A tiny smile played across his face. He closed his eyes, speaking more to himself than to me.
“Good old Joseph spent almost two years perfecting his baking skills. He came up with several varieties of shortbread and butter scones, even though he wasn’t very good at writing or arithmetic. He measured the ingredients with an old coffee cup, which he called his good-luck cup. It’s still on display in our main store, by the way.”
My body leaned in the wrong direction—closer to Aidan. “What happened to Joseph?”
“His hunch was right. Within a year, people were coming from all the neighbouring villages to buy his cookies and cakes. He opened a second shop in Aviemore and, after the First World War, his grandson Hamish founded Murray & Sons, Limited. That’s how it started.”
Aidan got up and paced around the tiny bus shelter. He had to raise his voice over the wind rattling the tin roof.
“When margarine swept the nation in the fifties, Hamish, who was famously stubborn, clung to good Scottish butter. That’s what made our company what it is today—a family business dedicated for generations to the art of traditional Scottish baking. To this day, we still use Joseph Murray’s recipes—not measured with the old cup, but still baked with love, and butter from Scottish Highland cows.”
I realised my mouth was hanging open. Aidan had stopped pacing and now looked down at me, his eyes shining like stars.
I’ve never seen a more attractive man.
The thought set off fireworks in my head—and other places, too. Guiltily, I dropped my head and stared at my engagement ring.
“That’s an amazing story, but I don’t see what it has to do with your brother.”
“Ian has decided to leave the family business.”
“That’s it? Your brother didn’t want to be a baker and so your family treats him like a criminal?”
“He’s destined for it—not just because of his background. Finola once said that no dough can resist the music in his hands. He’s an incredibly gifted pastry chef, but he throws his talent away.” With a morose grunt, Aidan added, “Ian is an unpredictable dreamer, unwilling to compromise. He’s terrified of making an effort.”
“Are you jealous of your little brother? Maybe just a little bit?”
“God, you don’t understand anything.” The disappointment in his voice stung.
“Why don’t you explain it to me?” I said.
“My father has cancer, Josefine.”
“I’m so sorry.” I fought the impulse to take his hand.
“He supposedly retired several years ago, but he couldn’t stay away. His meddling didn’t bother me much since I was mainly off at the Edinburgh branch. But Ian had to deal with it on a daily basis. My father hated Ian experimenting with the old recipes, despite the fact that whatever Ian pulled out of the oven was delicious. I mean, who’d ever have thought of infusing oatmeal cookies with currants and saffron. Dad was throwing fits, and one day—”
“Ian took off.” I almost laughed out loud at the familiar tale. Charlie had obviously found her counterpart.
“He grabbed his damn guitar and disappeared. I have to admit I was relieved. Finally, some peace and quiet. That changed two days ago.” Aidan put a hand over his eyes. “My father wants me to bring Ian back so he can make up with him. And anyone who knows Malcolm Murray knows that the stubborn old donkey would never do that unless he’s in really bad shape.” He put his head in his hands and groaned.
“Wouldn’t it be a good thing if Ian and your father worked things out?” I ventured.
“Ian’s going to bring the business down with him. He only works when he feels like it. Half the time he’s off busking for a few pence.” He groaned some more. “Yes, I’m mad at my brother. But I promised my father I’d bring him home.”
Aidan’s suppressed rage mirrored mine when I thought of Charlie.
We watched the rain for a while. It blew sideways and beat against the acrylic glass of the bus stop. Then Aidan turned and put a hand on my knee.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this,” he said solemnly. “Whatever’s going on with your cousin, Josefine, I can tell that you’re as desperate to find her as I am to find Ian. That said, we can’t do anything about it today.” He gestured to the storm. “Higher powers are dead set on delaying our search.”
“Higher powers, huh?” I sighed.
It was stressful being constantly forced to make decisions—especially when people kept telling me that mysterious powers were in charge anyway. I thought of Jonathan, the storytelling taxi driver. It would be so much easier to just give in and unload the responsibility for the so-far-failed recovery of the stolen ring onto fate or some other nonsense.
