Under Scottish Stars

by Carla Laureano

  “It doesn’t look like nothing.” There were stacks of blank stretched canvases and boxes of paints and brushes and wood-handled instruments he didn’t recognize. “You paint?”

  “I used to paint.”

  “Former painters don’t generally carry around art supplies,” he said gently.

  She didn’t meet his eye. Instead, she retrieved the guitar case and handed it to him, then slammed the boot. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

  “Good. You won’t stand me up, will you? It’s church, after all. I’m just thinking of your eternal soul.”

  She cracked a smile, the tension of moments before gone. “My eternal soul is safe, thank you very much. Or it was before you came along. Now go. We’ll see you there.”

  He grinned at her, then turned on his heel. He got only a few steps down the drive before he turned back. “Serena? Thanks again. You have no idea what this meant to Kylee.”

  That little smile surfaced again. “I think I do.”

  As he walked home with his niece’s guitar in hand, Malcolm wondered if Serena’s encouragement of Kylee’s musical pursuits came from more than just the desire to do a friend a favor.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE PARISH CHURCH that Serena and her family had attended for years sat on a quiet street in Portree, an eighteenth-century stone building with the arched stained-glass windows that had fueled Serena’s daydreams as a child. She had attended Sunday services elsewhere after leaving Skye, but there was something about this tiny village building, which had been the site of her spiritual education, that seemed particularly holy to her.

  She took Max first to the crèche, expecting some sort of objection from him, but he immediately joined a little girl on the rug and began playing with plastic dinosaurs. Em went to her Sunday school class with surprising enthusiasm. Instead, it was Serena who felt awkward standing at the back of the aisle, looking for Malcolm and Kylee among the pews. Almost as if he sensed her presence, Malcolm turned to scan the church and then raised a hand. She quickly walked down the aisle and slid into the space beside him.

  “Good morning,” he said warmly. “You made it.”

  “You were worried about the state of my eternal soul.”

  “And you made a rather daring accusation against me.”

  Serena leaned forward so she could greet Kylee, who wore a dress and cardigan that were far sweeter than the ripped jeans and studded belt she had worn yesterday. “Good morning, Kylee.”

  “Hi, Serena,” she said. “I’m happy you came.”

  “Thank you for letting me tag along.” She’d practically been bullied into it, but then Malcolm couldn’t know that she and God had been on sketchy terms lately. If she could call almost a full decade “lately.”

  The service was just as she remembered, beginning with a performance by the children’s choir. Then an unfamiliar minister took the pulpit for the morning’s message. The entire time she was aware of Malcolm beside her. He was so engrossed in the message that she thought he had forgotten about her until he brushed his finger against the back of her hand where it rested on the pew between them.

  She stared at the stained-glass windows, mesmerized by the colors and patterns as she had once been as a girl, the words of the minister fading into the background. An unexpected bubble of emotion welled up. She’d hoped being back here would be comforting, but she’d underestimated the strength of her memories. Staring through her tears at the windows in the months after her parents’ divorce, aware of her mum and Ian’s conspicuous absence on the pew next to her, ignoring the sympathetic stares from other parishioners. The self-consciousness had been relieved only by her fascination with the church’s art, her daydreams about what she would draw or paint when she got home.

  There had been so much she couldn’t express in words, especially not to the well-meaning church folk who saw her either as a part orphan, abandoned by her mum, or as a cautionary tale about the evils of divorce. She’d saved it all up inside, until it could be spilled out in oils, charcoal, watercolors. To their credit, Dad and Aunt Muriel hadn’t pushed, even when the subject matter of her work was disturbing.

  And then, somehow, somewhere, that well of emotion had dried up, been locked away like an abandoned church, its colors never to be seen again.

  “You okay?” Malcolm whispered in her ear.

  She realized she was biting her bottom lip so it didn’t quiver. She gave a terse nod and straightened, determined to keep her attention on the sermon.

  By the end of the service, her emotions felt strangely raw. She put on a pleasant smile as she walked into the vestibule with Malcolm and Kylee, but her hopes of making a clean escape evaporated when she saw the light of recognition in several older parishioners’ eyes. A gray-haired woman detached from the group and came her way. “Serena MacDonald?”

  “Hello, Mrs. MacDonald,” Serena said, aware of the strangeness of the address. They might share the same last name, but if she was related to the woman, it was only distantly. There had been MacDonalds on Skye for a thousand years. “It’s Serena Stewart now, actually.”

  “Right, right, of course.” The woman’s expression changed to one of sympathy and she patted Serena’s arm. “I heard about your husband, you poor dear. Why have you not been back? You know, Jamie came to visit us, even if he did make noise about lightning striking him.”

  Serena smiled. There probably wasn’t a longtime church member who didn’t remember the time that Jamie wrapped the reverend’s car in cling film—or any of the other pranks that had him in constant trouble. “He’s actually quite a responsible adult now, I assure you.”

  “Oh, I know he is, dear.” Only then did Mrs. MacDonald seem to notice Malcolm standing behind Serena with Kylee. “Oh, my! Hello, Malcolm. Did you two come together?” Her eyes took on a calculating light as she looked between them.

