“Don’t you want to see what Deydie has to say?”
Cait blew on her own teacup as she stood by the mantle. “She’ll be fine. I promise. After we have these fortifying cups of tea, then I’ll walk you down the bluff and make sure the old bird’s ruffled feathers are put back in place. Don’t worry. I have my ways with her.” She scrutinized Rachel. “From what I hear, you have skills also when it comes to dealing with my gran.” She took a sip. “I’m impressed.”
Rachel took a sip, too. “Did you hear my mom is coming to Gandiegow for Christmas?” She still had mixed feelings about it. She took another sip, the tea warming her.
“I did hear about yere mother. Why the frown, though?”
“That’s complicated, too. You know how it can be with mothers.”
Cait’s expression fell. She set her tea down on the coffee table and forced a brave smile. “I know how grandmothers can be. Mothers, not so much.” She paused for a second. “I lost mine when I was thirteen.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rachel said. She couldn’t imagine not having her mom.
Cait moved to the couch. “It’s been especially rough, being pregnant and not having her. I know it’s irrational, but I want my mama.” Her voice cracked and instantly she looked embarrassed.
Rachel sat beside her. “I know what you mean. Mom and I don’t see eye to eye on so many things, but while I was pregnant, I wanted her near. I had a ton of questions for her about when she was pregnant with me. Her answers helped me to not be so afraid.”
Cait looked up, surprised. “That’s it exactly. I would feel better if only I could talk to Mama about it.” She looked down. “When I was pregnant before, every woman in the village shared their experiences with me, but it’s not the same—”
“As hearing it from your own mother,” Rachel finished for her, giving Cait a hug.
Cait laughed. “I didn’t mean to put my burdens on you.”
“You didn’t. You brought me in to help me and it worked.”
“I know you don’t want to talk about what might’ve happened or didn’t happen at the ruins, but just know I’ll always be here for ye if you want to talk,” Cait said.
“I appreciate that. The truth is I’m not quite sure yet what to think myself.”
Both women looked at each other and said at the same time, “It’s complicated.” And they laughed.
Rachel stood. “I have to get back to Quilting Central, but you don’t need to go.”
Cait chuckled. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I know you can hold yere own with Deydie, but I’d like to watch and see how ye do it this time. Maybe take notes for myself. There’s very few who are brave enough to take on my gran, and though I don’t think ye’ll need it, I can be there for you as reinforcement.”
After putting their cups in the sink, the two walked down the bluff companionably. Rachel was so grateful for Cait’s friendship. She’d helped to ease the earthquake in her soul.
As luck would have it, when Rachel walked into Quilting Central, the worst she received from the crotchety head quilter was a frightening glower as Deydie was on the stage demonstrating how to use selvages to make a quilt top. As soon as the old woman was done, she found Rachel with her eyes, and barreled in her direction. Cait, God bless her, did as she’d promised and came to the rescue, stepping in Deydie’s path, and pulling her in the opposite direction. Rachel could hear snippets of her excuse, something about needing help to the fix the tension on her sewing machine. As Cait pulled her away, she looked back over her shoulder with a smile and a wink for Rachel. Yes, having a friend in Gandiegow was priceless.
Rachel took the stage and continued to the next step in making the Gandiegow Christmas Tree quilt—as she’d taken to calling it in her head. Before she knew it, Bethia was stopping everyone for a lunch break. Rachel slipped out, rushing to the school to pick up Hannah.
Her daughter chattered excitedly all the way to Abraham’s cottage about making new friends besides Glenna. Apparently Dand and Mattie had made quite an impression on her, too.
“They’re coming to Grandda’s after school so we can play,” Hannah said.
“We better check with your grandfather first to make sure it’s okay with him. Don’t you think?”
When they arrived at the cottage, Abraham had the checkerboard set up ready to teach Hannah how to play. But first, all three of them ate the sandwiches Amy had left in the refrigerator. Rachel said good-bye and hurried off to Thistle Glen Lodge, trying her best not to look for Brodie along the way. She was both disappointed and relieved when she didn’t see him.
