“Another guy thing, Mr. Maitland?”
Max thought back to 911 calls, social workers, and mornings at the bus stop hoping, hoping, hoping somebody had dropped a quarter that Max could pick up without being noticed.
“A kid thing. We’re protective of our parents.”
A car went by, and still Jeannie regarded Max with that Mona Lisa mom-smile. “I think you will turn the castle into one of the most sought-after international wedding destinations in Europe. Shall we be on our way?”
God, yes. Max climbed into the car while Jeannie dealt with Henry and his baby seat. By the time she pulled back onto the road, Henry was slurping contentedly on his fist, and Max was desperate to avoid the inevitable questions.
Where did you learn to change a diaper?
How did you know that was a change-me cry?
Who told you a diaper shouldn’t be too tight about the baby’s middle?
He got out his phone and pretended to scroll through email, but they’d apparently hit a patch of Scotland with no cell reception.
“Tell me some more about the family legends,” Max said. “And not the ones that involved international weddings or royal honeymoons.”
Henry blew another raspberry, while Jeannie obliged with tales of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert—nine royal offspring, for the luvva kilted laddies—Aberdeen-Angus bulls, royal tartans, and Max knew not what the Sam Hill else.
He should not have changed that kid’s diaper, and the castle could not come into view too soon.
Chapter Three
“I want to go to Scotland.” Maura used her inside voice and looked at the person she was talking to, because those were the rules. The rules were often dumb—people could hear you whether you looked at them or not—but Max said looking at people that way was polite.
Looking at people at other times was staring, and that was not polite. Even Max hadn’t explained the difference very well.
“We’ve had this discussion, Maura.” Miss Fran was about to count to five, which Maura hated.
“You cannot go to Scotland. You’d have to fly across the ocean in a big plane for hours and hours. Max will visit you in a few weeks, but he needs to focus on his new project.”
They were having this talk in the living room. Pammie was in her bedroom playing solitaire, and Joan was having breakfast with her aunt, because Joan always had breakfast with her aunt on Saturdays.
While Max always had a new project and he always worked. “If Max can fly across the ocean, why can’t I? We could have dinner. We have dinner on Fridays, but he went to Scotland instead.”
Maura hated Scotland, because Max would rather be there than have dinner with her.
Miss Fran brushed Maura’s bangs aside, which made Maura want to bat her hand away. “Please don’t touch me.”
“Maura…”
“I said please. We keep our hands to ourselves.” Another rule that not everybody followed.
Miss Fran’s smile was tired. “You’re right, we do. Would you like to write Max an email?”
“I could text him.”
Miss Fran’s smile faded to that what should I tell her? look Maura saw all too often. Miss Fran was a very nice cottage manager, but if she was really, truly nice, she would help Maura get to Scotland.
“Because the ocean is so big,” Miss Fran said, “Max’s phone can’t get texts from us here until he gets his plan updated. He can read emails, though.”
Max had told Maura the same thing over and over, but it still made Maura want to cry. “I miss Max.”
“You saw him Thursday, Maura, just the day before yesterday. You had a long talk with him yesterday morning and he promised he’d call you before you ate dinner today.”
“I miss Max, and I want to go to Scotland.”
Miss Fran straightened the pillows on the couch, though Pammie would just mess them up again.
“Inside voice, Maura. Let’s write Max an email and tell him how much you miss him. We could also make a calendar, to count the days until Max’s next visit.”
“Can I use the markers?”
“Yes, you may use the markers, and the ruler, and we’ll start our morning with some hot chocolate to inspire our creativity.”
“I like hot chocolate. I want whip cream and sprinkles on mine.”
“Don’t we all?”
“And I want to go to Scotland.” Maura had waited until Miss Fran had left for the kitchen to mutter that. She wanted to go to Scotland, and she missed Max, and a few weeks was forever, and she was not going to wait that long to see him again.
