It Happened in Scotland

by Patience Griffin

Rachel bent down, gathering her things. “I’ll help.”

  She felt Brodie’s eyes boring into her and she couldn’t ignore him any longer. She had trouble believing he was actually standing four feet away. She’d been so certain he wouldn’t be here in Gandiegow.

  From the moment she took her wedding vows, she’d been punishing herself for forsaking Brodie, and for not loving her husband like she should’ve. When it came to tormenting herself, Rachel had incredible tenacity. When Joe died, she refused to seek out Brodie. She didn’t deserve to be happy after what she’d done. She told herself Brodie was dead, too, just like her husband. She’d convinced herself, so much so, that she was still in shock that Brodie was alive and well. And looking better than ever.

  All the memories of being here before engulfed her. The moment she met Brodie six years ago, she’d been drawn to him. He was Joe’s opposite, though they looked so much alike. Where Joe was outgoing, loud, and gregarious, Brodie was quiet, strong, and peaceful. A man comfortable in his own skin. His calm demeanor had pulled her in and hooked her from the start, making the earth under her feet shift, knocking her off balance. The longer they were thrown together in Gandiegow and the more time she had to compare her husband-to-be with his cousin, the more glaring their differences became. Joe’s need to always be the center of attention and on the go outweighed Abraham’s clear desire to spend time with his living-abroad grandson. Brodie, on the other hand, stuck close to Abraham, doing as the old man wished. Joe was always searching for the next thrill while Brodie was content to be at home. She’d fallen so suddenly and resoundingly for Brodie that she had a hard time believing what she was feeling was real. Every time Rachel thought she really could call off the wedding, her mother’s voice would chime in her head: But what will people think?

  As Rachel glanced across the room now and saw Brodie scowling at her, a shiver ran down her spine. She couldn’t stay at Abraham’s . . . she just couldn’t. Not with Brodie there. She still cared for him, and his loathing of her would be too much.

  “Do you live with Grandfather?” Hannah asked, though Rachel already knew the answer.

  “Aye,” Brodie replied gruffly. By the way he gripped the mantle, he clearly wasn’t happy Rachel would be staying under the same roof as him.

  She was thrown off balance, too. Part of her—the part filled with guilt and regret—wanted to flee, head back to the airport, and take the first flight out of Scotland for the pain she’d caused Brodie. At the same time, being near him jolted her to her very core. Life suddenly surged in her veins again. Feelings she’d tried to bury long ago were resurrecting themselves at record speed. For the last six years, she’d been going through the motions of living . . . except where Hannah was concerned. Her daughter had been the one thing that mattered, the sunshine in her every day.

  A strange thought lingered in the outer reaches of Rachel’s mind, waiting, as if it were a finger tapping patiently on her shoulder. She finally gave it her full attention. You and Brodie can have a do-over, now that you’re back.

  But his eyes held such animosity for her. Maybe even hate. But hadn’t her psychology teacher said love and hate were only different sides of the same coin, so very close to being the exact same thing?

  Rachel’s eyes met his scowl, and the strangest thing happened; she felt hope.

  But she was rational enough and mature enough not to completely believe that morsel of possibility.

  A delayed thought stabbed her. A lot of time had passed. What if Brodie already belonged to someone else?

  Hannah stopped suddenly and peered up at him. “Are you married?” It wasn’t the first time her child sensed Rachel’s emotions. It happened so often she wondered if her daughter could truly read her mind.

  Brodie didn’t answer right away, and Rachel’s stomach fell. Hit the floor. She could’ve kicked it around like a soccer ball.

  He glowered at Hannah, and Rachel’s mother bear instincts came to life.

  She opened her mouth to give him hell, and as she did, he turned his cold blue eyes on her. He pinned her to the wall with calm, steady hatred before answering, “Nay. I’m not married.” His look wrapped it up into a nice neat package. It was an accusation. A declaration. A promise. What he was feeling was final.

  She recoiled. She really should grab her things and get out of town. But deep down, that crazy ember of hope still burned.

