Scotland to the Max

by Grace Burrowes

  Mag—? Right, Maguire. Interesting angle. “He might. I can’t tell where the discontent started, Max, but it’s real and it’s not going away. You’re trying your best—I say that honestly, and I’ll see if I can get you some severance—but nothing I’ve seen today tells me you’ve figured out how to make a profitable, unified venue out of two white elephants.”

  Something was different about Maitland, something besides the fact that he was in jeans and a button-down instead of a three-piece suit. The old Max would have come off that balustrade citing contract chapter and verse, case law, and material facts, all in anticipation of a rousing negotiation. They’d have come up with a dollar figure that was high enough to soothe Max’s pride, low enough that Pete could sell it to other investors, and conclude with a handshake.

  This Max remained right where he was. “I am owed much more than severance, Pete, and when I find out what has caused this protracted exercise in stupidity on your part, we’ll see if I’m owed additional damages as well. How’s the missus?”

  “She’s threatening to stop by and see the castle. Said she once attended a house party at the Hall. First, she’s going to get me in hock up to my retirement assets buying some damned castle of her own.”

  “Is she the problem?”

  Dear Mrs. Sutherland was increasingly a problem. Vague references to the prenuptial agreement, along with shopping trips that now lasted weeks instead of days… No wonder a guy developed a wandering eye when his own wife wasn’t interested in being a wife.

  Maybe Shayla… but no. Divorce was a mighty expensive proposition, even with an airtight prenup—sometimes, especially with a prenup—and for the most part, Pete liked his wife.

  “You are the problem,” Pete said. “You got us into a project that’s going to cost a bundle rather than make a bundle. I’m calling an emergency meeting of the board, Max. I have no choice.”

  Maitland rose, though he stayed by the railing, gaze on the castle gleaming against the sky atop the tree-covered hill.

  “We all have choices, Pete, and you are making a mistake. I don’t have time to argue you around, because I have a plane to catch.”

  “I’ll have to bring that up with the board too, Max. You have a project on the brink of disaster, and you’re nipping back home for reasons I cannot fathom. Your job is here.”

  Maitland shaded his eyes to watch a pair of birds glide above the treetops. Pete was no ornithologist, but they were big damned birds, probably raptors.

  “My contract says otherwise,” Maitland replied. “My contract says I get trips home, regularly, and I’ve already cut this one short to humor your nonsense. You’ve shut down the storage box with further ineptitude and insulted my site manager with your cultural insensitivity. If that’s not undue interference, I don’t know what is. Call your board meeting, and we’ll see what the other investors have to say.”

  Well, that was more like it—a little posturing, but with a lot less fire than Pete had anticipated from Maitland. Maybe Max was considering the severance, or he had a job interview in Maryland. That would make sense. Bit off more than he could chew and needed a little time to get his options together.

  “The board will have a virtual meeting tomorrow, then. I’ll let you know if you still have a job on Monday.”

  Maitland ceased his birdwatching. “No, you won’t. The by-laws say you can’t get rid of me except through a meeting of the full board, and all full board meetings, even the emergency meetings, must be held during regular business hours, as those hours apply to both Scotland and the US Eastern Time zone. You have a three-hour window on Monday afternoon to hold your meeting, and I’ll be back by then to attend in my ex officio capacity. Enjoy your walk to Morgan’s cottage. My regards to your missus.”

  He left Pete standing alone in the brutal sunshine, belly roiling, head pounding, and bones aching. For that alone, Pete would make sure Max Maitland lost his job—and got not one dime of severance or payout.

  The train from Perth to the Edinburgh Airport took a little over an hour, and the journey was through pretty country. Max would be making this trip often, taking advantage of the direct flights between Edinburgh and Newark or Edinburgh and Dulles. Another train trip would get him down to Baltimore, and from there, a rental car would take him to Maura’s doorstep. The whole thing could be done in less than twelve clock hours, because five time zones worked in Max’s favor flying west.