“Ian’s playing in Inverness tomorrow night. We’ll drive there together and, if needs be, I’ll drag him from the stage myself while you confront that cousin of yours. That’s the plan, so get used to it.” He got up and smiled. “It’s just one more day, Josefine. Your aunts will appreciate the rest and, honestly, you look like you could use a hot shower.”
“One more day.” When I sighed, the dimples in Aidan’s cheeks grew deeper. He had won and he knew it. I quickly looked away from that infectious smile. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Being nice to me even though I’ve behaved atrociously towards you.” I looked at him. “What’s in it for you?”
His eyes went to my ring finger and, for a moment, I forgot to breathe.
“I guess I’d like to find out how much rational, proper Josefine actually resembles the girl in the dog jumper.”
9
Our room at the guesthouse was large and airy. It had floral wallpaper and a cream-coloured micro-fibre carpet that felt strangely like grass under my bare feet. There were two twin beds and an air mattress waiting to be inflated. The room faced south, so you could stand at the open window without getting soaked. I could see all the way to the opposite shore of Loch Insh, and the Grampians—their peaks shrouded in clouds—seemed close enough to touch. Somewhere up there was Charlie.
I pulled my robe tighter against the chill, worried—but, for the first time, not about the bride’s ring. What if she and Ian hadn’t managed to find shelter before the storm hit?
My cousin had always been fragile, and she was sick a lot when we were little. Either her nose was running or she had a nasty cough, which she sometimes faked to get more of Bri’s special cherry cough syrup.
It made me uneasy to imagine Charlie loaded with a backpack heavier than she was, hiking a treacherous mountain trail. No matter how crazy she drove me, she was still my little cousin.
Right now, though, I had another family member to worry about. Li stood next to her open suitcase, dolefully inspecting its contents.
“Anything I can do, Aunt Li?”
She tossed aside the last scrap of clothing in disgust. “I’ve got nothing to wear for tonight. Not a thing.”
I grinned, but she frowned.
“It’s not funny, Josie.”
“Of course not. Sorry.” I sounded not even half as contrite as I should have.
“I’ll have to cancel my date with Antoine.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“He’ll be embarrassed to be seen with me! Besides, I really don’t know how it works . . . a date,” she mumbled glumly. “It’s been such a long time.”
I studied her face with its soft, brown eyes. I had always seen Li as a kindly, calendula salve–scented old lady with arms wide enough to press two children against her. Though I had seen a few old photographs of her and Bri in their youth, I found it difficult to imagine Li as a young woman—and impossible to picture a man at her side.
“Why didn’t it work out . . . with the man you were seeing back then?” I asked gently.
“He married someone else.” Li took off her glasses and smiled the dreamy, melancholy smile that signalled no further questions would be entertained.
“Honestly, Li.” I pus
hed away the pile of clothes and sat down beside her on the bed. “I’m sure Monsieur Barneau would be thrilled even if you showed up in a burlap sack.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Not at all. Monsieur Barneau likes you. And I think he’s nice.”
“He’s no Mr. Darcy, but at my age, it’s time to compromise. A cheerful French doctor is an acceptable alternative to a moody aristocrat, don’t you think?”
I stroked her hand. It was crisscrossed by tiny veins and looked incredibly fragile. A wave of tenderness washed over me.
“Dating is like riding a bike. Maybe you’ll wobble a little at first, but after a few yards, it’ll all come back. You’ll have a wonderful evening.” I plucked a simple, fir-green knitted dress from the discard pile. “Tell me, how did this date with Antoine come about? Isn’t he travelling with a group?” I asked, walking over to Bri’s suitcase that stood in the middle of the room, still unopened.
“Antoine told me that no physician who was passionate about his work finds retirement easy. In order not to feel useless, he began organising group tours for seniors. So he’s more or less a private tour guide and could . . . change their itinerary to come to Kincraig.” Li blushed and added quickly, “Because of the severe weather, you know.”