Mommy guilt followed Jeannie everywhere. She should be more attentive to her son. She should set firmer limits. She should get a full-time job. She should work from home… Maybe talk the family into buying more cottages, so she could buy more tulips and bake more brownies, while eking out a living on the manager’s percentage of the income and waiting for Henry to grow past infancy.
She should never have trusted Harry to be a father.
She should never have trusted herself to be a mother.
She should have anticipated becoming a mother and handled her finances differently.
And she should most assuredly have said no when Uncle Donald claimed a schedule conflict prevented him from dealing with Mr. Maitland’s delayed flight.
“This is the castle village,” she said. “The old people still call it that. On the maps, it’s Strathdee. In theory, the earl owns this village, and everybody pays him annual rent.”
“In cash on the barrelhead?”
“Elias arranges a ceilidh at the pub every December, puts out a tip jar, and the proceeds go to the Anglers Charitable Society or the Kilts and Quilts.”
Mr. Maitland was watching the village go by, just another collection of low, gray stone cottages, a general store, an pharmacy, a few shops… and the pub, of course.
“Kilts and Quilts sounds like some romance-reading group.”
“They took the name from a romance series written by a lovely American author. The group makes quilts for newborns. Henry has one. Bunnies, teddy bears, robins, and butterflies backed with flannel.”
Jeannie had tried to be gracious about the gift—the quilt was wonderful—but the ladies and gentlemen making those quilts distributed them “to the less fortunate,” and how that had stung. When had Jeannie Cromarty become less fortunate? How had that happened?
Harry MacDonald was how, and her own stupidity.
“What is it with Scotland and flowers?” Mr. Maitland asked, for every stoop and window box was abloom with pansies, geraniums, and all manner of floral color.
“The days are very long this time of year. The flowers like that.”
“The castle’s construction crew is liking it too. Overtime out the… ears.”
Maxwell Maitland was focused. He’d never let his life get tossed into the ditch by what should have been a passing fancy. Jeannie resented him a little for that—and admired him too.
“Have you hired a landscaper yet?”
“It’s on the list.”
“We’ve an in-law, Declan MacPherson, with a landscape and gardening business. You might know his wife, Megan. She used to own a flower shop in Damson Valley, and I believe you hail from there.”
“I was not a frequenter of flower shops. Holy… Ned, that’s a castle.”
High up on the hill behind the village, the castle rose like a benevolent guardian. The curtain wall had stood for centuries and would likely stand for many more, an undulating granite façade against blue sky and green hills. The castle itself rose from the bailey, thrusting up fanciful turrets and towers from crenellated parapets. Mature trees marched up the slope—great oaks, stately pine, a smattering of lesser citizens—giving the castle a postcard-perfect setting.
“The first three earls did a wonderful job of taking a genuine medieval castle and blending it with baronial additions,” Jeannie said. “Liam brings his architecture students around every year to study a thousand years of Sco
ttish building practices in one location.”
The castle winked out of view behind the trees as the car began to climb the hillside.
Mr. Maitland was tapping a note into his phone. “Bet this hill is a bear when it snows.”
“We have plows, Mr. Maitland. Weather forecasts, even, and salt trucks.”
Henry, with the timing known only to infants, was stirring awake in the back seat.
“Plows cost money, and road salt is bad for the environment and most road surfaces. Costs money too.”
The enormous wooden doors to the bailey stood wide open, so Jeannie drove through into the inner court. The car bumped over the cobbles as she eased it around the building supplies stacked and sitting under tarps.
Even on a Saturday, the castle was bustling. A fine baritone from inside was bellowing through “Green Grow the Rashes, O.” Somebody else was pounding away with a hammer on the upper floors. A power saw whined intermittently, which should have set Henry to screaming when she extracted him from his car seat.
Instead, Henry gazed raptly all around, much as Mr. Maitland did. “Your castle, sir.”
“My project, not my castle,” he said, turning in a slow circle. “The pictures don’t do it justice.”
A small tension eased inside Jeannie. She had wanted Mr. Maitland to like the place, to see the possibilities and the history here, not the problems, of which there were many. That was another reason she’d passed the project reins into other hands.
