Chapter Seventeen
No matter what you write about, you’re writing about food. It’s what brings us together, and sometimes separates us, but we’ve all got to eat.
—David Lebowitz
After a filling Scottish breakfast of eggs, bacon, and assorted scones, we set out in Vera’s car again. As we drove, the scenery grew only more fantastic, with sweeping green vistas and, off in the distance, mountains peeking out of clouds of mist. The land was largely empty except for sheep and the occasional tour bus pulled off the road to allow its occupants to stretch their legs and take photos.
“Sounds like you have a busy day ahead,” I said to Vera.
She grimaced, glancing at me. “An understatement. If you don’t mind, I’m going to leave the three of you to explore the site on your own. I really need to walk the land with Gavin and the others to make sure we get the photos we promised.”
“That’s fine,” I said, looking over my shoulder at the others, who also chimed in with their agreement.
“We weren’t expecting a full-time tour guide,” Helen added. “It’s amazing enough to have you escorting us to your favorite places. What should we expect to see?”
Vera flashed a tight smile. “The most amazing views ever. Plus you’ll learn about the sorrowful history of the glen. Don’t skip the short movie in the visitor’s center—they did a wonderful job capturing the historical background. You’ll see in living technicolor the heart of the conflict that gave me the idea for our book.”
“Looking forward to this,” Helen said from the back seat.
Vera added, “If you’re still looking for souvenirs, you will enjoy the gift shop very much, though it’s not inexpensive. They carry tartan scarves and other clothing and local jewelry—things like that. And of course, the shop is loaded with requisite Harry Potter and Outlander gifts.” She let out a sigh that sounded exasperated. “You’ll probably recognize the scenery from the opening credits of Outlander. And if you’ve seen Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, you might recognize the backdrop for Hagrid’s Hut. This is the kind of thing that irks me about tourists today. We will be visiting the site of a horrific massacre, and yet people are skipping over the historic displays and browsing for souvenirs based on fiction.”
Which sounded a bit harsh, considering that while Miss Gloria was definitely searching for Outlander and Harry Potter keepsakes, she would also be tuned into the tragedy of the area. But Vera was under a lot of pressure, so I realized it would be best to keep my mouth zipped.
We chatted a little more about the ecology of the glen, and then I checked my visor mirror to see what the occupants of the backseat were doing. Miss Gloria had dropped off to sleep, and Helen was quiet, listening to something through her earbuds. I took this chance to ask the question I had tried last night without results.
What I wanted to say was “Why in the world are you working with these people, when the tension is thick as frozen Irish butter between all of you?” I tried to frame it more gently.
“How did your thin places project get started? And what are you calling it?” I asked Vera.
She let out another big sigh, glanced over at me, her green eyes wide. “Interesting that you should bring up the title, because that summarizes exactly the problems we are having.” She fell silent for a few minutes, then said, “Maybe five or so years ago, William and I went on a road trip and visited some of the same places we are taking you to. At many of them, I felt a physical jolt, a sense of something luminous that words could not describe. We were traveling in the off season, when there weren’t a lot of other tourists to distract us. And I believe that relative emptiness of the landscapes helped me realize what was under the surface. I literally felt as though I was communicating with or almost stepping into a different space and time.”
She stopped speaking, as though remembering that trip and what it had triggered.
“I’d never heard of thin places before coming here,” I said. “But I believe that Miss Gloria feels these things while she’s leading tours at the cemetery. And my friend Lorenzo has mentioned something like this too. I think he experiences life the way you’re describing. He talks about Key West having a special energy, and the current of energy running around the perimeter. He thinks our island is being ruined, overrun by tourists and the money-hungry politicians and businesspeople who want to take advantage of it.”
