A Scone of Contention

by Lucy Burdette

  He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “We were chatting, and she said she was strongly getting the sense of her ancestors. And she wished she could be there, that she felt so helpless not being able to live with them in those moments. Maybe warn them what was coming. I offered her a few minutes to try the glasses—that’s it. How was I to know she’d wig out?”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Glenda said, a sharp edge in her voice. She stepped in front of her husband and turned to face us. “We were scoping out the extra photos that you insisted we needed, which, by the way, is a lot of unnecessary work. And then she interrupted—barreled right up to us and begged to borrow his goggles. Next thing we know, she is screaming to us to get out of the way, that someone is coming for us. She went bat-shit crazy. We tried to help, but she wouldn’t let us anywhere near her.”

  At that moment, I wanted to strangle her, but I knew it was mostly because I hated witnessing how upset my friend had gotten. And I felt guilty for not looking out for her. We all should have paid a little more attention to this old lady who was more sensitive than most people and primed to feel overwhelmed by the ghosts of her ancestors in this glen. I paused, took a deep breath, and turned away from the others to look back at the tumble of mossy stones. I listened for voices, for the sounds of battle, even for the sounds of ordinary, peaceful farming life. But I heard nothing.

  I trudged behind the others, who were still arguing about the use of the goggles. Vera ignored Glenda, focusing on Gavin, and obviously working on sounding reasonable while still angry.

  “Let’s set our competing artistic visions aside for a moment. If this tragic interlude has shown us anything,” Vera said to Gavin, “it’s shown us that we need to understand how in the world you intend to include these as a part of my book without putting us all at great risk for legal action. How many people would react the way Miss Gloria did?”

  “Your book?” Gavin asked. His voice was calm, but his expression told me he was furious too. “You would not have a contract if it wasn’t for me. Or perhaps, you’d have a little book with a little press that no one outside of your cultish followers would read.” He steamed off down the path, with Glenda stalking behind him.

  “This project is nothing like what I had envisioned,” Vera called after them.

  Glenda turned back to holler, “It’s a good damn thing we are not following your vision because it was a losing proposition. Everyone could see that except for you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, “It was the best butter, you know.”

  —Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  We retired to the cafeteria for a quick sandwich and a cup of tea. My mother-in-law insisted that Miss Gloria order soup even though she said she wasn’t hungry.

  “You’ll need to keep up your strength after a shock like the one you’ve had,” Helen told her, and practically spoon-fed her the cream of celeriac soup and the miniature cheese scone that came with it.

  Vera was silent as we ate and so was Miss Gloria, so I chattered mindlessly about the cookbooks I had bought and the recipes I planned to try first. I felt like an idiot, but this trip seemed to be spiraling out of control, and I didn’t know how to fix it. Finally, we finished our light meal, gathered our trash, and carried our trays to the rubbish cans.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” Helen asked Miss Gloria on the way to the parking lot. “We could get you checked out and then meet the others at the lake? I’m sure it wouldn’t be an inconvenience.” She glanced at her daughter who nodded.

  In fact, I was sure it would be an inconvenience, but Vera would certainly want to do the right thing.

  Miss Gloria shook her head and flashed a small smile, a pale shadow of her usual chipper self. “I’ll be fine. All I need is a little cat nap and I’ll be ready for the next adventure.” Then she set her lips into a firm line, which I knew meant there would be no point in arguing. Nor was she ready to talk about what she’d experienced.

  I sat in the back seat with her this time, and she fell asleep holding my hand before we even left the parking lot. I felt the comforting warmth of her head as it hit my shoulder. I stroked her wrist and her fingers, freckled with age spots, the skin thin enough that I could almost see the blood beating in her veins. I had to remember—and help the others remember—that she was more fragile inside than she let us see on the outside.

  “Tell us about what to expect for the rest of the day and the evening?” Helen asked her daughter.

