It Happened in Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  He dipped his head at her. “I’ll wait outside to take you to yere daughter.” He wasn’t happy about accommodating her either. Rachel was one Granger too many, as far as he was concerned. But he thought about his duty to keep her and Hannah safe, and he wondered how Vivienne would view him sleeping on the couch tonight, watching over her, too.

  As the loyal dog that he was, he waited for Rachel’s mother. He could’ve left her to find her daughter on her own, but that didn’t seem right. He’d take her there, dump her off, and be done with the mess of them. Until tonight at Abraham’s.

  Vivienne returned outside a few minutes later in her ridiculous coat. “How is your grandfather?” It seemed to pain her to be nice.

  “He’s managing.” Brodie pointed the way for them to go. “Seeing his great-granddaughter has raised his spirits considerably. The lass appears to make Grandda spry indeed.”

  She slowed down. “I hope my visit doesn’t cut into your grandfather’s time with Hannah.” Which was a very sensible and thoughtful concern.

  Brodie couldn’t help himself. “There’s enough Hannah to go around. The lass is a handful.”

  She nodded and picked back up the pace. “Yes, she is.”

  A minute later they were at the entrance of Quilting Central. He wondered if he should give Vivienne a heads-up that she may not receive the warmest of receptions, but he decided to keep quiet. She’ll figure it out. He opened the door.

  He had no intentions of going in. He wanted to walk the perimeter of the village and then get a fortifying nap. He thought about how Hannah’s naps made her a new person. That was exactly the kind of outcome he needed to get through Christmas with Rachel and her mother here. But he found himself walking in behind Vivienne, as if he wanted Rachel to see who’d brought her. On a subconscious level, was he trying to ingratiate himself to his dead cousin’s widow?

  Rachel looked up and saw him first. Their eyes locked. For a second, he let himself gaze upon her, take her in. Seeing her safe calmed him. No. It was more than that. Seeing her made him feel powerful, like he could take on the world. Her gaze became intense and he saw the extra message in her eyes. She might be safe, but she was pleading with him to rescue her from the women of Gandiegow. Deydie and Bethia stood near her. Amy and Moira, too. He started to be her hero, but it wasn’t his job to save her from them. Right now, his only job was to deliver her mother. He nodded his head almost imperceptibly toward Vivienne.

  Rachel’s attention shifted. “Mom!” She shoved a quilt behind her sewing machine and ran toward her mother, hugging her. So Vivienne gets to be the hero. But Rachel glanced at Brodie over her mother’s shoulder while they embraced . . . with gratitude? Nay. The look Rachel gave him was clear: Life just got more complicated. He didn’t like that he could read Rachel so easily. When she pulled away, she was fully focused on her mum again.

  He turned and left. But he didn’t get out the door quick enough.

  “Brodie?” Vivienne slightly lifted her nose in the air. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and stalked out, feeling uncomfortable. It was almost easier sometimes to think people never changed. It wasn’t as if Vivienne had altered her position on how she felt about him, but he never expected her to be halfway civil. Not after what he tried to do . . . steal Rachel from Joe.

  He started his patrol down the walkway, keeping his eyes on the places between the buildings, but in his tired state an old wound surfaced.

  For the past six years, Brodie hadn’t been able to forgive himself for trying to do what Vivienne had thought . . . steal Rachel from her fiancé. Brodie felt tortured from all directions when it came to Rachel and what they’d done. It was the same old argument in his head . . . he had tried to claim Rachel for himself. Not because Joe had stolen away every lass Brodie had wooed when they were lads, but because Brodie had loved her, heart and soul. But it still wasn’t much of an excuse. He was an honorable man, and loving Rachel had been an unforgivable sin when it came to someone like himself.

  He passed Deydie’s house and moved to the rear of the town, seeing no one or anything out of place. Stealthily, he made his way along the back edge of the village, working his way, circling the town, hoping to make it back home for that nap.

