Morgan led him to a stone dwelling that sat apart from the other homes on the lane. The porch light was on, illuminating riotous baskets of petunias and pansies and a black cat sitting on the windowsill.
“You’ll put me out of business,” Morgan said. “You and your fancy castle.”
The castle still belonged to Elias Brodie. “What is your business?” For a moment, Max wondered if she was in the oldest profession. In the UK, that wasn’t illegal—not quite.
“I own the shop between the bus stop and the grocery store. Some months, I sell more bug repellant than anything else, and I do a good trade in fishing gear and hiking supplies, but I also feature the work of local craftsmen and artists. By trade, I’m a weaver, but if an item is locally handmade, I’ll find a place for it in my shop. Pottery of all kinds, sachets, iron trivets, farrier’s puzzles, jigsaw puzzles. Almost every household creates something that’s both artistic and useful.”
Sleeping with the enemy was an age-old means of gaining a tactical advantage, though informing a man he was the enemy didn’t usually figure into the negotiations.
“The castle and the Hall will each have a gift shop,” Max said.
“I thought so.”
Morgan’s features by the porch light were merely stoic, as if the decimation of a business she’d likely spent years developing was merely another overdue bill.
“And those gift shops will need inventory,” Max went on. “If we stock the usual trite, predictable tchotchkes found in every tourist trap from here to London, we aren’t likely to move much merchandise. If we instead stock locally sourced goods, supplemented with a few tasteful items of general interest, we’ll have sales to show for it and save on shipping. We’ll also be in a position to direct people into the village, where more choices and perhaps even better prices are to be found.”
The cat hopped off the windowsill and sniffed delicately at Max’s jeans.
“That’s your plan?”
Max sat on the porch steps, because Morgan had apparently reached the part of the evening to which the previous flirtation and flattery had been leading. The cat appropriated Max’s lap and commenced purring.
“What I have to sell are fine accommodations in a beautiful setting,” Max said. “For conferences, family reunions, weddings… I want any group that needs a comfortable and gracious place to gather to look at Brodie Castle before they look elsewhere. I am not in the business of selling crafts. I am not interested in putting Fern’s pub out of business. I took on this project in part because I am tired of feuding—with zoning boards, farmers, local newspaper reporters, school boards that can’t be bothered to move a single bus stop for safety’s sake if it will add two minutes to a driver’s route…”
His thoughts were coming together as the words left his mouth, and they were the truth. He was tired of having to fight the community while finessing the site politics with his crews and cajoling the investors into honoring their obligations.
Tired of the usual development job, in other words.
“So you’ll leave on good terms,” Morgan said, coming down beside him. “But then you’ll be gone, and some wet-behind-the-ears MBA will get the bright idea to let an Edinburgh management service buy for your gift shops, and there won’t be anything you can do about it.”
“If that happens, that will be a year or two from now. You’ll have time to build your cyber footprint, establish relations with the castle management team, and tailor your inventory to the castle’s guest demographic.”
Though the dreaded tadpole-MBA might indeed become a reality. The money guys, increasingly, were money guys and little else. They wanted return on investment yesterday-if-not-sooner and didn’t see a symbiotic relationship with the local economy as a priority. Win-win was a cliché, usually trotted out when win-lose was all but obviously in the offing. The money guys never thought long-term, never realized that investing was supposed to take time to yield a return.
“What grand words you have, Max Maitland, but the boot’s on the other foot. You are betting the future of the castle on the ability of Deeside and its surrounds to attract a clientele that will keep you in business. Deeside was here long before Elias got the bright idea to bring in a developer, and Deeside will be here when your castle has crumbled into the loch.” She paused to scratch beneath the cat’s chin. “Shall I take you to bed?”
“Are you talking to me or the cat?”
“Both, I suppose, or whoever feels so inclined.”
Max liked sex, liked the physical pleasure, the affection, the sense of putting aside everything else to enjoy being a healthy, consenting adult.
He liked Morgan. Liked how direct she was, how philosophical, how bold.