  Vera heaved a big sigh. “I am so sorry to have dragged you all into this drama. I never should have brought you on this trip. I was dreaming when I thought this would go smoothly.” She glanced in the rearview mirror at my sleeping friend. “Instead, all hell’s broken loose, and I’ve wreaked psychological havoc on your dear friend.”

  “We wouldn’t trade this trip for anything,” I said in a low voice, because that was mostly true and I didn’t want her to feel worse than she already did. “We are seeing things in a different way from any tourists. Miss Gloria will be fine—she’s just tired. I’m sure she would say the same thing.” I stroked a wisp of white hair off her forehead. “She’s an emotional soul, and it’s my fault that I didn’t stay with her.”

  “I hardly think it’s your fault,” said Vera. “Any fault can be centered squarely on Gavin, who is too self-absorbed to think past his own greedy fantasies.” She shook her head. “Tonight, we are having dinner with the publisher, Martin. That should be a barrel of laughs.” She barked out a snort of laughter. “Those of us working on the book need to meet with him before dinner. We will see you in the bar for a drink. And then everyone will retire to the restaurant for dinner. One of their restaurant’s specialties is fried fish and chips with mushy peas.”

  Miss Gloria popped awake. “Fried fish and chips, yes! Mushy peas, the jury is out.” Then she dropped back to sleep, a big grin on her face.

  Vera forced a return smile. “After we eat, you’ll hear some fabulous local musicians, including pianist and folk singer Alan Reid, and Jack Beck who plays the guitar and sings. He lives in America now but was born in Scotland and toured here with a folk band for many years before he married an American. It should be a very special evening.”

  Helen cleared her throat and glanced at her daughter. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to talk about what’s going on with the publisher.”

  “I don’t suppose I do,” Vera snapped.

  In silence, Vera navigated a series of roads winding through the mountains. The Loch Long Hotel finally appeared in the distance, a four-story white stucco building set against the mountains and across the road from the end of a narrow lake. I shook Miss Gloria awake. “We’re here.”

  “Everybody’s got their own room this time,” Vera explained as she pulled into the parking lot. “I didn’t want us to get on each other’s one last nerve. And that was before I even knew what was going to happen at Glencoe.” She chuckled but didn’t sound happy. “I asked for Miss Gloria to have a room on the ground floor because their elevators can be wonky.”

  Miss Gloria blinked her eyes wide open. “I’m quite capable of stairs. In fact, they help me get my daily steps in.”

  “If I’d realized you were such a live wire, I wouldn’t have worried,” Vera said, glancing back in the rearview mirror.

  We dragged our bags out of the trunk and into the lobby, which had an old-fashioned flavor, with tan plaid upholstery on the backs of black leather banquettes, and faded gold curtains framing the windows that overlooked the lake.

  “The bar is in that direction,” said Vera, pointing to the left. “If the barkeep isn’t behind the bar when you show up, holler into the back room to put out an alert. But don’t worry, they are loaded with Scottish whiskey and beer and anything else that strikes your fancy. We’ll try to joi
n you for cocktails, but definitely dinner at seven with music to follow.”

  My room was located on the top floor in the far back corner of the building, overlooking the mountains. I dragged my bag through a warren of narrow hallways and staircases to reach it, wondering if I should have left a trail of crumbs to find my way back to the lobby. The room was furnished with blond wood built-ins and more plaid pillows, plain but functional. I had just about enough space for me and my luggage, so I had to admit a sigh of relief that I wasn’t sharing the night with Nathan’s mother, or even Vera, much as I liked and admired them both. I needed some time to unwind from the events of the last few days. And despite her protests that she was absolutely fine, I was certain Miss Gloria did as well.

  I carried my toiletries into the small bathroom, delighted to notice a hot towel rack. I could swish out some undies and socks and be sure they were dry for the next day. I flipped off my shoes, peeled back the coverlet, and stretched out on the bed, hoping I could catch Nathan. I texted him about our arrival.

