Two Wee Drams of Love, page 12
Helen got to her feet, shook her head hard enough to make her big ears flap, and obediently followed Liam through the house to the screened back porch. The rain had left the woods damp, fragrant, and sparkly with midday sun. Rather than go bounding off through the bushes, all Helen did was squat among the bracken and then commence sniffing a few rocks.
“I resent that Miss Cameron has borrowed my cat,” Liam told the dog. “You don’t appear to miss him.”
Helen glanced his way and went back to her investigations. She was mostly deerhound, with some mastiff thrown in and perhaps a bear or two on the dam side.
Liam was debating whether to have lunch or grade the last of the term’s papers when his phone rang.
Jeannie. He debated letting the call ring through to voice mail, but she’d simply keep calling and texting until he answered.
“She’s here,” Liam said, “and likely asleep by now, and yes, I changed the sheets last night.” From flannel to cotton, a pattern of roses that smelled of the lavender sachets Jeannie stashed in the linen closet.
“Hello to you too, Liam,” Morag said. “Jeannie’s putting the baby down, so I’m using her phone. Did you know she and Harold have been fighting?”
“That doesn’t mean they’re getting a divorce,” Liam said, gently, because Morag was angry in proportion to how badly she hurt, and lately she’d been very angry.
“You’ve not been married for a long time, Liam,” Morag said. “There’s fighting and there’s fighting. Henry doesn’t sleep through the night yet, and nobody fights fair when they’re exhausted. What’s the latest American like?”
The latest American was tall, pretty, and had a weakness for Scottish vowels of the male persuasion. She would like Liam’s back porch, and probably like Helen, too.
“Seems a sensible sort, but then, lawyers often are. Thanks for kitting out the pot shop.”
“If she wants more than the basics, send her to me. We’ll throw mud together. Jeannie says to tell you Miss Cameron has been to art school.”
“Bugger what Jeannie says.” Bugger all of Liam’s interfering relations, rooting about in his life like Helen on the scent of a rabbit. “Just because a woman has taken a class in throwing pots doesn’t mean she’ll fancy a fellow who’s fascinated by brush work in Low Country Renaissance masters.”
Though Miss Cameron—Louise—also liked cats. A fine quality in any woman.
“Jeannie wants to see you happy, Liam.” Morag’s scold was all the more effective for being uncharacteristically gentle.
“For the next two weeks, I’ll burn up a fortune in gas, see all the sights we were dragged to repeatedly as children, and pretend yet another loch is the most beautiful scenery on earth.” Moreover, Liam would be cheerful for those two weeks, because Jeannie had asked this of him. “Enough about my non-holidays. How are you, Morag?”
Liam could do a credible version of the older-cousin inquisition with Morag because he was older, and because she’d been away at university for most of the year following Karen’s death.
“I’m fine.”
Liam could picture the exact “I’m fine” smile Morag wore. Helen growled through such a smile when confronted with a small, male dog intent on taking liberties.
“Jeannie says you’ve lost weight, Morag.”
A pause ensued, during which Morag might have been taking the phone to a more private location—or counting to ten.
“Jeannie is a mother,” Morag said. “Their vision changes when they give birth, so everybody looks in need of a meal or three. I think she’s fallen asleep with the little rotter, Liam.”
Morag was asking a question, as best Morag knew how to ask anything of anybody.
“Don’t let her sleep in the same bed as the baby, but before you kidnap Henry off to his crib, tell me how you’re doing, Morag Colleen Cromarty.”
“I hate you, you know.”
“That well?”
“I’m goddamned lonely, Liam. I’m glad to be free of Dean, but I’m lonely. He was at least somebody to resent, and now…” Her voice dropped. “Jeannie said you went a little crazy when Karen died. I can’t imagine being this lonely and grieving too. How did you stand it?”
Not well. Not well at all.
“Your vision becomes impaired,” he said, as Helen’s pale, plumed tail waved among the bracken like a flag of surrender. “You learn not to see very far behind you or in front of you. You do the next necessary thing, and time and pride eventually pull you up out of the ditch.”
