Scotland to the Max

by Grace Burrowes

  “Max closed the deal,” Marty said. “He found the deal, he researched Elias Brodie with a high-resolution proctoscope, and he convinced Brodie to part with a thousand-year-old castle. Max knew what to say and when to say it. I’m not in favor of switching horses early in the race, and Max has only just arrived in Scotland.”

  Pete took a bite of Fourchu lobster supposedly flown in from Cape Breton Island that morning—gotta love New York restaurants.

  “So we give him a few weeks to put his signature organizational stamp on the project, then send him an assistant. When she has the lay of the land, we buy Max out and promote the assistant at a savings to us.”

  Marty chewed, knife and fork held in each hand. “You’re up to something. Maitland negotiated a hefty buyout, which we signed because we know he never walks on a project. Now you want to boot him before he’s unpacked his skivvies. What are you up to, Pete?”

  This was the problem with co-investors. Pete chose people he had enough in common with that he could trust them and communicate with them. Those same people tended to be a little too presuming, a little too familiar when a guy needed room to maneuver.

  “I’m not up to anything,” Pete said. “I’m developing options. You would never have heard of the Brodie deal without me.”

  Marty sawed off another bite of beef. “You would never have heard of the Brodie deal without Max, and you would never have closed the deal without me. Pass the salt.”

  Pete passed the salt after he’d sprinkled some on his lobster. “And as usual, this deal will make you a nice pot of money, the same as all our deals do.”

  “Not Poplar Cove, Petey-boy. You doubted Maitland’s handling of the locals, went up to the town meeting, and got your ass handed to you by none other than Elias Brodie’s current wife—or maybe she’s his duchess? I know squat about medieval titles. In any case, the last time you doubted Maitland, we all lost money. Leave him alone to do his job. If and when he screws up, then you’ll have a reason to put your current fling in charge, though she’d better know what the hell she’s doing. The Scots do not mess around.”

  And that was the problem. Mrs. Sutherland—the fourth and present Mrs. Sutherland—had been made some promises on the occasion of her marriage to Pete. Those promises had included at least six months of the year spent in her homeland, stepping and fetching for her aging parents. Pete had liked the concept in theory—a woman loyal to her parents wouldn’t abandon a husband who was no longer young—but the practice had eluded him.

  Scotland was cold, the people talked funny, and whisky wasn’t Pete’s drink of choice. If he had to move to Scotland, he’d at least take a few comforts with him, and one of his current comforts was Shayla Walters. Oddly enough, Pete had met Shayla through Max Maitland, who might have at one time had something casual with Shayla.

  Shayla was a woman who knew how to catch the bigger fish, and Pete had no intention of wiggling off her line.

  Why did life have to be so complicated?

  “All I’m asking you to do is think about hiring an assistant project manager for Maitland,” Pete said. “He’s the lone American on the job site, our only eyes and ears there, and he’s the new kid on the Scottish block. He’s the first one to champion redundant systems, backups, and safeguards for corporate memory. A number two on a project this complex only makes sense.”

  Marty crossed his knife and fork over a mostly empty plate. He was aging well and gave off an enviable sense of energy. Working out compulsively to hang on to fading youth was a phase. He’d get through it and soon realize the ladies didn’t mind a little paunch or thinning hair as long as a guy could still show ’em a good time.

  “I agree that a number two makes sense, but that is Maitland’s call. As project manager, he has final say on hiring and firing, because undermining his authority would be stupid. We’re not engineers, and you’re not a lawyer. We’re the money guys.”

  Marty was a lawyer. Had a degree from George Washington University’s National Law Center, summa cum laude, and all but whacking Pete over the head with his bar association creds was a game with him.

  “And the money guys, as we all know, have the final say regardless of what’s in the contract. How was the steak?”

  Pete changed the subject to trivialities because the conversation had advanced his objectives. He’d have dinner with Dwayne at the end of the week and tell him that Marty had mentioned the lack of a number two on the Brodie Castle project, and did Dwayne have anybody in mind?