  Wildly, she wondered if Hannah would ask the next question weighing on Rachel’s mind. Does Brodie still have feelings for me, buried so deep he can’t see them? By the scowl he was giving her . . . it seemed rather unlikely. But six years ago she’d been sure he loved her.

  Hannah tugged her hand, and Rachel looked down.

  “I want to see Grandfather.” Then her daughter tilted her head back to gaze up at the large Scot. “Mommy packed our Christmas tree. Can we put it up at Grandfather’s house?”

  Brodie glanced around as if expecting a Douglas fir to have materialized itself in the corner.

  “It’s in her suitcase,” Hannah said.

  Brodie bristled and raised an eyebrow, conveying clearly that fibbing, especially to adults, wouldn’t be tolerated here in Scotland. But instead, he said, “Yere great-grandda is waiting.”

  Rachel would make him eat that look he was giving her daughter. Hannah didn’t lie. Rachel did bring their seven-foot-plus tree, packed neatly away in her 28-inch roller bag.

  Brodie cleared his throat. “I’ll be waiting outside for ye and the bairn.” He slammed the door behind him.

  “Come on, sweetie,” she said. “Get your coat on.” That was one thing that would have to be fixed—Brodie’s dislike of Hannah. He had to love her; she was his blood relation. They would always be a part of each other’s lives. Because of Joe.

  Rachel lifted the handle on her spinner and gave her daughter a fortifying smile. She wheeled her bag to the door. “Be careful with your backpack, honey. I put the iPad in there.”

  Hannah smiled up at her, always the confident little girl. “Don’t worry, Mommy.” She wheeled her small case outside.

  Rachel took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and followed her. Once through the threshold, her eyes landed on Brodie’s back as he gazed out at the ocean. He didn’t look as if he needed a fortifying breath. He stood rod-straight, stoic, as if heading into battle.

  None of this was a picnic for her either. She’d screwed up her life, and being back in Gandiegow only dredged up more of the past, all laid out for her to analyze, whether she wanted to or not.

  She met Joe at the Winderly, when he’d sauntered up to the counter on the first day of a pharmaceutical conference. He flirted and seemed almost confused when she wasn’t falling all over herself to flirt back. Over the next week, he upped his game and wooed her relentlessly with his never-ending supply of charm. Finally, she acquiesced and went out with him. Everyone loved Joe and said she was the luckiest woman in the world. He was four years older, so sure of himself. Handsome, well built, and Scottish—a dangerous combination for a young woman who had dreams of a happily-ever-after for herself, and a staff who swooned every time he came by to visit. It had been a whirlwind romance. They were engaged with her mother’s blessing after only three months of dating. But following the engagement party, red flags started to appear that maybe Joe wasn’t the perfect guy for her. He began frequently changing plans at the last moment, claiming something had come up with work. She’d brushed it off, wanting to believe what others said—that theirs was a match made in heaven.

  But deep down, she had more bothering her than a few missed dates. What really troubled her was the animosity he held toward his mother. The woman who’d given birth to him abandoned him and his father. Rachel was appalled. To grow up without a mother’s love? Unfathomable! Joe made light of her commiseration, saying all the men in their family had been bamboozled by women. No man should have to sacrifice his heart to a wo
man, not even to his mother. That should’ve had her returning his engagement ring, or at the very least, discussing how his offhand comment had hurt. But she’d glossed over it and ignored her gut feeling that she shouldn’t marry a man who didn’t love his mother.

  Hannah smiled up at her. “I’m going to catch up to him.” Before Rachel could say anything, her daughter was running after Brodie.

  This only gave Rachel a clear path to remembering it all.

  Brodie had every right to be angry with her. Hell, she was angry with herself. When she kissed him at the ruins of Monadail Castle, she was determined to call off the wedding. But when she’d told her mother, Vivienne . . .

  Rachel pushed from her mind the horrible conversation when she’d told her mother she’d fallen in love with Brodie. It had taken every ounce of courage and backbone she had.

  At the same time, she’d been so weak. So sure if she didn’t do as others expected, they might stop loving her.

