by S. E. Rose
A very tired- and hungover-looking young man greets me. After confirming that I am in fact getting a coveted automatic car, I grab the keys from him and proceed toward the car lot. Another young man greets me and we do the typical walk around the car song and dance. I am assured the car has no dings or scratches and then I open the passenger door, laughing momentarily at my jet lag as I realize that I have just opened the driver’s side door.
“Right,” I say to myself. I walk back around the car to set Hagrid down on the actual passenger side chair. I toss my suitcases on the back seat and sit down, arranging the seat, steering wheel, and mirrors to my liking. I turn on the navigation app on my cell phone and enter the address of the cottage I have rented. The rental agent said that he would meet me there, although I’ve traveled too many times to actually think that this will be a smooth transition with a human being present the second I arrive. My guess is that I’ll be figuring out how to call the guy and then waiting an hour while he leisurely makes his way to the cottage. I sigh to myself, oh well, I have eighty-nine more days here so what’s the rush, right?
I look over at Hagrid who is just coming out of his medicated, comatose state, his eyes trying to open into half slits and closing again.
“You ready for this, little buddy,” I say, stroking his head through an opening in the carrier. I smile at him, feeling pleased with myself that I had gotten all his medical stuff cleared early so I didn’t have to wait forever for him to be quarantined at the airport. I pull out into traffic, staying vigilant that I am now driving on the wrong side of the road.
Several hours later, I arrive. The cottage is a few miles from Stonehaven, Scotland, a small coastal town south of Aberdeen and north of St. Andrews. I had visited here once before, and when I decided to spend the summer abroad, the small village immediately had popped into my mind. I had thought of other places, tropical places, a safari lodge, a mountain retreat out west, but my mind kept coming back to this place. And so it was decided after searching some vacation rentals sites and seeing this adorably picturesque, quintessential British cottage pop up that this was to be my “island.” I would spend three months here and complete my book.
Chapter 3
Laura’s Playlist: “Falling By the Wayside” by People in Planes
My navigation unit directs me off the road that I’ve taken outside of town and onto what appears to be more of a trail than a drive. It meanders through some fields and then cuts through a short forest of trees before promptly popping out of the woods and into view of the cottage I have become so familiar with through my internet stalking. It is made of stones and the roof appears to be slate. I can only guess it was once thatched. The windows have bright green shutters on either side of them and a bright blue front door greets me. A proper English garden surrounds the front of the cottage with a small pebble-filled pathway gently curving like a snake through it, up to a small patio of stones in front of the door. I can see roses, snapdragons, lilies, and at least thirty other types of flowers, none of which I can name. However, I do recognize them from other gardens in my past. I’ve never been much of a plant person. My mom’s gardening skills were lost on me and no matter how much my daughter tried to get me to remember flower names, I just can’t get them to stick in my head. For the past few years, I’ve told her that it’s the brain damage and I just can’t learn it. She always laughs, a guarded laugh, and asks why I couldn’t learn it before to which I always answer, “beats me.” There is a small plaque over the door that instead of a street number reads “Seaview Cottage.”
There is another car here and a man steps out. Well, I’ll be damned, this may actually go as planned, who knew that was possible?
“Hello!” says the chipper man dressed in a suit. He holds out a hand to me as I exit the car and walk toward him. “I’m Nigel, I’m the letting agent for the property. And you must be Laura, right?”
“Yes, nice to meet you, Nigel. I’m so pleased you were able to meet me so promptly,” I reply.
“No worries!” he says with a bright smile and then fishes a key out of his pocket with his right hand while his left hand grabs a leather briefcase he has sitting on the hood of his car. “Let’s just take a quick look before I leave you to it.”
He opens the door and my heart leaps. The view is breathtaking. The sea is visible just beyond what looks to be no more than one or two hundred feet of paths and grass. A cliffy coastline juts out as waves crash along the rocks. I can only see them farther down as the coastline curves allowing me a view of the cliffs and the castle standing atop an island of land right by the seawall.
