Two Wee Drams of Love, page 17
“How do you make something like that right?” Louise murmured, letting her head rest on Liam’s shoulder. “I was lied to, my work misrepresented, and my future knocked on its ass. I knew I had talent, and yet all I did was go home to my parents, and apply to law school.”
“You’re making it right every time you sit at your wheel,” Liam said. “Atonement can take time.”
He spoke from experience, and his tale wanted telling, so Louise held back the details of her own regrets.
“Before Karen died—I can say those words now, and they only ache, they don’t decimate—before Karen died, when I was racketing about, holding forth on three continents about some damned sculpture or kylix, I was befriended by several of the New York critics.”
That bunch. Most critics lacked the gift of creation, so many of them turned to destruction instead. Boggy ground, indeed.
“This doesn’t end well,” Louise said. If she and Liam had been in bed—Liam slept at the cottage now—she would have climbed on top of him and held on tight.
“It ends,” he said, his arm coming around Louise’s shoulders. “Sometimes, that’s the best we can do. One older fellow chatted me up at every opportunity, always bringing up the latest collections, the latest first shows, the latest articles. I never suspected he was using my half-pickled insights, my off-the-cuff opinions, to recycle into his blog posts. He was clever with words, but his grasp of art sadly wanting, and he was unkind.”
Someone had figuratively stolen Liam’s glazes. Amazing, how angry Louise was on his behalf, while for herself she’d been simply hurt and ashamed.
Amazing too, the comfort she took from Liam’s hand in hers, and his arm around her shoulders.
“You put the bullets into the gun he fired at others’ hopes and creativity, Liam, but he fired the gun, not you.”
“If I’d had any aspirations toward art criticism, that experience put me off them permanently. Some of the damage he did others haunted me for years, though I took what steps I could to make things right. The advantage he took of my carelessness helped me put aside the hard liquor.”
The old couple had walked around nearly the entire battlefield now, their pace measured, though they moved as one unit.
“I want to capture this,” Louise said. “I want that couple, their enduring connection, and the way it blesses even this place. I want a wheel where I can throw the love and the sorrow, both, and finish it with a hundred colors nobody has seen before. I’m not going back into that law office, Liam. I know that now.”
He kissed her cheek, on that bleak, sunny bench, and Liam Cromarty could say volumes with his kisses. I’m proud of you. I’m glad for you. You’ll do it. Your dreams are worthy. You deserve to be happy.
But was he saying I love you?
Louise loved Liam. Loved how with him she could talk about anything or simply be silent with him.
“You never finished your own story, Louise,” he said, tugging her to her feet. “The one about art school, and not standing up for yourself. If you thought law school was a place to lick your wounds, then you were at a sorry pass.”
They wandered along in the same direction as the older couple, who’d apparently made their circuit and gone back into the battlefield museum.
“I didn’t need to feel in law school, Liam. I only needed to think, get enough sleep, and get the assignments done. With my senior art school project, I fell afoul of one or those critics. My adviser claimed any critical notice was good for aspiring artists, so when the great and powerful Stephen Saxe brought his minions on a tour of the campus gallery, the entire senior class was nearly drunk with anxiety.”
In the middle of the battlefield, Liam stopped and put his arms around Louise. He said nothing, so she fortified herself with his affection.
“Saxe went after my showing,” she said, “tore it to shreds, said it was well executed but at best a slavish tribute to the new glazing technique my adviser had debuted the previous weekend at his show downtown. If after four years of study at the knee of a master, all I could do was derivative work, then maybe my degree should be in Teacher’s Pet, not art.”
Louise waited for Liam to say something, to console, to philosophize, to heap scorn on the head of the critic who’d be so cruel to a mere student, or the professor who’d steal credit for her creative accomplishment.
“I knew Saxe,” Liam said, eventually. “I learned to avoid him. I’m so very sorry, Louise.” For a progression of moments, bathed in sunshine and spring breezes, he simply held her while she gathered her courage.