She hurried inside the quilting dorm and made a quick run-through, as if she were one of the cleaning staff at the Winderly Towers back in Chicago. She wiped down the bathroom, straightened all the beds, and put a load of towels in the washer. The dorm was spotless before she headed back to Quilting Central.
Although no trouble broke out in the afternoon session—apparently Deydie had forgiven her for being late this morning—Rachel’s insides were wound into knots from being thoroughly kissed by Brodie. Knots pulled tight with anxious frustrations. Frustrated that everything was unsettled in her life. Frustrated because Brodie wasn’t seeing things her way. Frustrated because more than anything in the world, she wanted to be kissing him again.
When Rachel was done with her lesson in the afternoon, Deydie pulled her aside.
“Moira and Sinnie told me the quilting dorm needed no maintenance when they slipped over there a while ago. What did ye do?”
“It was nothing. I only tidied up a bit.”
Deydie frowned at her. “It ’twasn’t nothing to us.” Then she looked extra pained. “Thank ye.” She walked away.
Well, that was a shocker. Rachel took a moment to revel in it, but not too long. She rushed home, knowing she and Brodie needed to talk. She hoped to get him alone before dinner so they could discuss what happened at the ruins of Monadail Castle. But back at the cottage, he wasn’t there. Just when she’d almost worked up the nerve to ask after her missing fisherman, Hannah looked up at Abraham.
“Grandda, why isn’t Brodie eating dinner with us?”
Abraham smiled at her with tenderness, the wrinkles about his eyes crinkling up more. “Och, lass, I believe he went to Inverness to pick up a part for the boat.” Abraham grinned, chuckling. “I could read between the lines. A young man needs more excitement than what Gandiegow can provide.” He chuckled again.
Rachel could read between the lines, too. Brodie’s intent was to pick up more than just boat parts. Jealousy barreled through her, wreaking havoc, banging around in her chest, and plummeting her stomach into the abyss. Was he really out looking for a woman . . . or women? Wasn’t the excitement they’d shared at Monadail Castle today enough for him? But maybe Brodie ran off to Inverness to find another woman so he could forget how much she’d affected him.
Abraham continued on as if Rachel’s mind wasn’t racing. “’Tis the reason we lose so many of our young ones to the city. It’s a real problem. We all worry what will happen to Gandiegow down the road. At least we have Quilting Central and the North Sea Valve Company to keep some of them here.”
Hannah, the old soul that she was, patted his hand as if she understood perfectly.
When dinner was over and Hannah and Abraham had settled into yet another game of checkers, Rachel excused herself to do the one thing that had to be done—visit Joe’s grave. For this first visit, she wanted to be alone. She had things to say to Joe that were too harsh for her daughter’s innocent ears.
Joe shouldn’t have screwed around on her. He should’ve sold his damn sports car before he got himself killed, driving too fast, always daring fate. He should be here for his daughter so she didn’t have to grow up without a father. Rachel knew it was foolish to talk to the dead. But she had some final words, words she should’ve said to him before he passed on. W
hen she was done with all the unspoken things that weighed on her heart, she would be able to bring Hannah up to the cemetery at the top of the bluff to visit her father.
It was a nice night, calmer than it had been, the stars out, the wind subdued. She trudged up the path behind the village, the one leading to where the Gandiegowans buried their dead. The cemetery was in a clearing which overlooked the North Sea. Seeing it brought back everything. Rachel would never forget her last visit to the gravesite. Her guilt for not being a good wife. The cold reception from the town. Joe’s ashes being laid to rest. Strange, it was all a blur, yet her emotions were fresh, as if it’d happened this day.
A few more markers had been added to the collection with their headstones clearly standing out—white, not worn from time and the weather. Rachel took a moment to read their names and dates: Kenneth Campbell, Moira’s father; and Duncan MacKinnon Buchanan, Mattie’s father and Graham’s son. At Quilting Central, she’d heard talk of both of them and how losing these loved ones had impacted the community. She said a little prayer for each, hoping they were whooping it up in heaven. A more earnest prayer she said for their loved ones still here on earth, knowing they’d need help to heal.
