Kissed by the Rain

by Claudia Winter

I was upset about sounding upset. Thanks to Mama, I knew all about four-legged creatures, especially traumatised ones. But this collie seemed to be pondering whether or not I was edible. I thought of the chocolate cookies in Li’s suitcase, but Hank, most likely, couldn’t be bribed.

  Aidan got up and stuck a hand in the pocket of his jeans. “It’s more of a Hank thing,” he said. “He’s basically a friendly guy, but it takes a little while for him to show it.”

  “So a Scottish thing after all,” I said, and Aidan laughed.

  Frowning, Bri pointed to Hank, who was now watching her.

  “Will he stay here while I get my suitcase?”

  “Just ignore him, ma’am,” Aidan said, opening the boot of the truck.

  “That was my intention,” Bri replied. She walked past deliberately, looking elegant even while stumbling in her heels over a few innocent daffodils.

  Hank watched as we dragged our suitcases over the cobblestones towards the house. Aidan brought up the rear.

  Before we reached the house’s green door, I turned around. Hank sat on the gravel path like a statue, his head turned almost one hundred and eighty degrees. I could have sworn that he was laughing at me.

  It was immediately clear that the O’Farrell Guesthouse was unusual. The sign on the door bore no name, just an ornate, etched “Fàilte!” There was no doorbell next to the Gaelic welcome, and no door knocker. Instead, we were met by the inquisitive faces of several porcelain geese, lined up on the windowsill of what appeared to be a guest bathroom.

  I exchanged uneasy glances with Bri and Li. At any moment, I would face Charlie—assuming she hadn’t moved on.

  “The door’s open. Just follow the scent of food,” Aidan said.

  “When in Rome . . .” muttered Bri, and she pushed against the coffered door, which swung inward with a screech.

  But it was Hank who entered first. Squeezing past my calf, he trotted into the hallway and stopped, as if asking himself what the heck we were waiting for. I left my suitcase behind and followed the dog, who continued down the dark hall and disappeared through a door that was ajar.

  The aroma of cake and fresh coffee grew stronger as I continued down the hallway. It was the same scent that had transported me to Grandmother’s kitchen from Aidan’s pastry shop.

  I almost tripped over Hank when I entered the kitchen. He hunkered next to an empty bowl, staring at it as if he could miraculously make it fill itself with food.

  “Have you brought me my new guests, Hank?”

  I guesstimated that the woman was in her fifties, but it was impossible to say for sure. Her flour-dusted face was smooth, yet it exuded a wisdom exclusive to the very old. She was small, almost tiny, and her floor-length skirt intensified this impression. Her brown eyes were the kindest I had ever seen.

  “You must be Josefine.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron and rushed towards me.

  Taken aback that she knew who I was, I let her embrace me.

  “I’m Finola. Finola O’Farrell. I hope you like chocolate cake made with beetroot. Aidan couldn’t tell me whether you’d feel like having tea and cake or hot broth. So I made both.”

  I felt my whole body relax. There was nothing in Finola, nothing at all, of the forced friendliness so common to professional hosts.

  “I love chocolate cake . . . with beetroot,” I replied politely, determined to ask about Charlie right then and there. But someone gave a little cough, reminding me that I hadn’t come alone.

  Finola’s smile grew even warmer still. Li was greeted with a hug while Bri received a firm handshake, as if Finola sensed her innate stand-offishness.

  Chatting amiably, she led the twins to the kitchen table where a large-bellied teapot and a beautiful cake were waiting. She told them to make themselves at home, and my aunts did exactly that. Li poured herself tea and reached for the cream with a contented sigh. Bri served herself a piece of cake.

  Then Finola turned to Aidan, who lingered at the door. She kissed him on the cheek, then looked down at Hank. The dog had abandoned his hope for food and was staring at Aidan’s boots.

  “This crazy animal knows exactly when it’s Friday afternoon. He’s been waiting for you in front of the house for two hours. Angus is mad as hell because he wouldn’t stay in the shed with the others. Twice he ran off and was nowhere to be found—and we had such important guests here from Ireland today,” she said with a tsk.