“I’ll take you to meet your foreman,” she said. “Fergus can give you a tour of the facility while I get Henry his lunch.”
Mr. Maitland left off visually scaling the parapets. “You’re abandoning me?”
I have a life, she wanted to retort. Employment adverts to pore over, a mountain of laundry to do, flower boxes to fill because they’re the only thing keeping me going.
Besides Henry, of course. The truth was, she no longer had much of a life beyond two a.m. feedings, Henry’s irregular nap schedule, and bills that piled up no matter how hard she tried to minimize them.
“The drive back to Perth is long,” she said. “You’ll be in good hands here. Fergus can show you the path down to the Baron’s Hall, and you can order any groceries you need from the local supermarket. I wish you the best, Mr. Maitland.”
Fergus MacFarland, the project foreman, strode from the castle’s main doors, which stood open to the morning sun.
“Miss Jeannie Cromarty, big as life with the wee man himself. How’s our Henry?” Fergus was a dark-haired, blue-eyed man who stood several inches over six well-muscled feet, all of him exuding energy and good cheer. He plucked Henry from Jeannie’s arms, which earned him a gummy smile.
Henry liked men. Once upon a time, Jeannie had too.
“Fergus, this is Mr. Maxwell Maitland, and he’ll need a tour of the premises such as only you can give. Mr. Maitland, your project foreman and the Scottish caber-tossing champion from the year—”
“Enough of that ancient history.” Fergus shifted Henry to one hip and stuck out a callused hand. “I’m also your head pain in the arse, most days. Pleased to meet you.”
“A thankless job,” Mr. Maitland replied, “but somebody has to do it. Thanks for coming in on a Saturday.”
A subtle shift in Fergus’s gaze suggested that had been a shrewd place to start.
“Come on, then,” Fergus said. “I’ll drag you around the castle while you’re still too jet-lagged to comprehend all the horrors you face.”
Now that the moment to part had come, Jeannie wished she’d found an excuse to tarry. Max Maitland was an adult, somebody other than family, and he took Henry in stride, wet diapers and all. Around him, Jeannie had had something to talk about besides teething, crawling, playdates, and whether Henry was loving or hating applesauce this week.
“You have something that belongs to Miss Jeannie,” Mr. Maitland said.
“This wee parcel of trouble?” Fergus held Henry high above his head on arms roped with muscle, and Jeannie’s stomach dropped as Henry’s expression shifted to terror.
“Heights don’t agree with Henry,” Mr. Maitland said, appropriating the child from Fergus’s grasp. “And when Henry is displeased, he could bellow down even these walls.”
He passed Jeannie her child and smoothed a hand over Henry’s red hair.
Fergus widened his stance and put his hands on his hips. “You can’t coddle ’em when they’re that young. I have three younger brothers, Mr. Maitland, and I hope you’re God’s gift to castle renovation—for nothing less than God’s gift will bring this old pile right—but if you’re appointing yourself an expert on baby boys, we’ll have a few words.”
Fergus dealt the livelong day with stone and the men who crafted their livelihoods from it. He’d learned to be forceful and relentless, which was a fine thing in a mason. Jeannie had little use for that approach to raising children.
“I am no expert on baby boys,” Mr. Maitland said, “but I do know that Jeannie is Henry’s mom, and until she gives me permission to take Henry aloft, buy him a round, or talk with him about girls, I’d best respect her wishes.”
“Henry’s getting over a wee cold,” Jeannie said before anybody started pawing the cobblestones, though, really, Mr. Maitland’s display of respect was… endearing. “I’ll get him out of this breeze, and you two can be about your business. Mr. Maitland’s luggage has yet to find him, Fergus, and he’ll need somebody to show him the path down to the Baron’s Hall. The pass code is 1314.”
“The year Robert the Bruce kicked the English in the cods at Bannockburn,” Fergus said. “Easy to remember. Don’t suppose you brought the lads one of your signature batches of shortbread, Jeannie Cromarty?”