Finally, Rachel looked up, ready to make her way to Joe. But when she did, Brodie was there, stopped at the edge of the tombstones—as if he’d only just arrived at the perimeter of the cemetery—when he saw her, too.
* * *
Brodie was taken completely off guard, and disgusted with himself that the partridge, tattooed on his chest, flapped its wings wildly at the sight of Rachel. He should’ve anticipated she would come to pay her respects. But dammit, this was his time to spend with Joe.
Since returning to Gandiegow after his six-year absence, Brodie had spent a lot of time at Joe’s graveside. For what? Hell if I know. He didn’t talk to him. Mostly, he came to just be here. Sometimes, the good times the two of them had as lads would visit his thoughts, but mostly Brodie felt guilty.
The source of his guilt stood at Joe’s grave. Brodie should leave her to it and get the hell out of there. But suddenly, he wanted to know. Needed to know what had happened with Joe. Did Joe turn bad, become like Joe’s father, and hurt Rachel? With determined steps, Brodie headed toward her.
The way she stared at him as he drew near, she seemed stunned, shocked as if he were an apparition. That wasn’t his intent; he had to have answers.
When he got close enough, he spoke. “We need to talk.”
She cocked her head to the side as if to hear him better. “Okay.”
The locket caught the light of the full moon and twinkled at him. This time, though, instead of it making his blood run cold, seeing her wear the locket warmed him. But immediately, he hated himself for this weird feeling of standing over Joe’s grave while coveting his cousin’s wife. Emotions battered him—anger, guilt—because he’d given himself to her when she’d belonged to Joe. He tamped down his feelings. The only thing he wanted from her now was an explanation of what had happened between her and his cousin.
He glanced around, making sure this time they didn’t have an audience. What he had to say couldn’t be repeated. “Did he hurt you?” he blurted, before he could get his emotions under control.
Her head snapped back. “Who?”
Brodie stared pointblank at Joe’s grave. “Yere husband. Hannah told me you and Joe were separated when he died. I just wondered if it was because he hurt you.”
“What do you mean?” The way her brows pulled together, she acted as if she had been wounded, but not necessarily in the physical sense.
Brodie would have to spell it out. He exhaled deeply. “What I mean is . . . did Joe hit you?”
“God, no!” Rachel said. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Suddenly, shame washed over Brodie for thinking the worst of his cousin, his best friend. “I was afraid . . .” Brodie trailed off. “Then what happened?”
“The truth?”
He nodded, not really sure if he could handle knowing any of it.
“I tried to make our marriage work, but my expectations were too high.”
The partridge on Brodie’s chest craved her, which made him a prick. Part of him wanted her to say her marriage hadn’t worked because of what the two of them had shared. But that was only his ego’s wishful thinking. It was obvious he’d cared more for her than she did for him. She’d turned around and gotten married and he’d become a virtual monk. She hadn’t pined for him at all. She’d really loved Joe. Brodie’s guilt should’ve lifted, but the fact that he’d carried an effing torch for her all of these years had been wasted time. A bluidy waste of time. He didn’t want to hear any more. But he heard himself saying, “Yere expectations were too high?”
She gave him a weak smile, and her eyes were misting up. Brodie wished he hadn’t seen them. This was too much.
She shook her head. “I thought the only way our marriage was going to work was if I was the only one in his life.” She paused for a long second, staring out at the ocean. “But Joe loved women.”
Relief hit Brodie. Maybe Joe hadn’t been everything to her. Maybe she had cared for him just a little. Maybe Brodie hadn’t been completely duped in his love for her. He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to say anything more about Joe and women. I understand.”
She turned to him, looking perplexed. “But I don’t get it. Why would you think Joe would’ve hurt me?” A brittle laugh, which edged on being bitter, escaped her. “He was home so very little that he barely even talked to me or saw his newborn.”
For a second, Brodie started to keep it to himself, cover it up like it had been covered up before, but Rachel deserved to know why Joe might have been who he was. That he wasn’t always so shallow and polished. That at one time, he’d been a carefree lad.