He did not like that bedding him might figure in some instinctive calculation Morgan had made about the best way to preserve her livelihood, and he truly abhorred the notion that he might join her in bed and wish she was Jeannie.
After which, he’d feel predictably stupid in the morning.
“I’m flattered,” he said, passing her the cat, which had to weigh a good twenty pounds, “and I’m tempted.”
She remained sitting on the steps, the cat in her lap, a pretty, determined woman who didn’t look too disappointed to have been spared a night in Max’s company.
“What’s the but?”
“But I’m new around here, still figuring out when yes means yes, and soon means next week. I don’t have my bearings, and I need to go carefully.” He was talking a lot and not saying much, but then, Morgan wasn’t entitled to an explanation. She’d offered, he’d declined.
“Maybe a rain check,” she said, rising and cuddling the cat to her middle. “But probably not. You said there isn’t anybody back in Maryland, but I wish for your sake there was. Thanks for walking me home.”
She disappeared inside the cottage, though Max had the sense she was thanking him for declining her offer of “a wee dram.” On any other project, he’d have happily joined her, which was how he and Shayla had taken an interest in each other.
And look how that had turned out.
He ambled back the way he’d come and, by the light of a rising half-moon, made his way through the woods to the Baron’s Hall, which was cavernous, and full of potential, and also not his home.
“I don’t know where Bear-Bear has gone,” Jeannie crooned. “He’s hibernating.”
Henry went on howling against her shoulder, a child in misery on a lovely Saturday morning. Bun-Bun had somehow got raspberry jam on his ears and had been taken to the dry cleaner along with two of Jeannie’s silk blouses—job interviews required professional attire, not that Jeannie had any interviews lined up.
When Bun-Bun had to be surrendered to the cleaners, Jeannie’s usual strategy was to press Bear-Bear into service and distract Henry with walks about the tot lot or an outing to the park. Henry loved the ducks, though right now, Jeannie doubted even the ducks could console him.
“Please, child,” she muttered. “Please settle down before—”
The neighbor thumped the wall, which inspired Henry to unprecedented decibels of despair. Jeannie went into the bathroom with him and shut the door, though that only seemed to make his wailing reverberate against her last nerve.
“Henry, I love you from the bottom of my heart, but if you can’t cease this—”
Her phone buzzed, doubtless Millicent calling to tell her about a job opening in some janitorial firm halfway to John O’Groats…
She switched Henry to her other shoulder and swiped into the call. “Jeannie here.”
“Sounds more like Jeannie and a pack of screaming zombies.”
Max. Why was he calling now? “Henry is upset.”
“Henry is contemplating the end of life on the planet, from what I can hear. Is he cutting more teeth?”
“Probably.” Henry was also taking an intermission to grab for the phone. “I think he can hear your voice. Say hello.”
“Henry, are you trying to destroy your mama’
s hearing? Bad strategy, fella. He who bellows down the rafters doesn’t get many smooches.”
Henry’s little brows knit. “Mub!”
“He might be trying to say Max.” Jeannie held the phone slightly away so Henry could hear the conversation. “You haven’t perhaps come across a brown stuffed bear?” The longer she thought about it, the more certain she was that Bear-Bear was crammed among the couch cushions in Elias’s apartment.
“Brown fur, brown eyes, doesn’t say much?” Max asked. “I was calling to ask if he’d escaped from the diaper bag while you were here. Want me to put him in the mail?”
Today was Saturday, though by the time Max got to a post office, the mail would likely have gone, meaning the soonest the package might arrive was… Tuesday.
Henry whimpered and got a hold of Jeannie’s ear. “I’ll come get the bear,” Jeannie said. “I was supposed to spend my day drafting one résumé for event coordination and another for property management, but if Henry doesn’t get his bear, I’ll spend the rest of my weekend courting eviction.”
Again. When Henry had begun cutting teeth, he’d gone on a three-night crying jag that taught Jeannie about a whole new level of maternal worry.
“Jeannie, are you okay?”