“She made brownies,” Mr. Maitland said. “The guys at the garage near the cottage got them.”
“Reived our brownies?” Fergus said. “And you let those lackwit MacShanes get away with this?”
“Lulling them into a false sense of security,” Mr. Maitland replied. “Jeannie, if you can spare a minute, I’d like a word.”
“I’ll be in the solar,” Fergus said. “Just keep going up and up from the great hall until you can’t go up any higher.” He strode back into the castle, work kilt swinging about his knees.
“He’ll be a problem,” Mr. Maitland said.
“He’s among the best in the world at what he does,” Jeannie replied. “At least in his own opinion. Our head mason, Nick Aiken, can usually make him see reason if nobody else can.”
“The best in the world is no use to me if he’s not also willing to compromise, listen, and take direction from the other experts on the work site. I think I need a nap.”
“I need to get home.” Back to a council flat in a not-very-pretty part of town. Back to endless laundry.
Mr. Maitland left off frowning at the open castle doors and turned blue eyes on Jeannie and Henry. “Don’t be a stranger, Jeannie Cromarty. Come around to see how we’re doing, and you don’t have to bring brownies or shortbread. You do have to bring your little buddy, though.”
Mr. Maitland smiled at Henry, who was all grins now that he was clinging to Jeannie.
“Don’t let the crews push you around, Mr. Maitland. They need to know you are the authority on this project. Make them document their work on time, and inspect everything regularly and irregularly.”
Mr. Maitland walked with her to the car. “I need to thank you for that too. Elias Brodie said you straightened out the paperwork mess left behind by the previous earl, kept the crews in paychecks, and prevented the project from dying on the vine. We’ll name the bridal suite after you if you like.”
That was meant as a compliment. It only felt like a dagger to the heart. “I needed a project, Mr. Maitland. I can’t be buying tulips and baking treats all the time. Best of luck.” For abruptly, it had become imperative to get this parting over with, which was silly.
“One last thing: I need directions to the Baron’s Hall if my luggage is to find me.”
“I’ll text them to you, or email them. Call me if you need anything.” That last offer was said automatically to any cottage guest Jeannie encountered. She’d used to say the same to family, before… Henry. And they had called her, which was how she’d become entangled in the castle paperwork and the cottage.
They didn’t call her now.
“Good-bye, then,” Mr. Maitland said, touching a finger to Henry’s cheek. “You made my arrival in Scotland not only bearable but gracious. I saved this for you.”
He withdrew a small square wrapped in cellophane. A brownie. Jeannie’s mouth watered at the sight. She ought not to take it. He was the guest, the newcomer, the one deserving of hospitality.
She took it. “Thank you.”
She kissed him again, intending a brush to his cheek, but his arms came around her gently—not the half-self-conscious squeeze she endured from cousins or uncles, but an embrace. Henry was included in that gesture, carefully, lest he realize he was in the midst of an opportunity to fuss.
For little more than an instant, Jeannie let herself be held, let herself be close to a man she’d likely never see again, outside of a possible Christmas gathering. Max Maitland was tall, fit, male, and warm. His scent was lovely and light—woods and spice.
Jeannie barely had time to wonder if he’d left somebody at home in the States, a female somebody. Then Mr. Maitland was stepping back, and Henry got his fist entangled in Jeannie’s hair.
“Safe journey home,” Mr. Maitland said. “Wish me luck with the castle.”
“Good luck.” Jeannie extricated her hair from Henry’s little fingers. “Call if you need anything.”
Mr. Maitland retreated to the foot of the castle steps, and Jeannie loaded Henry into the car seat. She bumped over the cobbles through the open gates and mentally wished Mr. Maitland all the luck in the world.
He’d need it.
Chapter Four
Max had taken on two other renovation projects in his twenty years in the development business. They had both been disasters, going egregiously over budget while they limped along months behind schedule. Both times, he’d promised himself never again.
Scotland to the Max Page 4