“Hellenbore stole my process,” she said, the first time she’d spoken those words out loud to somebody who might grasp their full import. “He set up his own show, and I’m nearly certain he arranged for Saxe to make that royal progress to a mere student exhibition for the express purpose of wrecking my career before I had a career. I never saw it coming, but that experience taught me to anticipate the ambushes even in the courtroom, and never threaten with a figuratively empty gun.”
Liam knew the art world, was part of it, and should have been one person to whom Louise could confide this story and earn some commiseration.
He dropped his arms, took her hand, and resumed walking. “Guns are dangerous to all in their ambit, Louise. I can see why you’d not enjoy the legal profession.”
The comment was… off. Not the Liam she knew and wanted desperately to love. Scotland’s outlook on guns wasn’t the same as what Louise had grown up with, but Liam wasn’t talking about firearms.
“I never figured out how to bring suit against Hellenbore,” Louise said, “or how to get even with Saxe, but I became good at being a lawyer, up to a point. The law is the law and the rules are the rules, but the rules can go only so far toward solving the problems we create with each other. That drove me crazy.”
“Maybe it drove you un-crazy,” Liam said, passing her a piece of tablet. “You’ve found your art again, or you soon will.”
Louise took a bite and gave Liam back the rest. Next would come the shared bottle of water, or perhaps they’d stop in the museum’s snack shop for soup, bread, and butter.
A few days in a borrowed studio wasn’t finding her art again, though those days had been lovely.
“Did you stop eating meat when Karen died?”
“Aye.”
“Because she was a good cook, and the kitchen smells reminded you of her?”
“You’re very astute. I didn’t figure it out so quickly, but by then I was out of the carnivore habit. Shall I take a picture of you?”
This place had put Liam’s mood off. He was present and he was dodging into shadows, much like the man who’d met her at the airport.
“I want a picture of us, Liam.”
“I’m not very photogenic, how about if I—” He got his phone out of his sporran. “I’ll take you and you take me?”
He was the most photogenic man Louise had ever met, and this prevarication wasn’t like him.
“Not good enough, Cromarty. I know Culloden is a sad place, but I’m happy to be here with you.” Louise flagged down a couple chattering in German and gestured and smiled them into taking a photo of her and Liam against the stone cairn at the center of the battle field.
The image was well composed and well exposed, though Liam’s smile was pained, his eyes bleak.
“Shall I send you a copy?” Louise asked.
Liam peered at the screen of her phone, coming close enough to put a hint of woodland and heather on the morning breeze.
“We’ll do better elsewhere, I think. Are you thirsty?”
“Sure.” Louise swilled from the bottle of Highland Spring, then passed it to Liam when she wanted to throw her arms around him.
Even to tell him she loved him, though this sad morning on a battlefield wasn’t the time or place.
“C’mon,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand and head down to Cairngorms National Park. They have reindeer there, don’t they? We don’t have reindeer in Georgia, and if we did, we’d probably hunt them to extinction.”
* * *
Liam had bought a damned ring yesterday, while Louise had been engrossed in her wheel. An emerald stone, more valuable than diamonds and appropriate for Louise’s fire and sense of purpose. The setting was Celtic gold, and the sentiments…
Louise had put the heart back in him, and Liam didn’t want her to leave, ever.
Though now, the sooner he put her on that plane, the better for them both.
As Louise boiled up a batch of gnocchi, Liam opened the wine and prepared to lie his way through the rest of Louise’s visit.
“Will you throw tonight?” he asked. Louise could work at her wheel for hours, and he had the sense she was only warming up. Five years’ penance for another’s crimes rode her hard, and she’d throw her way free of it.
“Nah. No throwing tonight. Tromping around all day wore me out. If you’ll slice the bread, I’ll set the table.”