No, I am not. She sank to the cold, closed lid of the potty. “It’s been a lively morning. If I leave now, I should be up there by about one p.m. Don’t feel you have to wait around for me. Just leave the bear in the kitchen, and I’ll find him.”
“I have homemade pizza sitting in the fridge, tempting me to overindulge. While you’re here, I’d like to discuss a situation pertaining to the castle.”
For homemade pizza, Jeannie would have trudged through drifted snow, uphill, with a—Henry had got a hank of Jeannie’s hair in his mouth and tugged sharply.
“What sort of situation, Max?”
“Nothing serious, but I don’t want it to become serious. Drive carefully and tell Henry his bear will be waiting for him.”
The call ended, and Jeannie stared at the phone. “I wasn’t going to see him again, wasn’t going to speculate about him, wasn’t going to miss him, or wonder how he’s getting on.”
Which pretty much described her past week. Fern had sent Jeannie an email earlier in the day, kindly attaching a photo of Max on the dance floor with Morgan smiling up at him. Morgan was a fine dancer and a lovely person, but did she have to look so damned pretty and charming and curvaceous when she danced?
“So single and free?” Jeannie asked, tucking the phone out of Henry range. “Not that I’d trade you for anything, Henry Charles Bascomb MacDonald Cromarty.”
Henry gave her a gummy smile, and of course, her heart melted. She wrestled him into his jacket, stuffed some extra baby clothes into the diaper bag, along with baby food and a couple of fresh bottles, and was on the road within fifteen minutes.
Not, of course, that she was in a hurry to see Max again.
Max was still grinning at his phone when Elias’s number showed on the screen.
“Maitland here.”
“You’ve got trouble,” Elias growled, “and if you have trouble, I have trouble, and my castle has trouble. And if my castle has trouble, then half of Deeside will soon be up in arms, blaming me for their every misfortune.”
Max wandered across the kitchen, taking Bear-Bear with him. Jeannie was on her way up from Perth, and nothing would ruin Max’s good mood.
“A Scottish burr can make even a struggling chicken farmer sound formidable. Have you had breakfast yet, Brodie? My crew chiefs are firm believers in managing blood-sugar levels. They discuss this at length when they should be doing some honest work. Morgan says hello, by the way. She’s pissed that you’d bring a viper like me into her Highland paradise.”
“I am not a chicken farmer. We own an egg operation, a very different proposition.”
Could anybody sound as affronted as a Scotsman? “My apologies, to you and the chickens. What has you in a swivet on this fine summer’s day?”
Max tossed Bear-Bear in the air and caught him, pleased beyond telling that Henry and his familiar would soon be reunited.
“Maitland, have you been at the whisky?”
“Your whisky? I wouldn’t go near it. Your pet ghosts would haunt me all the way back to Maryland.”
“They don’t look like ghosts, Maitland. The lord and his lady look like a handsome couple very much in love. Disrespect them at your peril.”
Elias Brodie was the kind of guy tailors probably loved to dress—tall and broad-shouldered, well portioned, great smile, sky-blue eyes. Then he opened his mouth, and that Scottish burr turned handsome into swoon-worthy, according to Max’s former admin.
The word peril, for example, came out sounding like a portent of doom: pairrrr-ill.
“I might get myself a kilt,” Max said. “I’ll practice strutting around, talking Scottish. ‘Hand me that wee hammer, Hughie me lad.’ And, ‘Cease yer bluidy natterin’, Fair-gus. Can ye no’ see I’m tryna wairk here?’”
“God save me, I’ve created a monster.” Elias sounded more amused than impressed. “Fortunately for you, Uncle Donald has decided to extend his fishing trip, or you’d find out what happens to a Yank who mocks our kilted laddies.”
“I’m managing,” Max said. “Thanks for asking. The crews seem willing to give me a chance, the Hall and the castle have good bones, and the locals are friendly. The paperwork has me a little worried, but when does paperwork do anything but cause worry?”