  Bits from her mother’s argument that day trickled into her consciousness. Joe is a catch. Which implied Brodie wasn’t. Joe can support you with a real job, not a fishing boat. He owns his own home, not some cottage he shares with his grandfather. Her mother was relentless. You made a promise to Joe when you took his engagement ring. And, What will people think? But her mother’s reasons weren’t the basis for why Rachel had gone through with the ceremony. It was her mother’s heartfelt declaration: I only want what’s best for you.

  Her mother had always been there for her—both mother and father. And Rachel was the dutiful daughter, who aimed only to please. Looking back, it wasn’t the soundest excuse to ignore her heart, which was crying out for Brodie.

  But as it turned out, what was right in her mother’s mind hadn’t been right for Rachel. She’d walked down the aisle with red puffy eyes, knowing she was making a terrible mistake. When she’d moved into Joe’s house, owning a home had lost its appeal. She hadn’t known what to do with the full-size appliances, and the house only seemed big, empty, and cold with Joe gone more than he was home.

  Rachel gazed at her daughter, who walked beside Brodie, feeling bad for her baby. If only she’d tried harder, she, Joe, and Hannah could’ve been a real family. But from the day they tied the knot, no amount of sheer determination on Rachel’s part had made her marriage work. She needed to quit beating herself up over it, picking apart every detail. Joe seemed to have lost interest in her after the initial hunt, when the thrill was gone. Rachel tried the age-old remedy of attempting to fix things by getting pregnant, certain a baby would settle them into a loving family. But having a newborn only pushed Joe away farther. He was gone all the time to pharmaceutical conventions, parties, and drinks with colleagues. When he didn’t want to stay home with her and their infant, Rachel threw herself into work. Guilt ate at her for the amount of time Hannah had to spend in daycare. The guilt for having failed at wedded bliss was wearisome. But the call she received after her six-week postpartum checkup proved her disastrous marriage wasn’t completely her fault. Joe had not been a saint. The next morning when she’d set their his-and-hers antibiotics next to his coffee mug, she only had one thing to say.

  “Thanks for the STD.”

  Of course, he’d denied it, but the lab report didn’t lie. Two days later, when three staff members at the Winderly quit unexpectedly, Rachel used their leaving as the excuse to pack Hannah’s diapers and bassinet and move them to the hotel. They never moved back home, repeating her mother’s life by raising her daughter in a twelve-by-twelve room with a hotplate and Mr. Coffee as their only means of making a home-cooked meal.

  At that moment, Hannah reached up and took Brodie’s hand.

  He stopped short and looked down at where they were linked. Rachel’s heart melted when he didn’t let go, but started walking again, his stride not quite as long with Hannah in tow.

  Suddenly, Rachel could see it. It was as if everything had lined up, like the stones in the cottages, each one stacking against the other to build a house. From the time she’d gotten on the plane and sat next to Cait, until this very moment . . . everything had been a sign.

  This really was Rachel’s chance to reclaim what she lost.

  Her second chance. Their second chance!

  The three of them could be a family. Brodie, Hannah, and herself.

  Rachel hadn’t dated since Joe’s death, too busy with work and raising Hannah. But the truth was . . . no one ever measured up to the Scot now holding her daughter’s hand.

  Instead of a patient finger tapping on Rachel’s shoulder this time, a fervent hand was clutched around her heart, compressing it, and urging it back to life. Hope surged through her. Then her brain got on board, I’m not going to let Brodie slip through my fingers again!

  She glanced heavenward, thankful for the opportunity, feeling certain the what-ifs that had plagued her since marrying Joe would evaporate.

  Though this was her chance to make up for the past, Rachel wasn’t sure what she was going to do next. She could hear Hannah chattering away at Brodie, but couldn’t identify what she was saying over the waves crashing against the walkway. She wanted to rush ahead to see how it was going between them, but held back, letting them get to know each other.

  For the first time since arriving, Rachel took in the salty smell of the North Sea and soaked in her surroundings. Gandiegow was the same as she remembered, still perched on the edge of the ocean, but there were some improvements. Fresh coats of paint, signs pointing out the businesses, and a couple of cottages which she didn’t remember from before. Overall, the village’s essence was unchanged—a time capsule of a nineteenth- century fishing village with lobster pots, dinghies, and life preservers positioned strategically, proclaiming its heritage, its viability, and its future.