At every meal Liam ate with his family, every single meal, somebody had to make a joke about his decision to stop eating meat. Louise hadn’t remarked on it once. When they planned meals, her suggestions were meatless, and she was the next thing to a cheese connoisseur.
They’d toured a distillery in Inverness, and she’d made the most awful face at one of the world’s best-loved Highland single malts.
Of course , Liam had bought her a ring, and fool that he was, returning it would about kill him. He’d been about killed before and didn’t care to repeat the experience.
“Shall I dress the salad?” Louise asked.
“Please, and I’ll pour.”
Louise chose the wines, because Louise chose the cheeses. Main dishes were Liam’s province, and salads and dessert were negotiated.
Though what in God’s name would they talk about now?
Say, Louise, did you know that Saxe’s insults to your work weren’t even original? I sneered and snickered my way past all those lovely vases, those intriguing drinking cups, and the teapot that shed rainbows in all directions, though even I admitted a student’s derivative work was superior to what Hellenbore had displayed a week earlier.
Saxe had left that part out, of course. Liam took a sip of wine, but just a sip. He’d earned this misery, and by God, he’d endure it.
Though not alone. Before conversation could turn awkward or intimate, Uncle Donald came clomping onto the porch.
“I smell dinner,” he said, setting his tackle down outside the front door. “Don’t suppose there’s room for a lonely old man at the table?”
“A shameless man in his prime,” Louise said, joining Liam at the door. “The boots can stay out here, though, and you will wash your hands.”
“I like her,” Donald said, toeing off a pair of green Wellies. “Has a confident air and a nice behind.”
“No dessert for you, auld man,” Louise said over her shoulder. “We’re politically correct at Dunroamin Cottage, if we know what’s good for us.”
For once, Liam was affirmatively glad to see his uncle, who could tell story after story, about everything from the Battle of the Shirts to Mary Queen of Scots, to epic rounds of golf at St. Andrews.
When the meal had been consumed, the coffee and tablet had made the rounds, and Donald had told stories on half the Cromarty clan, he kissed Louise’s cheek and rose.
“I’ll be off then. Shall I feed your puppy, Liam?”
“You have a puppy?” Louise asked.
“He has an old blind dog,” Donald said. “Or half-blind. She’s good company fishing, is Helen.”
“Helen’s getting on,” Liam said, taking his dishes to the sink. “She’s not blind in the least, but she is good company if you’re inclined to stay in one spot for hours.”
“If you like spending time with bears,” Donald said, snitching another piece of tablet. “Louise strikes me as the better bargain.”
Louise rose and shoved the mostly empty wine bottle at him. “Time to go, you. Comparing ladies to dogs is no way to win friends and influence women. Don’t forget your fishing pole.”
Liam loved hearing Louise talk. Bits of Georgia crept in—fishin’ pole, instead of fishing rod, or rod and reel—and her tone was always warm.
“I’ll do the dishes if you want to take your shower,” he said when Donald had gone stomping on his way, singing about the rashes-o, and drinking from the bottle.
I don’t want to be like that . Liam didn’t want to be old and alone, smelling of river mud, swilling leftover wine, and deriving a sense of usefulness by feeding a dog who barely woke up between meals anymore.
“I’m dead on my feet,” Louise said, putting plastic wrap over the salad. “If you’re sure you don’t mind cleaning up, I’ll see you upstairs.”
Reprieve. Another forty-five minutes when Liam wouldn’t have to make conversation, wrestle guilt, and count the minutes until Louise’s departure. He kissed her cheek and patted her bottom.
“Away with you, then, madam. Dougie and I will manage. Don’t wait up for us.”
She hugged him—Louise was unstinting with her affection, something Liam would not have guessed about her when he’d fetched her from the airport.
And then she was gone, leaving Liam with a messy kitchen, and more heartache than one tired, lonely Scot should have to bear.
* * *
By Louise’s last day at the cottage, an invisible elephant in pink Scottish plaid had joined her vacation entourage. The elephant carried around a load of questions nobody was asking anybody.