  Flying east in time to make Pete’s board meeting would mean a red-eye from Dulles into Heathrow, a connecting flight from London up to Edinburgh, another train trip, and then a drive through the Scottish countryside.

  All on very little sleep.

  Max’s last email to Maura had gone unanswered, but then, she was pissed at him for getting a late start to this visit. He was pissed at Pete Sutherland.

  The question of who was pulling Pete’s strings had nagged at Max’s mind all the way to the airport. As he’d shuffled through security—no bags to check—and made his way to the gate, he’d dragged along many theories, but no answers.

  Maybe Pete was encountering a health problem.

  Maybe early-onset dementia was playing a role.

  Or gambling losses.

  Maybe Mrs. Sutherland wanted to manage the job. By reputation, she was a shrewd Scotswoman who’d kept Pete’s philandering in check better than her predecessors had.

  Maybe land prices in Deeside were due to spike because of some other development Pete had learned of through the clubhouse gossip vine.

  Max settled onto a seat near his gate and sent another email to Maura: At the airport, looking forward to seeing my favorite baby sister tomorrow. No matter how long he stared at his phone, she didn’t reply. Max might have continued to stare at his phone, except a particular rhythm of high heels on a hard surface pierced his brain fog. He knew that walk, knew that exact tempo and force behind a feminine footfall.

  Shayla Walters was deplaning at the gate across the concourse. She pulled a smart black overnight case on rollers, and her ensemble was weekend chic. Long legs encased in jeans with a knife-edge crease, the denim just worn enough to look relaxed. White silk blouse; floral scarf in purples, white, and green, draped and knotted just so; deconstructed navy blazer that nevertheless emphasized a great figure. Her dark hair was caught back in a bun, though when released, it would likely hang in silky shimmers to at least midback length.

  Without any closer examination, Max knew her earrings, bracelet, wallet, phone case, and shoes would all complete the picture of a woman winning at the game of life and playing every inning by her own rules.

  Shayla made an impact, though her impact on Max was mostly a detached appreciation for how passionately she played the role. Other men were discreetly admiring her, women likely were too, while for Max…

  A question had been answered. Shayla had set her sights on Brodie Castle, or perhaps on Pete Sutherland. Elias had said that Pete’s prospective project manager was a Canadian, an easy mistake to make, because Shayla had been working in Edmonton in recent years. She was all American, though, and probably tired of winters on the lone prairie.

  She spotted Max, and guilt flashed through her eyes before her megawatt smile beamed forth and she was crossing the concourse, free hand extended.

  “Max Maitland, what a small world. My goodness, it’s lovely to see you. What has it been? Two years?” She took his hand and leaned in, not quite a kiss, but enough of an embrace to justify her left foot coming up behind her in a move she probably practiced.

  He hadn’t seen her up close in nearly four years, and in all that time, Shayla hadn’t stopped wearing the same rosy perfume. Joy, most likely. Venerable and expensive.

  “Shayla, you’re looking well.” And nervous. He knew her body, knew her mind. Knew the self-conscious smile from the fake-self-conscious smile from the oh-shit-oh-shit smile. “Come to Scotland for a bit of sightseeing?”

  With only an overnight bag.

  “As a matter of fact, I have.
Maybe some fishing, if the schedule works out.”

  Not from my river, you won’t. The temptation to fence with her was balanced by the odd notion that Max felt sorry for her. Relying on Pete Sutherland’s loyalty was a set up for disappointment.

  “Sutherland is already up at Brodie Castle,” Max said, “pissing off everybody from the locals to the ghosts. Now I know why.”

  She dropped the Welcome Wagon routine. “Max, I have no idea what you’re referring to, and as a project manager, you know that discussing proprietary information in a busy airport is egregiously inappropriate.”

  Egregiously inappropriate. Any doubt Max had harbored went taxiing down the runway. Sutherland had used the same phrase, in the same tone, one of Shayla’s signature hyperboles.