  “Hank truly appreciates me, Aunt Finola.” Aidan smiled. “It’s probably just as well he wasn’t around to scare away another buyer for Mable’s litter. If he continues acting like a Doberman, it might affect Angus’s reputation.”

  Finola sighed. “You know your uncle. He wants to show people the best specimen of the breed, even if Hank’s a little . . . special.”

  The dog pricked up his ears.

  “Aunt? Uncle?” I was flabbergasted.

  Aidan shrugged his shoulders with exaggerated nonchalance. “It’s not my fault you picked O’Farrell’s Guesthouse of all places!”

  “Some coincidences are nothing of the kind,” Li declared from the kitchen table, her mouth filled with cake. Apparently, chocolate and beetroot was a winning combination.

  “Nobody’s saying it was your fault,” I said brusquely. “But it would’ve been nice if you’d mentioned that you live here.”

  “I don’t live here,” Aidan replied, narrowing his eyes.

  My mood swings were starting to get on his nerves—mine too, so I couldn’t blame him. But I had a lot on my mind, and somehow couldn’t make myself ask the question that was burning the tip of my tongue. Is the little monster here?

  “Speaking of accommodations . . .” Bri dabbed her mouth with a floral napkin that matched the tablecloth. “We just showed up without even calling to ask if you have room for us!”

  Finola waved her concern away. “Oh, there’s always room for more. The large room with two beds opened up yesterday. If you don’t mind sharing, we can easily fit in an extra bed. Unless”—she gave me a sidelong glance—“you’d prefer the guestroom in Aidan’s boathouse.”

  Boathouse. My eyes widened and Aidan exhaled audibly. Luckily, Bri stepped in before I could blurt out something rude.

  “We are quite used to sharing, dear Mrs. O’Farrell. I doubt Josefine will need a room of her own.”

  “And I’m not even sure whether I’ll stay tonight,” I added.

  “I do enjoy having the place to myself,” Aidan said pointedly.

  “Don’t be rude, dear nephew,” Finola snapped. Even annoyed, she still looked like Cinderella’s fairy godmother.

  “Do you have many other guests here at the moment?” Li asked slyly, studying the roses on the teapot.

  “Or other family members?” Aidan was very alert.

  “What are you talking about, lad?” Finola said warily. “That reminds me—you must have a serious talk with your father. He fired Mrs. Clouchester, and I’m running out of candidates from the village who’re willing to keep house for the pig-headed man. He’s grown very gaunt because all he eats is frozen food from the supermarket.” She turned to Li with an apologetic smile. “Right now, three couples from Cambridge are staying with us. They’re friends and came here to hike. They’re gone all day and go to bed early at night. So the house is all yours, including the library and the room with the fireplace. It would also be my pleasure if you joined us later for dinner—assuming you like trout. Angus had a very good haul this morning.”

  “Oh, that sounds lovely.” Li looked to me for help.

  I cleared my throat and stepped forward. “Mrs. O’Farrell, we—”

  “How about telling me where Ian is, Aunt Finola?”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Murray—you interrupted me.”

  “Please continue, Mrs. Stone,” he said, eyes fixed on Finola.

  Hank got up and padded outside, as if anxious to avoid the confrontation.

  I pulled Charlie’s postcard out of my handbag. It trembled in my hand. “I believe that my cou
sin, Charlotte von Meeseberg, stayed here with you. It’s very important that I find her.”

  “I know Ian’s supposed to play at Hootanelly’s in Inverness tomorrow night. Not hard to guess where he brought his lazy behind to get a warm bed and a free meal on the way. So, where are you hiding Ian and his little girlfriend?”

  “Excuse me—my cousin?” I fought to be heard. “She also goes by Charlie?”

  Finola looked back and forth between Aidan and me. Then she pressed her arms to her chest and groaned, “O mo chreach! Good heavens! I think I’d better sit down.”

  Aunt Bri jumped up and offered her a chair, and we waited eagerly while Finola fanned herself with a gardening broadsheet.

  “Ian. What a lovely name. I just remembered—Charlie’s friend is also called Ian,” Li mumbled, fussing with her mobile phone. She patted the display as if attempting to wake up a little sleeping animal.

  For a moment, there was absolute silence in the kitchen. Only the ticking of the pendulum clock and the swishing of Finola’s paper could be heard.