  Dwayne seldom had more in mind than his next eighteen holes, leaving Pete free to “come up with a few names.” He’d mention that Shayla Walters was rumored to be finishing up her projects in Canada and would be an excellent second-in-command. She had worked with Maitland before and was willing to travel for the sake of professional advancement…

  Then would come lunch with Joe and Arnie, and soon, Shayla would be on her way to Scotland, so that when Pete capitulated to the missus’s grumbling, all the comforts of home would already be waiting for him in rural Aberdeenshire.

  It didn’t take an engineer with a law degree to solve the important problems, just a smart guy with some means and motivation.

  Chapter Seven

  The Hall’s ballroom was an interesting space. A minstrel’s gallery had been built along the longest interior wall, so musicians could be on hand without being underfoot. The eastern end of the vast room had been raised slightly, making it an ideal space for the kind of meeting Max hoped to start in about ten minutes. The washroom facilities nearest the ballroom were spacious if quaint. A terrace flanked the outside wall, opening to a lovely view of the valley, with the church steeple peeking above trees and fields in the distance.

  The place had enormous potential and endless problems.

  “I am getting rid of those damned antlers,” Max said, referring to the tiered display of antlers arranged on the wall opposite the stage.

  Jeannie passed him a plate laden with a thick roast beef sandwich, sliced veggies and dip, and chips. “You can sell them, I’m sure, but you should save a few for the lodge.”

  The property had a hunting lodge on some little lake—loch, rather—a few miles up the valley. “Can you take me out there after the meeting?”

  Max hadn’t pushed the idea that Jeannie should sign on as the project administrator, mostly because the timing wasn’t right. Henry had apparently kept her up half the night for two nights in a row—possibly for ten months in a row—Millicent had left a couple of messages that Jeannie hadn’t been pleased to listen to, and Uncle Donald wasn’t answering Max’s emails or Jeannie’s phone calls.

  In the bright light of day, Max was backpedaling from the idea of hiring Jeannie.

  He liked her forthright nature, liked how she jollied Henry through the day, liked that she kept her smarts and her fire mostly out of sight, then came out, both barrels blazing, at the times of her choosing.

  But Saturday night, he’d felt her hands sliding across his bare chest. He’d stoutly ignored the compulsion to touch his fingers to her lips when she’d hung over him to scoop up Henry. Then he’d scampered out of her apartment and stood in the chilly hallway for a long five minutes, arguing his idiot male parts into submission. He’d walked back to his bedroom rather than make an excuse to turn around and say something stupid to a woman who wanted only a good night’s sleep.

  The journey down the hall to his own bed had been long and lonely, and that was why hiring Jeannie was a dangerous idea.

  Max was lonely. He’d been aware of the empty feeling inside for a few years, ever since Shayla had dumped him for the oil fields of Edmonton, but as long as he’d had Maura to focus on, and could see for himself that she thrived, the loneliness had been subdued by busyness and job stress. Nothing and nobody could come between Max and the security he was determined to provide his sister.

  Jeannie was lonely too, Max was almost sure of it, the special kind of lonely that came around when a woman had no privacy from her offspri
ng and no intimacy beyond maternal demands.

  Work sites became microcultures, developing dialects, taboos, rituals, and relationships all their own. A single mom and a project manager who liked each other, who shared quarters—albeit in a hall with 127 rooms—and who worked in the same pressure cooker of a project office could too easily become entangled.

  Max had no room in his future for entanglement.

  “How’s your sandwich?” Jeannie asked.

  Henry was in a makeshift playpen of pillows in a corner of the stage. He’d been entertained by the racket of setting up chairs and a buffet table, but Max wondered if the floor wasn’t drafty.

  “The sandwich is terrific.”

  “Brodie beef,” Jeannie said, taking the ponytail holder from her hair. She shook her head, sending blond locks cascading about her shoulders. The movement was unconsciously feminine, as was the competence in her hands when she gathered up her hair and refastened the band around it.

  “Get yourself a plate while Henry is distracted,” Max said. “Fergus and his merry band will soon be here, and there won’t be a sandwich left.”