  As he walked, he came up with a way to catch the thief. Of course, he wouldn’t do it alone. Brodie counted on Rachel being Rachel—which was something he couldn’t stop, even if he tried. Or even if he wanted to.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bonnie Coburn watched through the pub’s window as Brodie passed. He seemed to be looking for something. Or someone. Maybe it was her. Probably not. Brodie was a tough one to pin down, but she’d tried. She’d flirted with him while wearing her sexiest of sweaters, and she caught him alone whenever she could. She’d even danced with him a time or two. The man was unshakable. She’d dubbed him Gandiegow’s most eligible bachelor, but she hoped not for long.

  From her pocket, she lifted out her little notebook, the one she’d been writing in for months. She enjoyed playing the field, but looked forward to the coming year. Every four years she seriously thought about landing a man for good. Not just someone to keep her bed warm, but someone to take care of her for the rest of her life. Her looks were holding on, but they wouldn’t last forever.

  February twenty-ninth was only two short months away. Not only was it Leap Year Day, but it was her birthday as well. The day belonged to her, the day she could do whatever the hell she wanted. She never paid any attention to those who said Leap Year Day was a bad day to be born . . . my own mum included. Bonnie cringed at the thought of Mum, smoking her cigarettes in their shabby flat in the bad part of Glasgow. Mum never worked, but depended on her boyfriends for cash and always waiting for her next date. Oh, how Mum thought it was a riot to only celebrate Bonnie’s birthday during a Leap Year, refusing to give her presents and a bit of cake on the other years to acknowledge her daughter getting older.

  Bonnie knew she was pretty from the start. Mum’s lecher boyfriends noticed, always commenting on what a bonny lass she was. Being pretty when she was little was fine. She got an extra stick of gum or some chocolate for it. But as she began filling out, Mum’s boyfriends began giving her more attention than she wanted—chatting her up and pawing at her whenever they could.

  A shiver ran through her. Bonnie had to remind herself she was grown now and safe here in Gandiegow. But the memories kept coming. Her mum saw, but didn’t step in and protect her from her bluidy boyfriends. Instead Mum blamed her for leading them on with her perky tits. On the day the worst of them threw Bonnie on her bed, she kicked and screamed her way from underneath his alcohol breath and groping hands, only to find her mum smoking a cigarette on the couch in the next room. Bonnie ran off then, leaving the gray of Glasgow behind, heading north.

  She was barely thirteen when she stumbled her way into Gandiegow, ending up at Mrs. Coburn’s door. The old dear woman took Bonnie in, never telling her she was too pretty for her own good. From the start, Mrs. Coburn kept her safe. When Gandiegow came knocking, wanting to know exactly who the chit was, Mrs. Coburn backed up Bonnie when she’d told everyone her last name was Coburn, too, just like the woman who’d taken her in.

  Mostly Bonnie kept the past where it belonged. But lately, questions of her mother had been bothering her. Aye, Mum didn’t deserve any kind of consideration. But the questions kept coming. Did her mum ever try to find her? Or had she been happy to be rid of the girl she’d seen as a burden and competition. But mostly, she wondered if her mum was still alive.

  Without really meaning to, Bonnie left the view at the pub’s big window and went to the laptop propped open on the bar. Before she lost her nerve, she googled their old address. Maybe seeing a picture of the dump would remind her how horrible it had been and she’d give up these old, unproductive thoughts. But the rundown building had been gentrified, according to the first article to pop up. The bad side of Glasgow w
as becoming the hip place for the growing art community to live.

  Next, she typed in her mother’s name to see where she lived now. As the page loaded, Bonnie expected to see a police report. Instead, it was the one thing she feared most. An obituary. With her hand shaking, she clicked the link.

  WIGHTMAN, Anne, Suddenly at Glasgow Royal Infirmary . . .

  Bonnie stopped when she read the date. Fifteen years ago. Her mother had been gone fifteen years. The few words about her mum said nothing about flowers or a service.

  Bonnie choked on a sob. Her eyes fell on the small notebook which lay next to the laptop. The page was too blurry to read.

  “Well, that’s that.” She wiped away the tears. Now she knew, but that didn’t change anything. Since she was a teen, she’d put miles between herself and the woman who birthed her . . . both in distance and in her heart.