My eyes focus back to what was surely a solid wall at some point. There are now two large windows flanking French doors that lead out to a small patio. It takes me a minute before I even look around to see the room itself. The room is a decent size with wooden floors, a fireplace that looks as old as the house, but charming, wooden beams across the ceiling, a sofa, a love seat, a big comfy chair with an ottoman, several side tables, and a table by the front door. It’s decorated in blues and yellows and the walls are a pale blue several shades lighter than the sky on a clear spring morning. There are a few hints of grassy green and a sunny yellow in throw pillows and a rug.
Nigel smiles again. “It’s one hell of a view, eh?” I nod as my eyes trail back over to the view lying beyond the windows.
I’m clearly in the main living room of the cottage. To my left I see a hallway with several doors off of it and to my right there is a doorway into the kitchen. The kitchen is small with an even smaller eating area facing another window and door. This door leads out to a path which forks with one part going to the patio in front of the living room and the other looks to go to a coastal walking path not far from the house.
“It’s the coastal walking path,” explains Nigel. “You may see the occasional hiker or backpacker, but it’s far enough from the castle and town that you shouldn’t get too much foot traffic.” He gives me a reassuring look and then shows me how to operate the kitchen appliances. He opens a small door to the pantry in the corner of the kitchen letting me peek inside. It’s filled with pots, pans, plates, dishes, and some basic cooking items like flour, sugar, and salt. We continue our tour by going to the other side of the house where there are two bedrooms and a bathroom. I mentally choose the bigger bedroom facing the path and sea. There’s a small desk by one window and the bed is right by the other. It also has its own door to the bathroom. Perfect, I think to myself.
Nigel hands me papers with the Wi-Fi passcodes and the pertinent numbers of various people I may need to call in an emergency: plumber, grounds caretaker, etc. I nod and sign off on the form he has for me.
“OK, the place is yours. I hope you enjoy your stay. The map I gave you will show you how to get into town by road, but it’s also only about a few miles down the path if you would rather walk. Feel free to call or pop by my office if you need anything.” He gives me that million-dollar real estate agent smile again and with that and another shake of my hand, he is off.
I suddenly realize that poor Hagrid is still in the car. Of course, it’s only been about five minutes and it isn’t remotely hot, but I feel guilty nonetheless. I slap myself on my forehead. God, Laura, get it together. I open the car door and Hagrid is fast asleep in his carrier. I grab him and bring him in, followed by my suitcases and carry-on. I spend the rest of the morning putting away my things, and around 2:00 p.m., my stomach makes a noise and I realize I haven’t got a thing to eat. Time to explore town, I think to myself and grab my car keys.
Chapter 4
Laura’s Playlist: “Feel Again” by OneRepublic
It is an unusually sunny and warm day. And by warm, I mean I don’t need a jacket. So I open the sunroof and roll down the windows and blast my favorite playlist through the car Bluetooth system. I forward to a song that reminds me of my time here before and meander through the countryside roads towards town. I had glanced at the map prior to leaving, but the route is pretty straig
ht forward, at least it looks that way to me.
I reminisce as I drive. I’d fallen in love with Sean while studying in London. We had a class together on English theater, and by the end of the term, I just knew he was the one. I laugh to myself over the memories of our adventures. We once got lost for two days in the English countryside when Sean took a wrong turn. The locals had such thick accents we kept misunderstanding their directions and pretty soon we decided it was best to stay the night at a small inn we found rather than try to make our way back to a motorway. I smile to myself remembering that first night Sean and I spent together.
About five minutes into my drive I realize that perhaps I am going the wrong way, the landmarks that should be appearing have not and it looks even more remote than before. I grab for my phone and realize that it isn’t there. Shit, I left it on the dining table. I glance around for another map…shit…no map and mine is back at the house. I spot a giant stone gateway to my left with a cottage about five or more times the size of mine—a gatehouse, if I’m not mistaken. I see a man, roughly my age, trimming rose bushes in the front garden, so I pull over and roll my window down further.