Vera looked sad. “This is a problem. People crave the experience of beautiful, spiritual places, but that very experience can be destroyed by mobs of visitors.” She tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel with her fingers. “When we returned home from that trip, I began to write about what I’d seen—but more importantly, felt. This might sound a little wacky, but it was almost as if something spiritual had filled my mind and heart and taken the lead. I had also taken masses of photographs. In some of them—though I didn’t even see this at the time—you could hardly tell where sky ended and land or sea began. And slowly the idea for the book emerged: thin places, where the veil between heaven and earth is lifted.”
“It sounds like the original idea you envisioned has gotten a bit distorted as it’s developed?”
“Yup,” Vera said glumly. “It was a bit of a Hobson’s choice because I knew I couldn’t pull it off alone. Who would believe an American claiming to be an expert in Scottish history? It certainly wouldn’t sell in Scotland.”
I clucked sympathetically.
“One day while having tea with Ainsley,” she continued, “I wondered aloud whether and how it would be possible to help visitors connect with the thin places in this country. She loved the concept right away and said she knew an editor at a press that might be interested. This editor, whom you will meet tonight, was excited about the idea, with some caveats. As I’d predicted, he was not thrilled with me being a transplant from America. And he wanted gorgeous photographs, sexier than any I had taken. Or had the skill to take. I have a pretty good eye, but I’m certainly no professional photographer. Ainsley was happy to work with me on the project.”
“What exactly is her role?” I asked.
“She’s the business manager, my sounding board, my first reader—she’s good at all of that. And she has a beautiful sense of design.” She made a face. “And for better or worse, she brought in the other talent. Of course, I knew Glenda and Gavin from college days, but I wouldn’t necessarily have chosen them as collaborators.” Another grimace.
I wanted to know more about these relationships, but I’d ask her all in good time. “What did you end up calling the book?”
“I never had a perfectly satisfying title, but I was thinking something in the realm of Tearing the Veil: Rediscovering the Thin Places of Scotland. Or should it be ‘piercing the veil’? Or maybe Thin Places: A Walk in Two Worlds. Anyway, that’s how I pitched it generally.”
“What did the publisher ultimately choose?”
Her lips tightened. “They chose Gavin’s working title. Bloody Blades: Crossing the Thresholds of History.”
“Ugh. That’s hideous, nothing like your versions, which were all lovely. Tell me more about how everyone got involved.”
“Ainsley got very excited and suggested Glenda might be interested in investing. Next thing I knew, Glenda called me and said her husband would be thrilled to participate. I knew him a bit from university days. He was a brilliant lecturer and had published before, and he had the kind of name that could raise the project into another league. Unfortunately, the further we got into researching and writing, the clearer it became that our visions were not aligned.”
“There’s no way to compromise or split the project up?” I asked. From my experience with my first boss at Key Zest magazine, I knew something about trying to work with someone you weren’t getting along with. Especially if the other person held most of the cards. That relationship had ended poorly.
“It’s a little late now to adjust. Absolutely everything is due on Martin’s desk at the end of next week. My fear i
s that Gavin has won the publisher over and that they will market this like a video game, which is absolutely anathema to experiencing the spiritual nature of these natural treasures.”
I thought she might cry.
“Honestly, this trip is an attempt to resuscitate my original vision. Especially here in Glencoe, but also Tobermory and Iona. I’m hoping their beauty and spirit will be powerful enough to pull Gavin into their orbit. Because I don’t think I can persuade him alone. He’s very stubborn and very much fixed on his expanded-reality idea. And where he goes, Glenda follows. With her family money. And I’m beginning to think Ainsley follows too.”
She bumped off the road into a parking lot nestled in a stand of trees set back against the mountains. Murmuring noises of people waking up came from the back seat.
“Are we there yet?” Miss Gloria asked, and then giggled, fluffing her tousled hair with her fingers. Helen stretched and retrieved a small brush from her purse. She ran it through her hair so her bob fell perfectly into place. We got out of the car and walked toward the welcome center. Up ahead, Gavin, Glenda, and Ainsley waited in front of the wood, stone, and glass visitors’ center.