  “I’ve made something of myself,” Bonnie declared to the empty pub. She held two jobs—barmaid at The Fisherman and receptionist at the North Sea Valve Company. Her mother should’ve been so lucky. Gandiegow accepted Bonnie for who she was. They didn’t always think well of her, but they knew she was a hard worker. Lately, though, things had been changing, evolving, to where she was feeling more like a part of the community. The quilting ladies had even taught her how to sew. She was working on her third quilt and getting better with each one. But she had no mum to give a quilt to since Mrs. Coburn had died eight years ago. She’d been kind to Bonnie until the end, leaving her the small cottage, because Bonnie was the only family the old woman had.

  But it would be nice to have someone special to share her quilts with now.

  Bonnie closed the lid on the laptop and took her list back to the table by the window. She’d written down the name of every bachelor in Gandiegow from eighteen years old to eighty. Any one of them could potentially be her future. But on Leap Year Day, Brodie would be the first one she would propose to—the best looking, the best provider. She’d even bought a new dress for the occasion. If he said no, she’d take his coin—as was Gandiegow’s tradition—and go on to the next one on the list. Tuck was second, though he wasn’t as steady as Brodie. But she’d ask anyway, as he was sure to tell her no, too.

  She sighed. A girl could make a lot of money on Leap Year Day, a fiver for every rejection. But Bonnie wanted more than a little extra cash. She wanted a man to call her own.

  She looked up to see three boats coming into the harbor and suddenly she felt hopeful. The hope spread all the way into her bones that this coming year . . . will be my year to land a husband.

  * * *

  Rachel watched Brodie leave, wanting to run after him and tell him the job Deydie had wrangled her into after the Christmas Eve service—accuse someone in Gandiegow of being a thief. Rachel had a belligerent thought. What if I decide not to go through with it?

  Vivienne brought her back to the here-and-now by motioning to the room of quilters who were working furiously on last-minute presents. “This place wasn’t here six years ago.”

  Deydie and the others had relocated a distance away, but kept watch as if her mother were a rare bird. It was probably her mother’s tartan outfit which had them staring so intently.

  As Rachel guided her mother over to the tea and scone tray, she explained how she met Cait on the plane and how the Kilts and Quilts retreat was her brainchild. But she left off the bit about Graham.

  Vivienne’s eyes lit up. “Cait? Graham Buchanan’s wife?” Rachel should’ve known her mother would be up on the latest in People magazine. “Will I get to meet him while I’m here?”

  “I doubt it.” From what Rachel heard from the quilters, even though the biography had come out, they still fiercely protected him and his privacy. Deydie called him a son of Gandiegow.

  Vivienne looked around. “Where’s my granddaughter?”

  “At Abraham’s. Shall we go? We can take our scones with us.”

  Her mother wrapped hers in a napkin. “They are delicious.”

  “The best. From what I hear, Claire has a scone recipe for every day of the year.” Rachel grabbed her coat from the hook, but glanced anxiously at her sewing machine, where her mother’s patchwork quilt still needed a binding. She’d have to sneak back and finish it later. The two of them left, leaving the quilting ladies to watch them go.

  Once outside, Rachel had to know. “What are you wearing?”

  Vivienne looked down, admiring herself. “It’s Joe’s tartan.”

  “I know it’s Joe’s tartan.” She’d made Abraham’s picture frame out of the same plaid.

  Her mother continued on. “I ordered it a while back, and now I have an occasion to wear it.”

  Rachel wanted to argue with her on that point, but she dropped the subject. “You didn’t call and say you were on your way. I was worried.”

  “You always worry,” her mother scolded. “I’m fine. I wanted to surprise you.”

  Yes, Rachel had been surprised . . . surprised to see Brodie and her mother together.

  Vivienne sniffed and adjusted her gloves. “Brodie carried my things to Thistle Glen Lodge.” She frowned as if she wanted to complain about the service he’d provided, but apparently she’d decided to take the high road. “The quilting dorm is absolutely charming. It reminds a little of Sunnydale, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. It does to me as well.” Rachel stepped up to Abraham’s cottage and opened the door. “We’re here.”

  Vivienne raised a disapproving eyebrow.