“Excuse me,” I say loudly from my car. The man doesn’t look up. He just keeps on trimming his roses. How rude, I begin to think, but then I make out the earbuds in his ears. He clearly hasn’t heard me. I put the car in park and open my car door. The motion must catch his eye as the sun gleams off the metal on the car door towards him. He glances up and slowly eases a pair of sunglasses to rest atop his head. Brilliant green eyes stare back at me in a mixture of amusement, curiosity, and do I detect the slightest bit of annoyance?
“Sorry to disturb you,” I start. “I’m renting a cottage just down the way and I think I took a wrong turn heading to town and I left my map and phone back there. Could I trouble you for directions?”
He walks toward the gate, laying his garden shears down on a small stone table. He is tall, but everyone is tall when you are only 5’4”. He is surprisingly well-dressed to be a gardener, I think as I find myself checking him out while he slowly saunters over to me. He is definitely tall as he approaches me and I can assess his true height. He is well over 6’ with dark, reddish-brown hair with a few streaks of gray in it. He has prominently sculptured facial features and a hint of freckles on his nose and cheeks. His expression changes as he approaches me and he begins to slow down. I find myself biting my tongue as my initial reaction to his stare is to say, “yes, I know, I’m American,” but I keep my mouth shut, a skill that has never come easy to me and takes all of my concentration.
“No worries, love,” he says in a very Scottish accent, but more of one from Edinburgh than from up here. He’s definitely not from Aberdeen with an accent like that one or at least he didn’t grow up in Aberdeen.
When he reaches me, he points back the way I came from. “You want to go back the way you came about eight miles and you’ll come to a roundabout, take the first lane and that takes you straight into Stonehaven.”
“Easy enough,” I say, mustering a half-embarrassed, half-appreciative smile.
“Happy to help,” he says. “I’m Jack Ross by the way.” He offers me his hand and as I reach for it I realize his hands are enormous next to mine. His skin is warm and his grip firm. He lingers just a touch too long before ending the contact. “I’m guessing you are at Seaview Cottage, yes?” I nod. “I help maintain the cottage. I’m sure Nigel gave you my number in case you need anything.”
“Oh, uh, yes,” I answer a little surprised. “Uh, nice to meet you. I’m Laura, Laura Stevenson.”
“Well, Laura, enjoy your day,” he says with a nod and warm smile and turns back toward the garden. I turn to go back toward my car and I swear I can feel him looking at me as I walk away. I am however much too embarrassed to turn around. Once I’m in my car I glance in his direction. He is back to chopping away at the thorny plant in front of him. I shake my head at myself and turn the car around.
His directions are spot on and in about thirty minutes I’m approaching the town. The roads are winding and narrow in the countryside, lined with rocky fences and low bushes. Once in town, the roads are wider and easier to maneuver. At first a few old houses line the street and then some shops and a pub and, finally, I reach a little square where I can see the sea down a street. I look around for the grocery store. Eventually, I stumble upon a small market. I find a parking spot not far down the lane. I pull over and grab my bag. I decide to grab provisions for a few days and then stop and get myself a few bottles of wine. After buying more than I anticipated I would purchase, I load my bags into the trunk of my car and then spy a cheese shop. I decide to investigate. I am a sucker for cheese. Nothing goes better with wine than cheese, except maybe chocolate!
I open the door of the cheese shop and am greeted with the alluring smells from within as though the cheese itself is beckoning me inside. A woman’s voice calls from the back, “What can I help you with?”
Startled, as I didn’t see a human to go with the voice, I stumble over the words. “I, uh, I’m just looking,” I manage to choke out and then stop and look around. There are two refrigerated counter areas with cheese lining the windows of the shelves. And more cheeses, some wrapped in various colors of waxes, line shelves behind the counters. The front of the store has several smaller shelves lined with boxes of various types of crackers and a small basket sits on one with loaves of French bread wrapped in paper. I internally smile as I can hear Sean saying, “Great, let me take out that second mortgage since you are going to buy everything in this shop, am I right or am I right?”