“I’m making the ugliest gnomes you’ve ever seen. Nasty little fellows that ought to bring exorbitant sums.”
They were probably merry, fat, and cute. “Watch the drinking, love.”
“No worries. Can’t throw a decent pot when I’m blutered.”
Then thank God for Morag’s pottery wheel. “Tell Jeannie the American is fine, and I’ll take good care of her.”
“I’ll tell her the American is a right terror, and this will be the longest two weeks of your life.”
“Save me a gnome. Love you, More.”
The line went dead.
Liam was something of a thorn in his family’s side because he told them he loved them. Said the words often and in public, Scottish reticence be damned.
Helen’s head lifted, her gaze turning toward the river. Down on the path along the bank, Miss Cameron went marching by.
“Sit,” Liam said softly. “We have papers to grade, and we’re too old to go chasing after tourists. Besides, she doesn’t kiss men she’s just met.”
And for her scruples, Liam liked her all the more.
* * *
Robert Stiedenbeck, III, had wanted to remain friends with Louise.
“We’re colleagues, too, aren’t we, Lou?” he’d asked as he’d packed for New York. “We’ll keep in touch, and you can read my stuff for me, the same as always. If you want to visit the Big Apple, our couch is always available.”
Our couch. His and his Sweet Young Thing’s.
Louise had watched him go, feeling as much relief as heartache. Robert had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he’d also reminded her of Dr. Allan Hellenbore, professor of studio arts, seduction, and ceramic forgery. Same friendly, self-mocking arrogance, same quick intellect coupled with an instinct for self-interest that boded ill for anybody else’s dreams.
Louise could go for months without thinking of Allan Hellenbore. She’d learn not to think of Robert. Not to be angry at him, not to wonder what in the hell—
The first step toward not thinking about somebody was to not think of them.
“Rise and shine,” Louise muttered to the cat plastered to her side. Dougie lifted his head, stared at her, and stretched to a magnificent length.
“My, what impressive claws you have,” she said, dragging the cat onto her belly. Overhead, the skylight framed a leafy canopy, birds flitted, and morning sunshine poured across it all at a low angle.
While in Louise’s lavender-scented bed, Dougie was a comforting, warm, rumbly weight.
“I’ve been here only a day, and already, I know I won’t want to go back to York,” Louise murmured. “This is not good, Cat. I don’t want to teach drawing to a bunch of giggling children. They’re either texting their weekend hookup, or convinced they’re the next Michelangelo. I’m even more sure I don’t want to go back into the courtroom.”
That prospect loomed like “backup time,” the sentence hanging over a convicted criminal’s head if the conditions of parole weren’t met. A taste of liberty, and then—a speeding ticket, a little too much to drink—wham, back in the hoosegow.
Dougie took to kneading the sheets.
“You are a good kitty. I like you. You must be hungry.” Dougie wasn’t a fat cat. He was simply big, all over big, and hairy. “I’ll miss you when I leave, and how pathetic is that?”
“Hullo, the house!” a man’s voice called.
Dougie sprang from the bed and disappeared into the hallway, tail up, a cat on a mission.
“Gimme a minute!” Louise bellowed back. The clock said 7:45, but perhaps Liam had brought more scones. The leftovers from yesterday were in the fridge, minus the chocolate chippers that had been Louise’s dessert and snack.
Also her dinner. One of her dinners. The other had been a grilled cheese-on-rye sandwich.
She slipped into jeans and a T-shirt, then grabbed a flannel shirt for the sake of modesty and padded after the cat.
The guy standing in her kitchen was not Liam. “Who are you?”
Bonnie Prince Charlie’s grandpa left off munching one of the cinnamon scones Louise had been saving for Liam. He was white-haired, tall, thick-chested, and wore a red plaid kilt along with boots, knee socks, and bright red T-shirt.
“You were fishing yesterday, weren’t you?” Louise asked.
He’d been wearing plaid waders—the better to attract Scottish trout?—and singing something about rantin’ and rovin’. Louise had stuck to the path and quietly passed by, and when she’d returned, he’d been gone.
“I might ask the same question, lass: Who are you? I see you’ve passed muster with ma’ wee friend Dougie.”