  Fern Logan was going down the table, counting off items against a list. Jeannie took up a paper plate and moved toward the veggie dips, while Fern approached Max with her list.

  “All present and accounted for. I set aside some extra and put it in the kitchen. You’re going to leave Henry up on the stage, lord of all he drools upon?”

  Max finished crunching a stalk of celery, though he’d save the last piece of carrot to distract Henry with in case the kid started fussing.

  “Henry’s happy in his blanket and pillow fort. If Henry’s happy, Jeannie’s happy.”

  “And that,” Fern said, “makes you happy. Break Jeannie’s heart and I’ll poison your sticky toffee pudding, Mr. Maitland.” She was smiling, beaming at him, in fact.

  “What if she breaks my heart?”

  Fern patted his arm. “You’re on your own, Yank. I’ll be down in the kitchen until you’re ready for seconds, though please make the lads dump their trash. Tell ’em Fern said so, or nobody gets any complimentary pints until Christmas.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She disappeared through the doors that led to the kitchen, and Fergus sidled up to Max. “Scotland is run by fierce women. They feed their menfolk into submission, and we’re docile as lambs.” He was chomping on a brownie, and the look on his face suggested Fern’s sweets had him thoroughly conquered.

  “So how do you subdue the ladies?” Max asked.

  “We don’t. We love ’em as they are.” Fergus took his plate and sat on the lip of the stage as men in steel-toed boots, work kilts, jeans, and work belts filed into the ballroom. The noise level rose accordingly because the ballroom was a temple to hard surfaces.

  When everybody had a plate, Max took the place beside Fergus. “You about ready to call this meeting to order?”

  “Are there any desserts left?”

  Max took a gander at the previously full table. “Not many.”

  “Then we’d best be about it.” Fergus stood and passed Max his plate.

  “Listen up, lads, the Yank wants to say something.” He sat back down. “Your meetin’s called to order. If you don’t want those chips, I’ll be happy to see that they don’t go to waste.”

  Max handed Fergus the plate, but before he could get to his feet, Jeannie had taken the steps to the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—and you too, Dinty—if you’d take your seats please and put your phasers on stun, I’d appreciate it.” Dinty, a skinny guy with flaming-red hair, saluted Jeannie with a pickle. “A couple of announcements first.” She paused while chairs scraped, cell phones were set to mute, and the room quieted.

  “Thank you. I’ll be brief, because I know you are ready to brawl over the last few bites of Fern’s shortbread. If you get blood on this ballroom floor, Lady Brenna will curse you with ingrown toenails and you won’t be able to dance at Friday’s ceilidh. First order of business is thanks to Fern for coming up with the spread on short notice. Bin your trash, or you’ll answer to her. Second order of business is that some of you have doubtless fallen behind on submitting time sheets. Catch yourself up quick, or no paycheck.”

  She sent Max a smile. “I’m allowed to say that, aren’t I, Mr. Maitland?”

  Fergus answered around a mouthful of chips. “You’re a cruel woman, Jeannie Cromarty. See what we’ve put up with, Maitland?”

  Jeannie blew Fergus a kiss. “Love you too, Fergus.”

  Catcalls and hoots followed, while Max tried to figure out what, exactly, Jeannie was doing—besides charming sixty people at once—and how she was doing it. This was how a project meeting should be done—part pep rally, part briefing, part family reunion.

  “The second announcement is that the man who conceived the Brodie Castle renovation project and convinced Elias Brodie to commit to it has arrived in our midst. Max Maitland is prepared to take up the thankless job of making sure you lot transform our favorite pile of rock into an international hospitality venue we can all be proud of. Give a warm welcome to Mr. Maitland, friends, or I’ll toss you all from the parapets.”

  She led the applause, which qualified as polite—barely—and Max took the podium.

  “Thank you,” Max said, though what he saw on the faces before him was not gracious welcome, but rather, thinly veiled skepticism. “Fern will bring up more desserts when I’m finished speaking, and I promise I’ll only take up about ten minutes of your time—for now.”