A head pokes out from a doorway behind the counter facing me. The woman appears to be about my age, maybe a few years younger. She has dark red hair and she has beautiful, friendly bluish-green eyes. Her skin is covered in freckles and she wears an apron over her jeans and t-shirt which is emblazoned with the store’s name—The Cheese Shoppe.
“What do you fancy?” she asks with a brilliant smile.
“Well, I’m not sure, any recommendations?” I say with a shrug of uncertainty.
“I could sell you what I like, but that might be doing you an injustice. What types of cheese are your favorites?” she asks, tipping her head as though analyzing me.
“Hmmmm, I like blue cheese and Swiss,” I answer, looking around at the nearly fifty different cheeses before me.
“Right,” she says with confidence. “Here, have a go at this and tell me what you think.” She dips a small wooden tasting stick into what appears to be some type of blue cheese and hands me the sample.
I place the delicious goodness in my mouth and take a moment to savor the creamy texture of the cheese. It is salty and savory and perfect. It is truly scrumptious and I know immediately I have found my dinner for tonight.
“That is fantastic,” I say enthusiastically. “What type of blue cheese is it?”
“It’s a local one. A stilton style, but it’s very popular. Perhaps our most popular,” she explains. “How much can I do you for?”
“How about a pound of that and a pound of this,” I say, pointing at a baby Swiss in the next section of the counter.
“Sure thing,” she replies and gets to work packaging my cheeses while I peruse the crackers and breads. I grab a loaf of the French bread and two boxes of crackers, one plain and one with rosemary baked into them. Then I eye some summer sausages and grab one of those too.
“And these,” I say, placing them on the counter near the cash register.
“You enjoying the castle today?” she says, trying to eye me up as a tourist.
“No, I’m actually renting a local cottage for the summer,” I reply.
“Oh?” And without missing a beat she asks, “Seaview Cottage, Thistlewood Cottage, or Brambles Cottage?”
“Seaview,” I say, having a hard time stopping a smile from creeping across my face.
“The old Ross property is a beauty!” she states as she places my items in a fabric bag that bears the shop’s
logo. “Guess I better give you one of our good bags, since I reckon you’ll be back here again soon.” She gives me a wink as I glance at the total on the register screen and hand her £50. I wonder if Jack’s family once owned the cottage, although I know Ross isn’t an uncommon name in these parts. I’ll try to remember to ask Jack about it at some point.
“Thanks, I’ll definitely be back,” I say, smiling warmly. I like her, the type of like that happens instantaneously. I haven’t had this happen often, but once in a while I find myself drawn to another person almost the second I meet them, as though we had a bond or a connection in a past life. This feels like one of those times. So I muster some bravery and ask her if she has any recommendations for places to eat as I haven’t been here in over twenty-five years and I can’t remember the name of the small pub I went to nor do I think it is likely to still be there.
“Well, let me think. There’s a pub down by the sea or there’s one about two streets over next to the butcher’s shop.” She names some more places and then shrugs. “I tend to go to the pub right across the way here, easy to stumble home from and quick to get to after a long day in here.” She laughs at herself and hands me the bag.
“Thanks, maybe I’ll see you there sometime.” I smile and offer her a wink of my own. “I’m Laura by the way.”
She holds out a hand and says, “Pleased to meet you, Laura. My name’s Mallory, but most folks around here just call me Mal.”
“Well, Mal, thanks for the recommendations, and I’m sure I’ll see you again soon,” I laugh, glancing at my bag of cheese which I’m sure I’ll finish off by tomorrow night.
She nods and I head back to my car. Just as I’m about to go, I curse myself. I forgot food for Hagrid. Crap, I think to myself and I get out of the car and head back into the market only to find that their selection is awful. I’m given the suggestion by a bag boy of going down the block to the pet store. I do find sufficient food there and get enough to last at least the month. No need in having to think about that every week, I laugh at myself imagining that I’d likely forget it again and not be so lucky as to be in town still when I finally do remember.