  “Shay, if Sutherland will backstab me to put you in charge of that site, he’ll backstab you. If he’ll cheat on his wife, he’ll cheat on you.” You deserve better. Max kept that observation to himself, because Shayla was nothing if not proud.

  “Thank you for that advice, though it’s somewhat lacking in originality. How’s Laura?”

  “Maura.” Whom Shayla had regarded as the other woman, though Max hadn’t figured that out until long after the dust had settled. “She’s expecting a visit from me tomorrow and doing well.” Max hoped that was so. Maura had been in good health for the past few years, or he’d never have chanced a job overseas. She was not, however, in good spirits.

  “You miss her, don’t you?” Shayla looked concerned, but then, she could turn up convincingly warm-hearted when it was in her interest to do so.

  “Not as much as I thought I would, but it’s only been three weeks. What does Maguire think of you stepping into my shoes at Brodie Castle when you’ve never handled a renovation like that?”

  “Maguire? He’s the last-minute investor? I haven’t met him.”

  Not a protestation of innocence, though her failure to check every last trap was some comfort. “He flips manor houses and estates like Brodie Castle all over Europe. If Sutherland thinks your credentials exceed my own, then you can bet Sutherland is falsifying your credentials.”

  Clearly, that hadn’t occurred to her.

  She readjusted her silk scarf so another inch of cleavage showed. “Then I’ll have to convince Mr. Maguire that I’m the better man, as usual. I also bring oil-and-gas connections to the job that you don’t have, Max, and oil and gas are holding up a lot of the Scottish economy.”

  Not like they used to. He didn’t bother tossing out that riposte. Sparring with Shayla had been fun once upon a time. Maybe the Canadian winters had taken a toll on her, or maybe Max had learned to see past the regalia, because she looked tired to him—tired and too thin.

  “What’s your plan for connecting the Hall and the castle?” Max asked. “If that’s the pretext on which Sutherland is basing my firing, then Maguire will expect you to have a solution.”

  Her smile was pure bravado. “My solution is to blame you and point out six other areas where I can either bump revenue or cut costs to make up for the honking disaster you’ve bequeathed to me. Edmonton gets bloody cold in the winter, and the winters last too bloody long. Business is business, Max.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A year ago, even a few months ago, Max might have offered the same moral dodge Shayla had used: All’s fair in profit and piracy. Except… it wasn’t. Fergus and Hugh, Dinty and Fern, Granny MacPhee and Morgan… their fates were tied up with what happened to the castle and the Hall. Shayla wouldn’t get that, and hammers would start falling like rain.

  “That budget isn’t extravagant, Shay, and Sutherland had no business sharing it with you unless he had the permission of the other investors.”

  She took the barrette from her bun and let the shiny mass of her hair cascade down her back. This maneuver was yet another distraction, and half the men in the concourse stopped to appreciate it. Five years ago, Max would have felt some pride that such a magnificent woman had given him her heart.

  Now, Shayla struck him as not magnificent, but rather, as a competent impostor whose performance was showing a little wear.

  Jeannie, cheerfully offering a badly hungover Sutherland lunch was magnificent.

  Jeannie, making love with Max on the project couch—three condoms at the ready—was spectacular.

  Jeannie, spinning chaos into order with the project records, while looking after Henry, keeping an eye on morale, and saving Max from a dozen cultural blunders, was the stuff dreams were made of.

  Max’s dreams, in any case.

  “I never said I saw your project budget,” Shayla countered. “But I know you. You build in contingencies and weather delays and planning days. There’s fat in that budget, and I’ll find it, and if I’m lucky, it will be enough to offset the cost of blasting a damn elevator into the side of that hill.”

  “You can’t blast anywhere near the castle, Shay. The ratios involved in the main arch over the great hall are too delicate, the engineering too ancient.”

  She shifted the grip on her suitcase. “You mean you truly don’t have a solution for how to connect those two buildings?”

  She’d been counting on him to solve the problem and hand her the solution along with his livelihood, his professional reputation, and Maura’s security.