  Call me if you get a minute in the next half hour or so, or don’t get in too late tonight. We had kind of a wild day. Everything’s okay, I just want to hear your voice. It is our honeymoon after all. I added some laughing and crazy-face emojis to let him know I was mostly joking.

  Then I called my friend Lorenzo, hoping it wasn’t too early for his night owl schedule—I’d known him to sleep until almost noon. His voice sounded a little fuzzy but also happy to hear me.

  “Are you home already?” he asked. “I can’t wait to hear about the trip. Did you bring me a cute redhead in a kilt?”

  We both laughed. “Not yet’ to both your questions, but we have enough time for me to keep looking. I need to float something by you.” I paused. “I’m a little worried about Miss Gloria.”

  I described the devastating scene in the Glencoe ruins. “I’ve never felt anything like that, not even little tremors of old spirits. Not the way you do. But obviously she was experiencing something terrifying. I’m wondering if you have any advice on how to help her. Is she going to be all right?”

  The words kept pouring out of me. “The worst of it was with those dratted headphones. I would like to strangle those people for inflicting that much distress on a sensitive soul.” I made myself pause and take a deep breath. “I don’t know how much to press her to talk about it or whether I should leave her alone to sort things out for a while in private? Or what?”

  “That sounds so painful,” he said. “I’m so sorry she went through that. It’s a blessing and a curse, this ability to see through the veil between the worlds. I can tell you, from my own experience, the worst thing you can do is tell her she didn’t feel those things or see them. Which I know you wouldn’t do,” he hastened to add. “After she’s rested, invite her to tell you about it. If it seems like she’s disappearing back into the battle, sometimes a touch on her arm or shoulder and a soft word can help anchor her in the present.”

  All that felt reassuring and exactly right. “What else is new in Key West?” I asked, feeling the same spike of homesickness that I’d felt talking to him last time. Scotland was beautiful—stunning in fact—but it wasn’t home. I could only imagine how hard the transition between countries might have been for Vera as a traumatized teenager. “Have you heard anything new about the incident with Ray?” I asked.

  “What’s new in Key West is that my tree is chockablock with ripe mangoes,” he said. “Your mother came over yesterday and carried off a couple dozen. She’s catering a mango madness dinner, and she promised to save me a plate. She’s making a bourbon-marinated pork roast with spicy mango salsa, a green salad with walnuts and mangoes and some kind of fancy cheese, and an almond cake with mango puree.”

  “That sounds like heaven,” I said. “I hope there will be a few left when we get home.”

  “Definitely. Nothing really new about Ray.” He paused, making me think he was either thinking hard or figuring out how to share difficult news. Though he never labeled bad news “bad news,” he always described it as “a life challenge.”

  “Your mom brought Connie to my booth at Sunset last night,” he continued.

  I waited for the bad news, thinking that’s truly what it had to be.

  “She’s distraught,” he said, more blunt than usual. “The more he won’t talk about what’s going on, the bigger the problems he must be experiencing, or so she imagines. Your mother convinced Connie to let me read three cards.” An ominous silence. “She drew the ten of swords, death, and the three of swords.”

  I pulled these three cards up in my mind’s eye. They were on my top ten list of six you don’t ever want to see in your reading. The ten of swords was a horribly shocking card, a man on his back with ten swords stabbed into him, often interpreted as a pending unwelcome surprise. The gravity of its meaning could depend on whether Lorenzo saw Ray’s “surprise” in the future or the past. The death card—enough said. As often as my friend told me not to take this card literally, it was hard to avoid the visceral fear that spiked in me every time. The three of swords I wasn’t that familiar with, but how could swords mean anything good? I waited to see how Lorenzo would spin this selection.

  Lorenzo said, “It’s not as though what’s in his heart and his life has been brought on by the cards, you know that, right?”

  This was going to be bad. “I know that. Go on.”

  “I told her that if he was sitting in the chair across from me, I would advise him to remember that the cards help him prepare for what’s in his life, what’s coming. And that knowing what’s coming helps a person prepare in advance, both emotionally and literally. If someone is stabbing him in the back, wouldn’t he want to know that?”

