the car, and I didn’t bother with my jacket. I brought up the rear of the tour group, not wanting to intrude on the experience of paying guests and not wanting to be anywhere near Shayne. Her attitude irritated me and threatened to dampen my Highland experience if I let it get to me.

The number and variety of items hanging from the mass of tree branches left me agog: full garments and pieces of shirts, jeans, underwear, and socks hung next to strips of gauze, tissues, and sheets. One branch held baby shoes. Another a hiking boot, a sandal. Several trees had Scottish flags wrapped around their trunks. All symbols of a prayer or plea for hope to be acknowledged. The scene was both grotesque and enchanting, and I could see why some would call it mystical—old rotting strips of fabric and objects stained with age and dirt, each one representing a moment of hope, of wishing, of believing.

Many of the items tied to the trees looked unplanned and made me wonder how often people made do with what they had on them. Skeptics who hadn’t bothered to bring anything but were overcome in the moment? Maybe hope proved to be more resilient than I gave it credit for.

Ben instructed us to dip our cloth in the tiny well and tie it to a tree branch. In the old tradition, he explained, the cloth should belong to an ill or wounded person. As the cloth dissolved, the illness or wound would heal.

I decided to go along with this idea, but with my own twist. Perhaps if I left the woven sleeve of my shirt and my father’s, as the earth and air absorbed the material and the microscopic skin cells on our shirt sleeves degenerated into dust, indistinguishable from one another, we might come closer together.

I didn’t know how I expected to feel closer to someone who was gone, but I had learned with the death of my parents and my foster dad that death doesn’t mean a relationship is over. It feels more complicated, if anything.

When my turn came, I dipped my woven cloth circle into the tiny pool of water encased in old stone and then made my way up the slope, seeking a place away from the others. A short way down the far side of the hill, I spotted a white-barked tree with only a couple of cloths hanging from it. The perfect branch hovered out of my reach. I hunted for a rock light enough for me to move and big enough to hold me up.

“Can I lend a hand? Here, let me tie it on . . . or I can lift you up,” Ben offered as he approached.

“No, I need to do it myself.” My voice sounded irritated. I
was
irritated. There were things I couldn’t do myself but hanging a cloth on a tree wasn’t one of them. “I’m sure other people could use your assistance.”