  “Not exactly,” Serena said at the same time Malcolm said, “Yes.”

  “We’re neighbors,” Serena explained. “And of course he works at the hotel. He thought it was high time I came back for a visit.”

  “Well, he’s a good boy. You know, you could do much worse than a fine man like Malcolm here. Why, I told my granddaughter Eisley that she really should get to know him better—”

  “Eisley fancies the fellow at the co-op,” Malcolm cut in smoothly, shaking the old woman’s hand. He lowered his voice, but it wasn’t low enough, because Serena heard him say, “Don’t worry, though. I’m working on this one.”

  He was working on her? Serena frowned at him, said her good-byes to Mrs. MacDonald, and then left the vestibule without explanation to Malcolm. When she returned with Max and Em in tow, he was waiting for her alone, his expression puzzled.

  “You’re angry at me.”

  “I’m not angry at you.” She tugged her children toward the door, hoping he wouldn’t follow, but he trailed her down the steps into the sharp morning wind.

  “Why aren’t you talking to me, then?”

  She paused at the bottom and pitched her voice low. “I just would have liked to discuss . . . us . . . before we talked about it with other people.”

  Malcolm looked amused. “I never said we were together. In fact, I implied I was pursuing you but you were resisting. I thought that seemed pretty accurate.”

  “But . . .” That was true. He hadn’t said they were together. It had just made her feel exposed, especially when she didn’t even know how she felt about him yet.

  “Unless you’re ashamed of me.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  He moved closer and whispered in her ear. “You’re embarrassed to admit that you’re dating someone who works for you. Who has to work at all.”

  She jerked her eyes to his face. “No! That’s not true.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She hesitated. “My parents’ divorce was a spectator event at this church. I just don’t like the idea of anyone involved in this . . . thing of ours . . . before we’ve
figured it out ourselves.”

  He considered a long moment, then nodded soberly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was a big deal. But I guess we’ve really not made anything official.” He leaned close. “I’d kiss you good-bye, but—”

  “Right.” She gave him a vague smile that felt wholly inadequate and watched him go with a lump in her throat. They were still okay, weren’t they? He didn’t seem angry, and he’d even apologized, which she hadn’t expected. But she still couldn’t help feeling as if she’d somehow made a huge mistake.

  Serena put on a happy face when they parked in front of Muriel’s house and she ushered the kids inside, even though she still felt sick to her stomach. This was exactly what she hadn’t wanted to happen. Weren’t men supposed to be all aloof and insensitive?

  That’s what you had the first time, and look how happy it made you. But Malcolm was nothing like Edward—in looks, in attitude, or in any of the ways that actually mattered. He seemed to be a genuinely caring person. The idea that she had hurt his feelings ate away at her relentlessly.

  “Auntie, we’re here!” Serena closed the door behind them and followed the delicious smell of cooking roast to the kitchen, where Muriel was sitting at the counter cutting potatoes. “What’s this?”

  Muriel lifted her face for Serena’s kiss on the cheek. “We’re having mash with our roast today.”

  “No, I mean why are you cooking? I told you to leave all the side dishes for me.”

  “Oh, nonsense. Stop fussing over me like I’m an invalid.”

  “Auntie,” Serena said sternly, “they took you to hospital by ambulance a week ago. You actually skipped church for the first time in forever. Of course I’m going to fuss over you.”

  Muriel waved her hand in her trademark dismissal. “I’m feeling fine. Now that I’m on the medication, things will be better. I’m just a wee bit tired is all.”

  “Which is why you should let me take over here.”

  Muriel sighed heavily, but she pushed the cutting board toward Serena, who washed her hands and got to work.

  “So how was your date Friday?” Muriel asked.

  Another pang, straight to her heart. “Good. It was nice.”

  “Then why do you look like your dog died?”

  Serena jerked her head up. Here she thought she’d been doing so well at hiding her feelings. “I don’t have a dog.”

  “Is Malcolm not a good kisser? I’ve always imagined he’d be a good kisser.”

  “Aunt Muriel!”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m old, not dead. I know a man with passion when I see one.”

  Serena smiled despite her heavy heart. “He’s a very good kisser.”

  “So what’s the problem, then?”

  Serena stopped chopping and put the knife down. “I think I mucked things up. I got angry with him at church for implying we’re dating.”

  “Are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Okay, I think I liked you better when you were playing the invalid. You were less nosy.”

  Muriel chuckled and put one thin-skinned hand on Serena’s wrist. “Serena, darling, that man has had his eye on you from the moment he met you. He was just too cautious to do anything about it until you showed some interest back. Do you really think he’s going to miss his chance to claim you?”

  Serena shook her head. “I’m not his to claim, for one thing. I’m not anyone’s to claim. One date is not a promise of commitment.”

  “When two people have as many responsibilities as you two do, making that leap to an actual public date is something of a statement.” Muriel headed off her next protest with a gentle smile. “I’m not telling you to marry the man. I’m just saying that if you finally went out with him—if you’re letting him spend time with your children—then there’s something about him that appeals to you. Something that’s worth exploring. I know you, Serena. You’re not going to let your heart leap before your head has fully considered all the angles.”