  “No.” Aidan turned to me. “Ian’s new friend is . . . your cousin?”

  Bri chuckled into her teacup.

  Li was beaming. “What a riot! Ian is Aidan’s brother! Could you ever have imagined it, Josie?”

  I no longer cared what my expression might reveal. I just sat there, unable to answer.

  Finola sighed. “Fine, yes, Ian was here.” She folded her paper slowly, painstakingly. “With Charlie. A sweet child. An incredibly caring and very talented young woman.”

  Bri laughed. “Are you sure you’re talking about our Charlie?”

  “She suspected someone from her family might show up.” Finola’s smile was somewhat lopsided. “She always talked about you, but she called you Jo. That’s why I didn’t immediately put two and two together.”

  “Where is she?” I whispered. My heart was pounding against my ribcage so violently that I thought it might burst.

  “They caught a bus this morning to go hiking in the Grampians,” Finola answered, regret in her voice.

  “To the mountains! With the weather we’re having? Typical of that wannabe Casanova.”

  I watched Aidan storm around the table several times before stopping in front of his aunt with clenched fists.

  “May I speak with you briefly—alone? There’s something about Dad we have to discuss,” he said, composed, changing the subject out of the blue.

  Finola turned pale and jumped to her feet.

  “Just a second,” I said. “Where are the Grampians? How do I get there?”

  “You can’t today,” Finola said. “It’s already way too late. Besides, the storm front from the south they’ve been talking about is almost here. It would be suicidal to go up the mountains now.”

  “But I need to see Charlie!” I cried desperately. “Today! She has something of mine.”

  “The Grampian Mountains are no joke, Josefine. Even experienced mountaineers wouldn’t risk it in a storm,” Aidan said, raising an eyebrow at my muddy pumps. “And we don’t even know for sure they’re up there.”

  “A storm? Is Charlie in danger?” Bri asked.

  “They’ve plenty of mountain bothies for hikers. I can assure you that Ian knows quite a few romantic mountain huts with beds and fireplaces,” Aidan replied.

  He glared at me as if it was my fault that his brother had slipped through his fingers.

  “Well, I’m not going to any mountains tonight. I have a date,” Li declared and held up her phone. “A dinner date at”—she squinted to read the name on the display—“the Castle Hotel.”

  Bri’s dessert fork clanked onto her plate. “You have a what?”

  I couldn’t bear it any longer. Tears spilled from my eyes as I ran outside.

  “This is the voice mailbox of Dr. Justus Grüning. Since I am away on a business trip, I cannot take your call. In case of an emergency, please contact lawyer Arnulf Bender at the law offices of Maibach, Roeding & Partners. He will give your concern his full attention. If this is a private matter, please leave a short message.” Beep.

  The phone display dissolved in front of my eyes. I put it away and rushed down the path—head down, jacket collar turned up—while the wind whistled around my ears and tears of disappointment streamed down my cheeks.

  I had almost made it. Almost! If only I had insisted on driving to Kincraig yesterday. Damn you, Aidan Murray! If he hadn’t settled the dispute in that stupid pub, Bri would never in her life have got drunk with pig-eyed Dudley. Not only would she have been able to drive, but we’d still have a car—I definitely wouldn’t have filled up with the wrong fuel if Aidan hadn’t shown up yet again to rattle me. Nothing was going the way it was supposed to, and it was all Aidan’s fault.

  Irate, I kicked a stone into a puddle that shone like molten gold. I tilted back my head and gasped. The afternoon sun was being swallowed up by a pitch-black wall of clouds.

  It wasn’t until then that I realised I’d left O’Farrell’s Guesthouse far behind and had reached the first few houses of the village. Under normal circumstances, I would have been delighted by the cute houses with peaked roofs and freshly painted picket fences, but I was too upset to pay attention to the charming gardens.

  I saw a bus stop a few yards ahead and headed towards it. To my amazement, it held not only a timetable, but also a pay phone, a table strewn with travel brochures, and even an old sofa. A girl of about seven—in overalls, her schoolbag between her knees—sat on the sofa working on a maths problem. There was a huge clap of thunder, and heavy raindrops splashed against the corrugated tin roof.