“Forget the paperwork, Maitland, there’s treason afoot. Pay attention, because Violet will soon be done visiting with her quilting group, and then I’m to go tomato shopping.”
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen. From murdering Englishmen in their beds to picking out heirloom toe-mah-toes.” Max set Bear-Bear on the windowsill, the better to watch for Jeannie’s arrival.
“Your boy Pete Sutherland is planning a sneak attack,” Elias said. “I’m friends with the spice heiress who once owned the farm I inherited here in Damson Valley. She’s a lovely older lady who’s been presiding over some garden club in Baltimore since Adam and Eve were chased out of Eden.
“Sutherland’s wife is a Scotswoman,” Elias went on, “with an interest in gardening, and she mentioned to Adelaide that Pete was planning to drop in at ‘his’ castle, oust the present project manager, and set himself up as director. He’s recruited some Canadian to do the actual work. Mrs. Sutherland is delighted, because Pete promised her a home in Scotland when they married, and that was several years ago. I am not delighted.”
Well, crap. “I’m not too happy myself. Pete Sutherland couldn’t manage his way out of a paper bag with a flashlight and a guide dog.”
Which, of course, was not Pete’s own assessment of his abilities.
Elias spoke more softly. “My contract with the investment consortium says that I’ll be consulted on all substitutions of key personnel, but I can’t stop Sutherland from changing out his staff. What the hell is he up to, Max? I assumed you had better control of your investors than this.”
So had Max. “He’s being Pete, meddling at the worst possible times in the worst possible ways. Any idea who my successor is supposed to be?”
“A woman. Has never managed a renovation, apparently, but can manage Sutherland.”
All of Max’s joy in the day, all of his delight at finding one small brown stuffed bear, wafted away on a summer breeze.
“With Pete, it’s frequently a woman. This is not good.” Pete was not the brightest guy to begin with, and when it came to the ladies…. “Sutherland in love—or his version of love—cannot be reasoned with. I could be Leonardo da Vinci, and he’d find fault with my engineering abilities. Whoever she is, she has chosen her mark well.”
“You’ve only been there a week. How can Sutherland find cause to toss you over?”
Dinty’s comment about Fergus being up to his armpits in time sheets came to mind. “Don’t you have to go tomato shopping, Elias?”
; “Soon.”
“I have a few reports to look over. When will I hear from your uncle Donald?”
“When you least expect it. He’ll come nosing around, flirting with the ladies, and telling everybody how to do their jobs. You’re safe for the next week or two, because he’s scored a Guest Past to fish in Bavaria.”
“Isn’t telling everybody how to do the jobs you’ve never attempted your role?”
Elias muttered something Max didn’t catch, then, “Violet says hello.”
“Give her my regards, and don’t be too concerned about Pete’s penchant for drama. He has too much money and not enough to do.”
“Keep me posted,” Elias said. “I mean that. Don’t think you can manage the renovation, spend days each month traveling, get the lay of the land in a foreign culture, and keep tabs on your idiot banker friends without support.”
Support was good, documentation was better. “You have my back?”
“I have to go tomato shopping. Don’t muck this up, Maitland. Violet will never forgive me if that castle falls into the wrong hands.”
The line went dead.
Max turned Bear-Bear around to face the kitchen. “Houston, we have a problem.” Several problems, if some woman had set her sights on Pete Sutherland’s deep pockets.
Part of Max wanted to jog up to the castle and start pawing through Fergus’s files, though the files weren’t going anywhere. If Pete Sutherland was planning a raid, then Max had better his ducks in a tidy, damned row.
He got out his sketch pad and began experimenting with possible layouts for a covered walkway, something not too architecturally awful, expensive, or unsightly that would connect the Hall and the castle without offending the historic preservation buffs, creating schedule delays, or generating cost overruns.
How hard could that be?
Chapter Ten
“Thought I’d find you here.” Hugh turned over a bucket and sat, knees splayed despite the fact that he wore a kilt. “We missed you last night.”
Scotland to the Max Page 13