“And you’re worried he might be embarrassed by your outfit!” Smiling, I shook my head. “By the way, where’s Bri?”
“She went for a walk—at least, that’s what she said she was going to do. She’s actually sitting in Mr. Murray’s truck, sulking. I saw smoke wafting out of it. She’s not happy that Antoine and I . . . What are you doing?” Li watched warily as I opened Bri’s suitcase and quickly found what I was looking for.
“Making sure Monsieur Barneau is the envy of every man in the restaurant when he arrives with you on his arm.”
I strolled proudly into Finola’s kitchen at seven on the dot. I’d changed for dinner myself and had just deposited a very chic Aunt Li in a taxi. My aunt was deathly pale and could hardly tell the friendly driver which restaurant to take her to, but I was sure she’d relax after an aperitif or two. Even though I’d only met her French admirer twice, I was confident that the old-school gentleman would know how to treat a woman like Li. I hoped with all my heart she could enjoy being the centre of attention for once.
I hoped to solve the next problem over dinner with Bri. She simply had to stop telling everyone how much Monsieur Barneau’s interest in her sister displeased her.
Not only was Bri’s behaviour childish, it also baffled me—despite the fact that I knew the legend of the wardrobe. Family lore had it that, when they were little girls, the sisters had sworn a blood oath to get married on the same day and only realised as adults that they couldn’t both wear the bride’s ring during the ceremony. Since apparently neither was willing to break the oath or risk disaster, they made a logical, outrageous decision—neither Bri nor Li were ever to get married.
This moving story underlined the importance of the ring, but even so, it was never quite convincing enough to quell wild speculations about the sisters’ marital status. Uncle Carl liked to claim that Li had missed meeting the right man simply because she never looked up long enough from her romance novels. And it was no secret that he thought Bri was a lesbian.
The truth was, it was nobody’s business why my great-aunts had decided to spend their lives like a pair of old slippers. But I couldn’t let Bri hurt Li or her chance at happiness by acting like a ten-year-old who is scared of losing her playmate.
The dinner table was set with tasteful Wedgewood china, but Bri’s chair was empty. Finola had braided wildflowers into napkin holders and arranged a large bouquet in an azure vase. A few bright petals lay sprinkled on the tablecloth. I spotted a clay pot resting in the oven, most likely filled with Angus’s trout.
Loving attention to detail was clearly the selling point of O’Farrell’s Guesthouse, but I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or found it cloying. Justus and I favoured minimalism. We’d never decorate a windowsill with porcelain geese. Yet this kitschy surrounding somehow made me feel that I was . . . in good hands?
I went to the window. Outside, the budding April garden was drowning in rain.
No sign of Bri. Had she really been brooding in Aidan’s truck for two whole hours? It wasn’t like her at all. Unless . . . With a growing sense of foreboding, I rushed to the front door and nearly ran into Hank, who was curled up on the geese-adorned mat like a furry pretzel.
“Hey, Hank. How about letting me pass?”
The dog opened one eye and immediately closed it again. He had apparently seen enough. I frowned.
“Move, Hank,” I said more sternly.
His ear twitched, but that was the extent of his reaction. At a loss, I looked at the motionless animal and tried to remember Mama’s lectures. With normal dogs, a firm voice and confident body language were enough to make them obey. But Hank wasn’t a normal dog. By chance, I put my hand in my pocket and touched the peppermint candy from Deborah at the car rental desk.
I stared at Hank. It was worth a try and, by the time he’d realise I had tricked him, I would be out the door.
“Look, Hank,” I said sweetly, rattling the tin.
His nose twitched.
I took out one of the mints and waved it in front of him. “Mmm, smells taaasty.”
His eyes followed with interest.
Grinning, I wound up for a throw. “Go get it, you little bugger.”
The mint slid across the polished floor like an ice hockey puck, finally coming to rest in front of the staircase.
After what felt like an eternity, the dog took his eyes off the mint. He studied me like a lab technician analyses an especially bizarre specimen. Then he sighed and dropped his head back onto his paws.
“Trying to teach Hank how to fetch in his old age?” I heard an amused voice behind me.