  This merited a few cheers from the back.

  “I’m both an attorney and an engineer, which ought to give almost everybody in the room reason to distrust me.” That wasn’t a joke, but somebody laughed. “I know that, and so I make it a point to prioritize honesty. You don’t like me, that’s fine, but say so to my face rather than spreading rumors in the break room. We’re setting up a break room, by the way. If I have a problem with your work, you’ll hear about it from me. You’ll have a chance to speak on your own behalf and correct mistakes. I’ll make mistakes, I’m sure, and I expect you to call me on them.

  “I’m not skilled in any of the trades, so I will rely on you, who are very skilled, to keep this project moving forward. My job is to prevent trouble, solve problems, and keep us on schedule and within budget. Mostly, I keep the money guys from interfering with the people who actually do the work. Give me the information I need to do my job, and you’ll have work on this site for a long, lucrative time.”

  Henry, who’d been watching the proceedings from his pillow fort, tried to climb over a couch bolster pressed into service as an infant bumper. Jeannie was busy downing her sandwich while Fergus whispered in her ear.

  “Any questions?” Max asked as Henry made another attempt to scale the pillows.

  “Any chance the money guys will be underfoot any time soon?” somebody asked. “Don’t fancy a lot of suits telling me how to do m’ job.”

  “Neither do I,” Max said, “which is why we’ll implement site safety protocols, effective today. Nobody except project employees gets into the castle without an escort and hard hat provided by the project office, and certain areas will be declared off-limits to visitors in the interests of minimizing our liability for injuries. Say the word liability to the money guys, and they get real cooperative real fast. If they do visit, they’ll snoop around according to our rules when they’re on our turf. Next question?”

  Henry was determined to escape and had his front end up on the bolster, while his legs pushed and churned in an effort to gain him the purchase he needed to clear the obstacle. One more good shove, and he’d…

  Go right over the round bolster and do a face-plant on the cold, hard stage floor, his legs hung up on the bolster and kicking madly.

  The little guy started whimpering, then howling, and before Jeannie could set down her plate, Max scooped Henry up.

  “I think you all know Henry. Next question?”

  Henry knew how to w
ork a room. He grinned at the audience, waved at Jeannie, and grabbed for Max’s nose.

  “Is wee Henry on the payroll, then?” somebody asked.

  Another voice answered from the back, “Wee Henry could swing a hammer better than you do, MacTaggert.”

  A third voice joined in. “My auld grannie could swing a hammer better than MacTaggert does. He’s more interested in swingin’ his wee, shriveled—”

  “No bad language in front of the boy,” Max said, “by order of his mom.”

  Jeannie waved. Nobody commented.

  “Any more questions?”

  Fergus spoke up. “When’s Fern coming back with seconds?”

  Fern called from the doorway, “I’m waiting for you lot to leave off setting a bad example for the youth of Scotland.”

  Max shifted Henry to his hip. “Then I’ll conclude my remarks with thanks for all your hard work and a standing invitation to discuss any issue at any time.”

  As a polite stampede in the direction of the buffet commenced, Jeannie took Henry from Max. “That went well. They like you.”

  “They like Henry, and they love their chow.”

  “Saving a castle is hard work, I’m told. You really will need to ride Fergus for timely paperwork. He’s a good supervisor, knows the job inside out, and gets on well with the crews, but documentation is his least-favorite duty.”

  “Then Fergus and I will have to come to an understanding, because documentation is how the investors know their money is being spent responsibly. Did you get to finish your sandwich?”

  “I did,” Jeannie said. “Shall I run you out to the hunting lodge? It’s very pretty. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert borrowed it more than once when they wanted a respite from construction at Balmoral.”

  Max led Jeannie out onto the terrace, which overlooked the front drive. Her little Audi sat at the foot of the steps. Max had stashed the diaper bag in the back seat after breakfast, his emotions a blend of relief that Jeannie hadn’t mentioned his job offer again and regret that she was heading back to Perth.