She reached her hand out as if to touch him, encouraging him to go on, but he stepped away.
“I saw a program on the telly about . . .” He couldn’t say the word abusers. The program had really been about the children of abusers. The show stilled haunted Brodie. He hadn’t caught the documentary until after Joe had died and been buried. If Brodie had seen the program before Rachel married him, he would’ve stopped them from getting married, or at the very least warned her. Now she needed to know the truth.
Brodie took a deep breath. He’d start at an easier place. “As kids, Joe and I spent a lot of time together. Sometimes getting into mischief. Maybe doing things we shouldn’t have. Some called us little terrors.”
She looked at him strangely.
“Normal stuff. Things ye’d see today by any of the lads here in town.”
“And?” she said.
“We may have borrowed ole man Martin’s boat once—at night to go fishing—without his permission.” Aye. They’d been stupid kids. It was in the middle of winter. Anything could’ve happened to them. “The old man caught us bringing it back to town. Gave us a good lecture. Made us pay for the petrol. We had to clean the boat from top to bottom before we were allowed to head back to Abraham’s and go to bed. We laughed when we got to Grandda’s about getting away with it, and even talked about borrowing the boat again.”
If only Brodie had gone home to his own cottage with his mother and father instead of Grandda’s, he wouldn’t have heard.
“Joe must’ve gotten up to get a drink. I don’t know. I only know I woke up when it started.”
“What started?” Rachel was looking worried.
Brodie hesitated, not knowing exactly how to tell her. Finally, he just said it. “The beating. I heard it all through the vent in our room. Uncle Richard was drunk and mad at Joe for embarrassing him with ole man Martin. He’d heard what we’d done at the pub. Abraham’s never spoke of it, but I suspect Uncle Richard wanted to get on ole man Martin’s crew; it’s no secret Uncle Richard and Grandda didn’t see eye to eye.”
Rachel was bi
ting her lip and shaking her head. “But . . . what happened to Joe?”
Brodie couldn’t tell her everything he’d heard, though he remembered every lash of the belt. Every slap to Joe’s body. His cousin begging his da to stop. Every time Joe cried out, Brodie cried, too, hidden under the bed, lest he’d get a beating if Uncle Richard knew he was in the house, too.
Brodie prayed and prayed for it to end. “Grandda came home and saved Joe. He and Uncle Richard had a terrible fight and then he threw Uncle Richard out.” The vent relayed it all in great, horrible detail. “Grandda told Joe he was going to live with him from now on.” Then Grandda carried Joe upstairs and laid him in the bed. Brodie had worried Joe was half-dead, the bruises everywhere, his eyes swollen, his lip bloodied. Though they considered themselves grown at ten years old, Brodie held Joe that night while he cried himself to sleep. But the two cousins never spoke of what happened. Never. “Joe was different after that. He acted happy and outgoing as he always had, but he was different.” Joe didn’t go to school the rest of the week. No one ever spoke of the beating, though the townsfolk had to have known.
“Oh, God, poor Joe,” Rachel cried.
The only person Brodie had talked to about the beating had been his own da, the day after it happened. The guilt had been too much; if only Brodie had been stronger and stopped Uncle Richard instead of cowering under the bed. Da listened to the story and had been angrier than Brodie had ever seen him. At first, Brodie thought it was because he’d let his da down. But Da held him fiercely and made it clear why he was angry. Ye did the right thing to hide, son. For if Richard had laid a hand on ye, I would’ve killed him. Yere mum would’ve never forgiven me for murdering her brother.
Da was Brodie’s hero. He’d felt the loss of him every day since he’d died.
Rachel was staring at him intently, so he got to the point.
“I was worried when Hannah said ye weren’t living together, that Joe might’ve turned into his father.” There. Brodie had spit it out. The documentary on the television had shown case after case of people who abused others because they themselves had been abused. Joe had all the personality shifts the psychologist mentioned. Brodie had warred with this information for so long, going back and forth, trying to answer the question for himself. He just had to know.
It Happened in Scotland Page 12