  A text came in from Vera, reminding me that the group was gathering in the bar. Are you coming? Miss Gloria looks like she could use some support from a friend.

  I said goodbye to Lorenzo and thanked him for talking with me. “I’ll keep you posted, and I know you’ll do the same.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mr. Scott was a pale, thin man. A stick of forced rhubarb said Sally’s mother, who had seen him at a parents meeting.

  —Ann Cleeves, Raven Black

  I wended my way back down four levels of stairs and went directly to the bar. On the wooden counter sat the biggest collection of whiskey bottles I’d ever seen. Remembering how delicious the cream whiskey had tasted at Ainsley’s welcome dinner, I requested a small glass of something similar, even though the bartender warned me this was a dessert libation.

  Drink in hand, I turned around to find my people. The two musicians were setting up their instruments in a small alcove one step up from the lobby. They were older fellows, with graying hair and slightly weathered faces, who laughed and talked together like longtime friends.

  “They look like a couple of elves, don’t they?” Vera came up behind me, and we shared a grin. “Wait until you hear them play and sing. You’ll think you’re back in old-time Scotland.” She leaned in to whisper: “I’m a little worried about Gloria. I’m glad you’re here.”

  She tipped her head in the direction of my friend, who was perched on a couch next to Helen. She was holding a glass filled with ice and a clear liquid, but her face looked pale and tired. The others in the group sat nearby, and the division between them was palpable. Gavin, Glenda, and Ainsley were seated on one side of a man who must be their publisher, and on the other side, an empty space where I imagined Vera had been sitting.

  “Come say hello to Martin before dinner,” Vera said.

  “Perfect,” I answered, making a beeline for Miss Gloria. I leaned in for a hug. “Everything okay?”

  “Great,” she said raising her glass in a toast. “I am abstaining tonight, on account of risky whiskey overload this week. Sometimes an old lady is too tired to tipple.”

  “I’ve never heard that from you before,” I laughed, and rubbed my hand across her bony shoulders.

  “Martin, this is my new sister-in-law,
Hayley,” said Vera, “and Hayley, this is my esteemed publisher, Martin. He puts out absolutely stunning books.”

  “Why thank you, my dear,” he said, and shook my hand with great enthusiasm. Martin was not what I would’ve expected had I put much thought into it. I would’ve imagined an introvert with stooped shoulders and reading glasses, gray-haired, quiet, and wise. Martin was none of that, though it was too early to judge about his wisdom. He had a shock of black hair; a round, bordering on rotund belly; and a laugh to match it. “I adore your sister-in-law and her team, and couldn’t be more excited about this project.”

  Vera announced that we’d been called to dinner, and we followed the others into the dining room. The room was decorated in more blond wood and plaid upholstery. I wondered whose clan was represented by all this tan plaid.

  As we reached our table, Vera once again took charge of the seating. “Hayley and Mom, I thought you might like to sit next to Martin since you’ve not met before.”

  Was she being polite to her guests, to make us feel included? Because it almost felt as though she needed to marshal her troops around her boss. I wondered what had already happened in their meeting and whether she was afraid she was going to be dumped. I refocused on the conversation at the table, where Martin was expressing his powerful desire to visit the states, even in spite of our recent political turmoil.

  “It’s so funny, isn’t it, that my friend Vera was desperate to write a book about the special places in Scotland when she comes from the wild and wonderful world of America?”

  “America is all well and good,” Vera said, “but here you have thin places and astonishing history, and craggy mountains, wild seas, and windswept islands. And now the rest of the world knows that because of the amazing fiction that’s coming out of this country.” She smiled warmly, and I suspected that she was still trying to stay calm and win him over to her perspective on their project. “Ann Cleeves, Diana Gabaldon, J. K. Rowling—Scotland exactly as she is couldn’t be a hotter topic.”