  It was so on the nose that it irritated her. Was she so predictable that everyone knew what she wanted before she did? “Maybe we’re just messing around. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Wheesht, Serena. Now you’re simply trying to be shocking. And it won’t work. You were a good girl then, and you’re a good girl now. Besides, you underestimate Malcolm if you think that’s what he’s looking for.”

  Muriel hadn’t been on the receiving end of that first kiss in her croft house. Then again, he hadn’t pushed matters at all after their date, and he’d left early. All his talk about church and setting a good example seemed completely sincere.

  Serena shook her head as if it would jolt the thoughts out, but it was too late. They were imprinted in her brain. Try as she might to tell herself she was just feeling things out with Malcolm, her heart was getting more involved each day. Had she ruined things with him with her carelessness this morning?

  The urge to see him and put matters right built with the passing hours, but when they finally returned home, Malcolm’s car was still absent from his drive. She pushed down her disappointment and hustled the kids inside. He was working, of course, while she enjoyed a leisurely Sunday with her family. It was impossible not to feel the inequity.

  She finally got the children tucked into bed and pulled out her laptop, only to find half a dozen messages from Jamie and Ian in response to her e-mail. She scrolled through the discussion until she got to the bottom line: they authorized her to make any decisions about personnel she deemed necessary, including allowing Malcolm to hire an assistant manager.

  She smiled to herself and stepped out into the night, finally armed with an excuse to go next door and talk to him, but his car wasn’t back yet. Instead of going straight inside, she wrapped the lapels of her cardigan around herself and leaned against the side of her car. A steady breeze blew off the water, carrying Skye’s signature scent of salt and peat and smoke and pushing clouds across the night sky in alternating patches of gray and diamond-studded blue. She tilted her head back and tried to pick out the visible constellations, their stories running through her head. All tragic, it seemed, though a few were laced with triumphant melancholy, such as Callisto, the sworn virgin seduced by Zeus and turned into a bear by his jealous wife, Hera, then placed in the stars for her safety.

  That tickle in her mind began again, like the shreds of a fast-fading dream. She grasped them, reeled them in until the prompting became too strong to ignore. Armful by armful, Serena transferred her art supplies from the car’s boot to her lounge: canvases, paints, her collapsible easel. In a near daze, she set up the frame, placed a stretched canvas on it, and began to squeeze out pigments onto a clean palette. She remembered to strip off her cardigan and shove up the sleeves of her long-sleeved T-shirt before she picked up the brush.

  It had been so long since she’d held one that the weight of it felt unfamiliar in her hand. The paint went on the canvas tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence. With each stroke, the gap between then and now seemed to close, her focus narrowing to nothing more than the square of paint-covered canvas before her and the vision in her head that seemed to come to life a little more with each moment.

  A knock startled her out of her trance, and she glanced at her watch. After midnight. She’d been at this for nearly four hours already? Who would be knocking at her door this late?

  She peered out the side window, her heart giving a painful lurch at Malcolm’s familiar form on her front step. He was practically giving her a medical condition with all the odd things his presence did to her. She flipped the latch and pulled the door open.

  “Hi,” he said, hands thrust into his jacket pockets. “Am I disturbing you?”

  “No, not at all. Do you want to come in?”

  He stepped past her tentatively. “I just got home, and I saw your lights were on.”

  “Yeah, I lost track of time.” She purposely didn’t look in the direction of her easel, but she
saw his gaze flick toward it anyway before he focused on her.

  “I wanted to apologize again. You’ve made it clear we’re just feeling things out, and the last thing I want you to think is that I’m pressuring you.”

  “I may have overreacted a little,” Serena said. “I haven’t dated in thirteen years. It feels—”

  “Strange?”

  “Strange. And good. And a little nerve-racking.”

  He stepped closer and lifted a hand to cradle the side of her face. “Serena, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  The sincerity in his expression and the intensity of feeling in his eyes twisted her insides up into one big confused muddle. Then he kissed her with such gentleness, she felt something break, as if his presence were causing actual physical barriers to crumble.

  He pulled back and smiled at her, then touched a finger to her cheek. “Do you know you have paint on your face?”

  Serena reached up to wipe it away, but it would take scrubbing to remove it. She bit her lip. “Do you want to see?”

  He nodded solemnly, and she crossed her arms over her chest as she moved around to the front of the canvas. She held her breath while he stared. And then after what seemed like forever, he said, “Wow.”

  “Really?” Relief left her in a whoosh. “It’s not finished yet.”

  “I know, but—” He reached out, then dropped his hand before he could touch the wet paint. “Wow.”

  “You said that already.”

  “It’s the only thing I know how to say. This is going to be incredible. It’s already incredible.”

  She looked back at the canvas and tried to see it through his eyes. It was a starry night sky—not Van Gogh’s, but an ancient’s—the swirl of color just beginning to outline the figure of Callisto in her process of transforming from human to bear among the stars. She knew too much not to see all its flaws, the places where her technique was weak or the reality diverged from her vision. But maybe, just maybe, it looked like art.

  “Is this Cassiopeia?” he asked.