“This is lovely,” Helen said, pausing to absorb the building, which looked like a big tree house set against the mountains in the background.
“Everything was designed to reflect the setting, and every inch made ecologically cognizant,” Gavin said. “I was gobsmacked when I first visited. It used to be a cramped little shack that did nothing to enhance the experience.”
“What’s up next?” Miss Gloria asked, and I saw Vera wince.
“As I was telling Hayley, I need to do some work with the others for an hour and a half or so. That will give you time to visit the center and walk some of the nature trails, and then we can meet up for tea. Is that okay?”
“Right-o,” said Miss Gloria, with a wide grin. “Tea is always welcome. Until then, we’ll be absolutely fine.”
I took her arm and we headed for the building, Helen right behind. Inside the vestibule, I stopped to admire the dappled light let in by the soaring ceiling and floor-to-ceiling windows. High above the welcome desk a motto had been painted: “Living on the Edge.” Which perfectly described this perch on the edge of the mountains, as well as Vera’s powerful urge to go deeper into her adopted country.
“We should start with the movie,” Helen suggested. “Then maybe hike one of the nature trails? And certainly take a spin through the gift shop, and after that a scone and a cup of tea for your article, Hayley?” She sounded all jolly and seemed to have forgiven me for leaving her behind yesterday.
We sat through the short film, which was an overview of the ecology of the glen and then the history of the clans in the late 1600s. Having watched all of the seasons of Outlander, I thought I would have been better prepared for the battles. The creators of the film had done a good job of explaining the falling dominos that had led to the Glencoe massacre. But they hadn’t sugarcoated the violence. In a nutshell, the MacDonald clan chief had been slow to swear his allegiance to King William of Scotland and England. In retaliation, soldiers who’d been billeted to the homes of these Highlanders were instructed to murder many of the men and boys. Women and children fled to the mountains and froze to death in blizzard conditions.
“Excruciating to watch,” I said once the lights came on and we were filing out of the little auditorium. “I don’t know what is wrong with people.”
“I suppose the fights in the western world happen more on social media than on battlefields these days,” said Helen. “Equally vicious, but not as physical.”
Back in the lobby, I spotted a large section of books in the gift store, and they were calling to me. “Do you mind if we take a quick peek in here and then go on our walk?” I suggested.
“Fine,” Miss Gloria said.
“I’ll wait outside on the bench,” said Helen. “I could use fifteen minutes of sun on my face. It’s not so easy to get vitamin D in Scotland.”
“We’ll see you there,” I said.
Inside the shop, I was drawn immediately to Outlander Kitchen: The Official Outlander Companion Cookbook, with a woman holding a basket of bite-sized chocolate and strawberry tarts on the cover. I leafed through pages of gorgeous photos, snippets of text from the Outlander books, and drool-worthy recipes.
I was torn. I loved the photos and the connection to Scotland and the TV show we enjoyed, but as I lived on a houseboat, stark choices had to be made. I did not own shelves and shelves and shelves for cookbooks in my new kitchen; I had one small ledge. If I brought a new cookbook in, something had to go out. I turned the page and found Fiona’s cinnamon scones—a layered pastry laced with cinnamon and topped with a drizzle of white icing. My stomach growled. Though I had gone to visit the Booth sisters looking for clues to Joseph’s death, I’d left their home with a serious craving for scone recipes.
I made a decision to buy the cookbook, based on the cinnamon scones and a recipe for a fish pie, crammed with fish and scallops and shrimp in a white sauce and topped with cheesy mashed potatoes, that made my mouth water. I thought this fish pie would translate well to my Key West kitchen. Key West pink shrimp and either yellowtail or grouper fish would be amazing in this presentation. Even my newish boss, Palamina, who stayed thin as pipe cleaner because she held back from eating anything too delicious, would be tempted.