  “Hi,” I said awkwardly, and turned to study the bus schedule. I was cold.

  “Back at ya,” she answered in a high, clear voice.

  I sighed. The timetable was wet and illegible despite the protective glass.

  “Are you sad?”

  Surprised, I looked down at her mousy little face, but the girl didn’t seem to expect an answer. I was struck by her dirty fingers and chewed nails. Somehow, they didn’t match the speed with which she scribbled three-digit numbers in her notebook. When I was her age, I could barely add five and two.

  “Are you waiting for the bus?” I asked, ignoring her question.

  After a pause, she nodded.

  “Is it coming soon?”

  She shrugged.

  Perfect! I love this country. Disgruntled, I stared into the rain and tried not to shiver. “Does it ever stop raining around here?”

  “I don’t know.” She grinned. “I’m only seven.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “That’s what Mum says, too.”

  “Do you have a name, funny girl?”

  “Maisie,” said a deep voice behind me.

  I turned around with a start. Aidan’s green truck stood in front of the bus stop with its motor running. He had rolled down the window, and now gave the girl a stern look.

  “How many times has your mum told you to do your homework at home and not at the bus stop?”

  “Aidan!” Maisie’s face lit up like a hundred-watt bulb. “Did you bring me the chocolate that’s wrapped in red and white? You promised.”

  Maisie . . . From the phone call on the plane. I could feel myself blushing. His alleged lover was a seven-year-old girl. But I thought . . . Obviously, I should stop thinking.

  “Was there ever a promise I didn’t keep, my lady?” Aidan pointed down the road. “The storm’s almost here—I’m sure your mum’s worried. I’ll bring the chocolate tomorrow so you can share it with your brothers. Home you go, now.”

  “Aye, sir.” She crammed her notebook into her satchel and pulled a bright-green cap over her blonde locks.

  Maisie flashed me a sassy grin and then she was off, hopscotching through the puddles. My heart skipped a beat. Just like Charlie.

  Aidan leaned a bit farther out the window.

  “And you, Mrs. Stone? Do you plan to stay here overnight?”

  “I’m taking the bu
s.” I made a show of plopping down on the bus stop’s upholstered bench, but its broken slats afforded me no dignity—my knees rose up practically to eye level.

  Aidan turned off the engine, climbed out of the truck, and sat down next to me. “There’s no bus today,” he said calmly.

  “Then I’ll wait till tomorrow. Right here.” I bobbed my feet up and down angrily, but stopped when the old sofa bounced in time.

  “The bus only runs Mondays to Fridays.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I snarled at him.

  “You’ll have to get used to the fact that time is a flexible entity in Scotland.”

  “Got any more clichés in your repertory?”

  Aidan chuckled. “It depends on what you want to talk about.”

  “How the hell do I get to the Gramp-whatevers?”

  “What in the world has your cousin done that it’s so important you find her?”

  “I could ask you the same about your brother.” I moved away from him—a futile attempt due to the sagging middle of the sofa.

  “My brother hasn’t done anything.” Aidan twisted his mouth.

  “That may be, but you’re pretty mad at him.”

  “Some people cause a lot of damage when they don’t do what they’re supposed to—when they think rules and obligations don’t apply to them. Nobody’s better at leaving his family in the lurch than Ian,” he said with a sneer.

  “My cousin is rule-breaking personified. As for family obligations . . . I’d say she doesn’t even know what that means.”

  Aidan silently took off his leather jacket and draped it around my shoulders.

  “That’s really not necessary,” I protested, but he waved me off.

  I surreptitiously snuggled into the comforting warmth of the jacket. The leather smelled of waterproofing agent and the woodsy musk that would probably remind me of Aidan all my life, whether I wanted it to or not.

  “I’ll tell you something about family obligations, Josefine.” He sighed and leaned back, slouching comfortably on the bench. “Murray & Sons has been around for over a hundred years. My great-great-grandfather opened the first village bakery in Kincraig with fifty pounds of seed money. Everyone said he was crazy. In 1896, country people didn’t go to a store to buy bread or cakes. But Joseph Murray was obsessed with producing the best Scottish baked goods based on old family recipes.”