  The sea was churning, the waves foaming more than when they’d arrived. Ross had mentioned an incoming winter storm, and Rachel was glad she and Hannah were prepared for the cold weather. They were, after all, residents of Chicago, where winter had been invented. Before they left home, Hannah demanded she wear her new star-covered rain boots. Rachel only agreed after she’d put in the warm inserts and made Hannah don thick socks, too. A wave splattered Brodie’s feet, but Hannah’s remained dry as if he’d positioned her far enough away to keep her safe.

  When they arrived at the cottage, Rachel did hurry to catch up then. She reached out and touched Brodie’s arm.

  He flinched as if burned and gave her a what-the-hell look.

  “Thank you,” she said, glancing at Hannah to let him know what she was talking about.

  His stare conveyed he hadn’t done it out of kindness, and that he hadn’t done it for her. “The girl needs to be watched while she’s here. It’s dangerous in Gandiegow.” He opened the door—at least that was a consideration—and let them walk in.

  Nothing had changed in Abraham’s cottage. The entry was all wood, from the oak floors to the wood paneling. No bright, pretty curtains hung in the front window, only strong, masculine brown drapes for this fisherman’s house. Rachel slipped off her coat and peered at the two pictures on the wall, the fishing boat pictures. One of Abraham with his son Richard. One of a much older Abraham with his grandsons, Brodie and Joe. On their first meeting, Abraham had said these photos were his prized possessions. But no photos of Robena—Abraham’s daughter and Brodie’s mother—were displayed of her as a girl or as a woman though she lived nearby.

  Brodie guided Hannah to the small bench where she was to sit and remove her boots. He then pointed out the rubber mat for her snowy foot gear. He took her coat and placed it on a hook, all the while ignoring Rachel, who was on her own when it came to boot mats, coat hooks, and attentiveness.

  “Yere great grandda should be in the parlor. Through there.” He pointed down the hall.

  Hannah skipped away, humming a nondescript tune.

  They were alone. Perfect. Rachel could start
a dialogue between them. “Brodie?”

  “Not now.” He gestured to where Hannah waited.

  Rachel stepped past him, went to her daughter, and stood behind her in the doorway. The parlor, too, was the same as it had been, except there was a Christmas tree decorated with antique ornaments with a length of burlap as a tree skirt. Magazines and books were on the coffee table, and Abraham was sitting in his old wingback chair across from the fireplace.

  Hannah looked up at her. “Is that him?”

  “Aye,” Brodie said from behind Rachel, making her breath catch. “Go on in and say hallo properly.”

  Hannah smiled at Brodie then went into the room, coming within a few feet of the old man.

  “Hello, Grandfather,” Hannah said.

  Abraham looked up from his magazine. He stared at her for a long second and then broke into a smile. “Oh, lass, come here an’ let me see ye.”

  Hannah took a step closer and stared at her great-grandfather while he stared back.

  Abraham shifted his gaze to Brodie. “Doesn’t she remind ye of Joe?”

  “Aye,” Brodie muttered.

  Hannah glanced at Rachel. “Can I give Grandfather a hug?”

  Rachel nodded and Hannah threw her arms around the old man.

  “You’re my very own grandfather,” Hannah whispered with an air of awe.

  Abraham patted her back. “Aye.” He reached in his pocket, not letting go of her, and pulled out a handkerchief.

  * * *

  Either the woodstove was making the old man’s eyes leak, or the little slip of a lass was making his grandfather mist up as if the ocean spray had set his eyes to burning. But Brodie had never seen his grandda tear up. A salty fisherman and tough Scot like himself wouldn’t allow it. Certainly he’d never seen his mother—who lived just outside of town on a small farm—incite soft emotions in his grandfather. As Abraham dabbed at his eyes, Brodie turned away to let him have his moment, but not before he saw the girl, Hannah, patting her great-grandda also.