  “There is a solution,” Max said. He could feel it soaring just out of reach in his imagination, feel the brush of its wings against his dreams.

  “So you’re being a hard-ass, as only you can be.” She took half a step closer, bringing her rose garden scent with her. “Max, this is not your fault, and I know your sister is a drain on your finances. I can get you decent severance, praise the groundwork you’ve laid, make nice-nice like you never could. As somebody who used to be a friend, I’m telling you, just take the money and run. Pete’s wife is determined to move to Scotland, and putting me in charge of the castle is his little rebellion against domestic tyranny. You’re not going to win this one. I’m sorry.”

  She kissed his cheek and sashayed off, a study in success—to appearances.

  A near miss, in fact.

  The announcement warning that the boarding process was soon to begin came over the loudspeaker. People shuffled themselves into the appropriate lines, parents took children for a last trip to the restroom, while Max resumed his seat.

  One dad was playing the walk-me game with an infant, holding the baby’s hands while the child tottered step by step in the mother’s direction. The baby took the last few steps alone, half falling into the mom’s waiting hands, everybody smiling hugely.

  If I don’t get on that plane, Maura will be furious and disappointed.

  The early boarders breezed down the jetway.

  If I do get on that plane, I will never see Henry’s first steps. I will betray the trust Jeannie, Fergus, Hugh… all of them have placed in me. I will lose the ability to protect their jobs. I will fail the promise I made to Elias Brodie.

  First class and the frequent-flier crowd came next.

  I will never learn the dances that Jeannie has known since girlhood. Never even watch a shinty match, much less get my ass righteously handed to me in one.

  One by one, the seating groups lined up and scanned their boarding passes, and still Max remained in his seat.

  I will never get to use Jeannie’s remaining two condoms, or not use them, if Jeannie’s inclined to present Henry with a sibling someday.

  Now there was a thought to give a lonely man pause. The final boarding call came, and Max was on his feet, his boarding pass in hand. Maura had nobody else, but life included many weekends, and her disappointment in Max was part of growing up—for them both.

  Max slapped his boarding pass on the podium. “I won’t be flying tonight. If you can give the extra seat to the family with the baby, I’d be grateful.”

  The attendant looked at his boarding pass. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” The woman Max had once proposed to was going after his job, the woman he’d loved
for her whole life would be furious with him, and the woman he’d fallen in love with deserved a lot more from him than “take the money and run.”

  The attendant was babbling something about a possible refund or voucher when Max’s phone rang.

  “I don’t need a refund. I’ll just keep the miles.” God, the ghosts of Brodie Castle, and good luck willing, he’d need them. He moved off to an empty corner of the gate lounge and got out his phone—not a number he recognized. “This is Maitland.”

  “Connor Maguire here. Why the hell can’t I get into the damned cyber-storage box?”

  The hour was growing late, it was Saturday night, and Max was not tech support for cranky investors.

  “That’s a long story, but essentially, Pete Sutherland screwed it up in his attempts to sabotage my role as project manager at Brodie Castle.”

  “I was told you don’t pull any punches. If Sutherland ruins this project, I will set so many lawyers on his ass there won’t be a courtroom left for him to hide in. What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s complicated.” And Max needed to get back to Jeannie and to the castle. “There will be an emergency board meeting on Monday afternoon, and I’m sure Pete will have all manner of poison-pen emails in the works tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a train—”

  “Maitland, I am one of your investors. If you’re facing a palace coup, now is not the time to give me the bum’s rush.” An Irish brogue could make a man sound charming even when he was delivering a threat.

  “My apologies, Maguire, but I’ve had three hours’ sleep out of the past thirty-six, thanks to Sutherland’s meddling. My crews are nervous, the locals have been given to understand the project is doomed, and my successor as project manager has already been shown the site plans, budgets, and schedules. She has no idea how to solve the riddle of connecting the castle and Hall, but that hasn’t stopped her from showing up in Scotland, ready to meet my investors the day after tomorrow.”