Dougie stropped himself against heavy boots, clearly comfortable with the intruder. Louise sensed no threat from the guy, no menace, though the cinnamon scone was rapidly becoming history.
“Did you find the butter?” she asked.
“Aye, thank you, and the coffee’s on. I’m Uncle Donald. Welcome to Dunroamin Cottage. I expect you’re Jeannie’s latest American?” He passed her the box of scones, which held one plain and two raspberry.
Louise had never had an Uncle Donald. Now might be a fine time to acquire one. “If you made coffee, you’re welcome to stay,” she said. “Did you catch anything while you were fishing yesterday?”
“I’m in the river most days, though I seldom call it fishing. What brings you to Scotland?”
A need to see fairy lights at dusk, and find strange old fellows making coffee in the morning? The coffee maker hissed and gurgled, and a heavenly aroma filled the kitchen.
“I wanted to get away,” Louise said, “and I’ve never been here before. Shall we sit?”
Uncle Donald put whole milk on the table and a bowl of white and brown lumps of sugar. Dougie sat before the fridge, switching his plume-y tail, until Uncle Donald took down a quarter-size green ceramic bowl from the cupboard and filled it with milk.
“The beasts train us, poor dumb creatures that we are,” he said, passing Louise the milk and setting out two plates. “You Americans like your orange juice, am I right?”
“Please. Are all Scottish men so well trained?”
“I’m a bachelor,” Uncle Donald said. “One learns to fend for oneself.”
For an instant, blue eyes focused on Louise, not unkindly, but as if the statement had some significance she wasn’t awake enough to figure out.
“Do you drink coffee?” she asked.
“Perish the notion. I drink tea, and whisky, of course.” He produced a flask covered in green and blue plaid. “Shall you have a wee nip?”
Whisky in the fudge and whisky for breakfast. No wonder people loved Scotland. “No, thank you.”
He tipped back the flask, his wee nip not so wee. “I do love a good island single malt. What’s your name, Yank?”
Louise was torn between a sense of privacy invaded, and the novelty of having company for breakfast.
“Louise Cameron, attorney at law, sort of.” She could go a-lawyering again if she had to, couldn’t she?
“Camerons are thick on the ground here, though they haven’t always been popular. Eat, child. Are you and Jeannie off to the city, then? Fine day to see the sights.”
Louise dipped a corner of the raspberry scone in her coffee.
“Liam is taking me into Edinburgh today. We’re supposed to see the portrait gallery, then tool out to Rosslyn Chapel, and finish with a climb up Arthur’s Seat.”
Another not-so-wee nip. “Busy folk, you Americans. Shall you put butter on that?” He nudged the butter dish to Louise’s side of the table.
She nearly said, “Aye,” such was the Scottish gravitational pull of Uncle Donald’s company. “The butter here is good.”
“The food here is good,” he countered. “We don’t go for those android crops you make in your laboratories. Our dairy is mostly organic, as is much of our produce. You must also try the whiskys, though Liam won’t be much help in that regard.”
“You’re his uncle?”
“I’m the Cromarty uncle-at-large, more or less. You mustn’t mind Liam.”
Family was family the world over. Aunt Evangeline had probably said those same words about Louise to half the bachelors in Atlanta. You mustn’t mind Louise. She went to school Up Nawthe.
“What does that mean, I mustn’t mind Liam?” Louise liked Liam, right down to his t’s, and d’s, and the crow’s-feet fanning from his eyes.
“We try to include him,” Uncle Donald said, “but the boy’s not very includable. Hasn’t been since—”
A sharp rap on the door interrupted whatever confidence Uncle Donald had been about to inflict on Louise. Lawyers probably heard more dirty family laundry than therapists did, and she certainly didn’t want to hear Liam Cromarty’s.
She opened the door to find the man himself on her doorstep. The cat shot out between his legs, while Uncle Donald remained at the table, munching the last of Louise’s raspberry scone.
“Uncle, what a surprise.” Liam clearly wasn’t pleased to see Donald, and neither was he surprised.
“Liam, good day to ye. Help yourself to a scone, and the coffee’s hot.”