And there were several recipes that I thought my mother would love for her catering business, including an onion tart that could be cut into bite-sized pieces and the tiny chocolate pies in a flaky crust I’d seen on the cover. In the end, I overcame the thought of Nathan’s eye-rolling when he discovered that I had slipped the books into his luggage, and bought two copies, one for me and one for her. I fitted the books into my backpack and went outside to look for the others. Helen was waiting for me on the deck in back of the building, but there was no sign of Miss Gloria.
“Is she coming?” Helen asked, looking behind me and adding a laugh. “I’ve never seen anyone so excited about choosing the right gifts for her friends. She is such a treasure. I hope I have half of her energy when I get to her age.”
“I lost track of her,” I said, peering around the deck and getting an uneasy feeling. I was the one who’d been fooling around in the gift shop, not Miss Gloria. I hadn’t noticed her in there at all. I tried to think where she would’ve gone. “Maybe she started off on the nature trail on her own? Or maybe she saw Vera and went with her? Or probably she made a stop in the restroom.”
“I’ll wait here so we don’t lose each other,” said Helen.
I checked the ladies’ room, calling for her in case she was in one of the stalls, and then the gift shop again as I knew Miss G was excited about bringing presents home.
But the slight uneasiness I’d noticed was developing into a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My friend had been quiet all morning, never so quiet as during and after the little film that described the massacre of the MacDonald clan. I should have stuck closer to her, not spent so much time perusing recipes. I should have noticed signs that she might be troubled.
“She’s probably gone looking for the ruins of the cottage,” I said. “And that worries me because she takes these emotional things so hard.”
We studied the map describing the various nature trails, and took a narrow path carpeted in grass in the direction of the ruins, where the farmers of the MacDonald clan had lived in the late 1600s. As we drew closer, we saw piles of stones covered in moss and lichens that would have been the foundations of their cottages.
My heart rate began to rise as I heard a terrible moaning noise. In the distance near the green stones, I spotted Gavin trotting toward the noise from the opposite direction. But no sign of Miss Gloria.
Finally, I saw her, crouched in a stand of ferns next to the mossy stones, keening like an injured animal. I tore up the path, vaulted over the rocks, and squatted nearby so I didn’t startle her. She was wearing some kind of big black goggles and
had her hands clapped over her ears.
“Look out! Look out!” she yelled as I edged closer, and pointed at something that I could not see or hear. “They’re coming—oh, be careful!” She looked around wildly, emitting little squeaks of fear.
“It’s okay,” I said, touching her hand so she’d sense it was only me. “It’s me, Hayley. We’re all okay.” I put my arms around her and rocked her gently like a baby. “Can I take these?” I asked, touching the sidepiece of the goggles.
She nodded without seeming to recognize me. I slid the eyepiece off her head, and handed it over to Gavin, who was standing helplessly beside the path, a few feet away. Glenda, Helen, and Vera waited behind him, looking horrified.
Miss Gloria’s eyes grew wide and distant again. She was breathing quickly and started to whimper. “Oh no, oh no, I’m so cold.” And she began to shiver.
“It’s okay,” I said. I realized that she must be, in some way I did not quite understand, experiencing the massacre of her people. And whatever had been shown on Gavin’s goggles was part of what had set her off. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re here with me right now, and that history has already happened. Years ago. It’s all over.”
The tears began streaming down her face. I reached into my pocket to find a tissue and pat her cheeks. I didn’t know whether this was like a night terror, where you weren’t supposed to startle the person awake, or whether I should somehow try to snap her out of the place she had found and bring her back to safety. Helen marched over to us.
“Let’s go get a cup of hot tea,” she suggested. She reached for Miss Gloria’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “The world always looks better with a hot drink and maybe a buttered scone, don’t you think?” She circled her arm around my friend’s shoulders and steered her down the path toward to the visitor center. I dropped back a few feet to talk to Gavin.
“What the hell was that?” I hissed. “Why did she have those on?”
Vera glowered at him from the other side of me. “What the hell were you thinking?”
A Scone of Contention Page 15