Embarrassed, I turned around—and almost dropped Deborah’s mint tin. The man leaning against the railing of the staircase wore a jacket over a shirt with an open collar—and a skirt.
“Or do you want to poison the poor animal with the strongest peppermints in all of Scotland?” Aidan’s dimples were deeper than ever, his cheeks dark with five o’clock shadow.
“I just need to step outside for a moment,” I stuttered, forcing myself not to ogle Aidan’s muscular calves in dark-blue, knee-length socks. I had always wondered why some women found men in kilts sexy. But Aidan Murray looked neither ridiculous nor effeminate in the blue-green kilt that ended just above his knees. Was he wearing . . . ?
God! I really don’t want to know that.
“Penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Stone.” He smirked.
“Have you seen my aunt?” I could feel my cheeks glowing. “I heard that she was hiding out in your truck.” I spoke fast, trying to paper over the inappropriate images in my head with words.
Aidan looked at Hank, clicked his tongue, and pointed to the kitchen with his chin. The dog got up and scampered by without so much as glancing at me.
“Your aunt? I drove her to the village half an hour ago. She wanted to get something in the souvenir shop and was going to take a taxi back. Since I was going to see my dad anyway—”
“A souvenir shop? Bri?”
I stared at the door. If there was anything Bri hated more than crocheted book covers, it was tourist tchotchkes. It would never enter her mind to visit such a shop, let alone spend a single British penny on a silver-plated spoon embossed with a coat of arms. I kneaded my lips with my fingers.
Aidan looked guilty. “Did I do something wrong?”
Think, Josefine. What is the crazy old bat up to?
“By any chance, did you drop my great-aunt near the Castle Hotel?” I asked. “My other great-aunt is there now on her first date since god-knows-when.”
The expression on Aidan’s face changed from trepidation to horror. “You don’t think—”
“Will Finola be terribly upset if we miss dinner?”
; He shook his head slowly, seeming irritated by my cool, matter-of-fact tone—my lawyer voice.
“In that case, I hope you don’t mind accompanying me to a fancy restaurant in that get-up, Mr. Murray.”
He answered my pointed look at his knee socks with a mysterious smile and took the key to his truck off a hook by the door.
“No, I don’t mind. And for the record, my get-up is perfectly appropriate for the Castle. We Scots wear our kilts with pride, always and everywhere. Remember that, Mrs. Stone.” His hand already on the door handle, he stopped suddenly, bent down, and whispered in my ear, “And to answer what your eyes were asking before, a Scotsman never tells what he’s wearing underneath.”
There was a reason the hotel towering on a hill above Kincraig bore its majestic name.
Aidan told me on the short drive over that the Castle Hotel had been the dilapidated manor of an impoverished laird, as owners of large estates are called in Scotland, until a retired Englishman fell in love with it. He had bought the estate and spent his entire fortune restoring it, planning to establish one of Scotland’s best restaurants. Sadly, the fruit of his labour was reaped by his heirs—the man died just before the restoration was completed.
“Another man with a grand vision—even if he was just an Englishman.” Aidan pointed out the stylised emblem on the glass door, as proud as if he had earned the award himself.
I found it difficult to make small talk with him. No matter how many Michelin stars the restaurant had, I wasn’t on a date with Aidan Murray. It was strange enough to enter a restaurant with a man who was not Justus Grüning, let alone one who looked like the hero of a trashy Highlands romance novel.
To my surprise, Aidan’s kilt was indeed appropriate in this historic building, where chandeliers floated like glittering balloons in the entrance hall. We did attract attention, but not the sort I feared, when Aidan guided me nonchalantly past groups of chatting guests clutching champagne flutes. The men reflexively made way, while the ladies craned their bejewelled necks and overtly appraised my companion. I shuffled beside him, feeling awkward and invisible. For a moment, I thought I’d spotted Bri. But even though the wide-brimmed hat would have fitted my aunt to a tee, the face beneath was younger and rounder.
Kissed by the Rain Page 12