Liam wore a kilt, another black T-shirt, and a wool jacket. The only resemblance between the two men, though, was size and blue eyes.
“I have an aunt just like Uncle Donald,” Louise said, patting Liam’s chest. “Every bit as presuming, though not half as likable. You might as well have some coffee. I’m not quite ready to leave.”
“Liam doesn’t eat meat,” Uncle Donald observed as he dusted his fingers. “Makes him skinny and cranky, but a day in the city will do the boy good.”
“At least I don’t housebreak uninvited,” Liam remarked, taking up Dougie’s empty green bowl and running it under the tap. “You’ll cost Jeannie her business one of these days, old man. Miss Cameron’s a lawyer. She can sue you for unlawful entry and pilfering her scones.”
Liam sounded more Scottish—“auld mon”—and he looked more Scottish in his kilt and boots. He smelled the same, though. Spicy, woodsy, delightful.
“Save me the last raspberry scone,” Louise said, “and Uncle Donald, it was a pleasure to meet you—mostly.”
With two Cromarty men in the kitchen, the space became significantly smaller. Louise took herself upstairs, grabbed a shower, finished dressing, and came down to find Liam alone, putting the last of the dishes away.
“You can relax,” Louise said. “Uncle Donald hadn’t really warmed up before you got here, and your deep, dark secrets are safe for now.”
Liam draped a red plaid towel just so over the handle to the oven. “You have an aunt like him?”
“She has to let everybody know I graduated first in my law school class, and that business with art school was a funny little idea I picked up from the Yankees, bless their hearts.”
Liam stared at the towel, his hands tucked into his armpits. “And every time she says it, you hurt a bit, but you’ve learned not to show it. I don’t drink spirits.”
Every time Aunt Evangeline dismissed four years of hard work and heartbreak as a silly little phase, Louise died inside. When Aunt Ev started in on that awful man and the silly business about the pots, Louise spent days in hell.
“Sobriety is a fine quality in the man who’ll be driving me all over Scotland, Liam.”
His shoulders relaxed, his hands returned to his sides. “I enjoy a good ale, and I’ve been known to have a glass of wine.”
The topic was sensitive, though, and personal, so Louise changed the subject. “Do we pack lunch, or eat on the run?”
“We’ll eat atop of Arthur’s Seat, unless you have an objection to picnicking?”
Louise had not gone on a picnic for… she couldn’t recall her last picnic. “No objection at all. Let me grab my jacket and purse, and last one to the car is a rotten egg.”
When she joined Liam at the car, he held the door for her, and she climbed in, prepared to enjoy a day that combined art, architecture, exercise, and natural beauty.
Also some company, though who would have thought: Liam Cromarty, that Scottish male monument to relaxed confidence and easy grace, had deep, dark secrets after all.
* * *
Liam enjoyed art—sublime art, ridiculous art, functional art, art that struggled, art that failed, art that did both.
The greatest work of art ever conceived, however, was the human female.
He’d forgotten that.
Louise Cameron first thing in the morning was a different creature entirely from Louise striding around the busy airport terminal, Louise making pronouncements about whom she did and did not kiss, and Louise marching down the river trail.
Louise in the morning was sweet, a little creased around the edges, and intriguing. Liam wanted to kiss her, wanted to bury his hands in long skeins of dark red hair, wanted to sit her on the counter and learn the fit of their bodies.
Which, of course, he would not do. Spring was in the air, and he’d been forced into proximity with a pretty woman—who had artistic inclinations, didn’t censure a man for avoiding spirits, and was punctual.
She came swinging down the cottage staircase at eight twenty a.m., dewy and neat in jeans, trainers, and a purple-and-green tie-dyed T-shirt. Her hair was coiled into a low bun held up by no means Liam could discern, and she appeared to be free of makeup—probably the secret to her punctuality.
“I’ve stashed the last two scones in my sporran,” he said. “We can finish them off on the way to Edinburgh.”
Louise opened the fridge and passed him four eggs.
“Hard-boiled,” she said. “Woman does not live by carbs and fat alone, as tempting as the prospect might be—unless you’re vegan?”