So, what happens after the plane takes off?
Will you call me?
Will I see you again?
Liam made endlessly tender, quiet love to her, then came at her with ferocious passion. Then it was Louise’s turn to be tender, to memorize the turn of his shoulders, the line of his flanks, the texture of his skin at the small of his back.
She spent hours at the wheel and more hours online doing research—about glazes, collections, art schools, and the past. Hellenbore had retired amid some scandal involving an undergraduate “prone to depression.”
“She should be furious, not depressed,” Louise informed the drinking cup on the wheel. “But if she forced him into retirement, maybe she should be proud.”
The cup spun on the wheel, perfectly symmetric, but plain. No colors, no variations in texture or form to give it life.
“You need to eat,” Liam said from the doorway. He watched her from time to time, but he neither answered questions nor asked them lately. The studio hardly had room for Louise’s heartache, Liam’s quiet presence, and that damned pink elephant.
“I need to finish up,” Louise said, dragging the cutoff wire under her clay. “I’ll be an hour at least cleaning the knives, scrapers, and other tools. You don’t have to help.”
Liam’s brows twitched. As an older man, he’d have bushy brows. That single twitch confirmed that Louise’s elephant was getting restless, putting a sharpness on her words she hadn’t intended.
By this time tomorrow, Louise would have left Scotland, possibly forever.
“I can make dinner,” Liam said. “I notice you haven’t started to pack.”
Whatever the hell that meant.
Louise mashed the clay back into a hard, compact ball. “I’m quick when it comes to throwing my things into a suitcase. If we’re making pizza, we’ll need ingredients. I’ll clean up, you make a grocery run, and we’ll meet in the kitchen.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Liam sauntered over to her, kissed the top of her head, and would have left, except Louise caught his clean hand in her muddy one.
“I’ll miss you, Liam. I’ll miss you terribly.”
Another kiss. “Likewise, Louise Mavis Cameron.”
Then he was gone.
Louise dealt with the tools of her trade—her art—and tidied up the studio until it was as clean and welcoming as she’d found it. She grabbed a shower for good measure and was toweling off when another question joined her already overflowing supply.
How had Liam known her middle name? She’d never told him, not specifically, which middle name went with which Cameron sister, and yet he’d known her middle name was Mavis.
Interesting.
* * *
Words stuck in Liam’s throat all the way to the airport, while beside him, Louise held her peace. A woman who’d been cheated out of her future as an artist by a lot of stupid, arrogant men probably learned to keep her own counsel very well.
“Are you nervous?” Liam asked as they tooled over the Forth Road Bridge.
“I have it on good authority that flying to the States is easier than flying to Europe. What will you do with yourself today, Liam?”
He’d get the cottage ready for Jeannie’s next rental, respond to the emails he’d neglected for the past two weeks, and get on with the business of hating himself for the rest of his life—again.
“I’ll catch up on the housework, mostly.”
They reached the southern bank of the firth, that much closer to the airport.
“Liam, you have a beautiful house. I didn’t poke around inside, though when I took Helen back yesterday, I couldn’t help but admire it. Somebody went to a lot of trouble with that house, a lot of expensive trouble.”
This was a question he could answer. “How do I afford that place on a college professor’s salary?”
“You have art everywhere. Nice art.”
“That’s not only art, that’s inventory, Louise. For years, when I saw something I liked, I bought it. Small things at first, then larger pieces. You’d be surprised what major corporations and even law firms are willing to pay for a bit of the pretty for their offices.”
Louise left off pretending to be fascinated with the traffic around them. “You’re a dealer? That’s why you get phone calls from all over the world and jabber away in French and German?”
“Not quite a dealer,” Liam said. “I don’t sell the pieces I own, I rent them out. When a client wants a different look, I find them something else, from what’s on hand, in storage, or in various galleries that know what I like. It’s rather profitable.”