  That eyebrow always put Rachel on the defensive. “Abraham said for us to make ourselves at home.” Besides, he was too ill to get up and down to answer the door all day. She put it aside and hollered down the hall. “Hannah, guess who’s here?”

  Her daughter came tearing out of the parlor with a wild and uncontained expression of joy on her face. “Grandma Vivienne!”

  Hannah slammed into her grandmother and the two of them hugged.

  This was why Rachel worked hard at not letting her mother get to her. Hannah loved her grandmother, and Vivienne was so good to Hannah that Rachel couldn’t stay upset with her mom for too long. Anyone who loved her daughter was special in Rachel’s book. Like Brodie, the voice at the back of her mind whispered.

  “Come meet Grandda,” Hannah said, pulling Vivienne’s hand.

  Vivienne glanced back at Rachel. “When did she start speaking with a Scottish accent?”

  “The moment she stepped foot in Gandiegow,” Rachel replied.

  “Well, she is Joe’s daughter,” Vivienne added, always on Joe’s side, always defending him.

  Rachel took the comment as another jab, though. Every now and then, her mother would hint that Joe might still be alive if Rachel had been a better wife and worked harder on their marriage. But Vivienne didn’t know everything about Joe.

  “Grandda, this is my grandma Vivienne.”

  Abraham looked up and laughed. “I know yere gran. Vivienne, come closer and let me see what ye’re wearing. The MacFarlane tartan?”

  “In honor of Joe,” Vivienne said. “Do you like it?”

  Abraham nodded. “It pleases me. Some might say ye shouldn’t wear it because ye’re not a Clacher, like me and Joe, and this little one here, but I say it’s grand. Perfectly grand.”

  Hannah tugged on her grandmother’s hand to get her attention. “I’m spending the night at Grandda’s tonight. He says Father Christmas is stopping here with presents for me!” She beamed up at Vivienne. “Gran, ye’ll be staying here with us.”

  “Gran?” her mother said to Rachel. “Since when am I Gran?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I guess starting right now.”

  Vivienne slipped off her coat and sat on the sofa with Hannah hopping between her two grandparents, putting on quite the show. Rachel spied the near empty plate of Christmas cookies, which explained part of her daughter’s hyperactivity.r />
  The front door opened and closed. Rachel held her breath.

  Brodie peeked in, looking uncomfortable. “I’m back, Grandda.”

  “Come greet Rachel’s mother,” Abraham said.

  Vivienne put her hand up. “It’s okay. We’ve already spoken. Brodie helped me get my bags to the quilting dorm.”

  “If ye’ll excuse me.” Brodie left the room and hastened up the stairs.

  Rachel understood . . . there were way too many Granger women in one room for him. Maybe too many in Scotland. “I’ll fix us some tea. Mom, are you hungry? That scone couldn’t have filled you up.”

  Hannah picked up the nearly empty cookie plate and held it out to Vivienne precariously. “Here are the biscuits, Gran. They’re yummy.”

  Rachel reached over and rescued the stoneware from sheer disaster. “I’ll bring a tray in a minute. Abraham, is there anything besides tea that I can get you?”

  The old man beamed at Hannah and the room in general. “I’ve got all I need.”

  Forty-five minutes later over Hannah’s commotion in the parlor, Rachel heard Brodie come down the stairs. He headed straight out the front door without saying boo to anyone. Was this an omen of things to come? But it’s Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t at least some of her dreams come true on this night of all nights?

  But the dreaded task of accusing one of the congregation after church floated back into her head and landed with a thump in the pit of her stomach. “We better get to Thistle Glen Lodge to clean up and get changed.”

  Abraham shifted toward her. “But ye’ll be back here after the service. We’ll have a light supper. Brodie arranged it with Dominic ages ago. Then tomorrow is the big feast.” He winked at Hannah. “I had Brodie increase our order because the little one can sure pack it away.”

  “Oh, Grandda,” Hannah said, smiling. “I don’t eat that much.”

  As the three of them walked back to Thistle Glen Lodge, Rachel’s nerves were getting the best of her. She glanced over at the boats tied up at the dock, wondering if she could stow away in one of them until Christmas was over. She really didn’t want to make that damned announcement.