A Highlander is Coming to Town

by Laura Trentham

  She pulled free of his loose hold and jumped down. Before he could even exit the truck, she hauled the bike out of the bed and pushed it across the puddled driveway, lifting it up the steps and into the shelter of the porch. Claire and Ms. Meadows had a brief exchange of words before the old woman hobbled through the screen door. Claire held a hand up in a wave before disappearing inside.

  He shook his head. Why couldn’t she have answered with a simple black-or-white yes or no? Why did she have to be frustratingly confusing and downright fascinating?

  Chapter Four

  Claire sidled over to the window and, half-hidden by the threadbare curtains, watched Holt. She’d had years of keeping her own counsel. Why then did she find her tongue loosening around Holt? Her toes scrunched in her boots, her feet cold and numb in her damp socks.

  Her run-in with Iain Connors had been hair-raising. Who would have thought she would cross paths with another Scot in tiny Highland, Georgia? It defied logic and probability. If anyone might have recognized her, it would have been him. Her family was well known in Scotland, and the product of her family’s fortunes, Glennallen Whisky, was familiar the world over.

  Her picture had been in the papers and magazine spreads more than she would have liked growing up. Of course, the lifestyle described by the articles and exposés had been a projection of what her parents had envisioned, not reality. Claire hadn’t even liked horses, but they always trotted one out for a photo op with her. Was there anything more British than an upper-class heiress and her pony?

  But Iain hadn’t shown even a flicker of recognition beyond her stint in the Scunners. She had survived with her truth still hidden. Or, less charitably put, with her lies intact. She was daft for worrying.

  Her years on the road with the Scunners had distanced her from her posh upbringing. None of her old friends would have recognized the woman she’d become, strutting and preening onstage. She’d loved the anonymity. The hard partying and travel had held their appeal too. Until they hadn’t.

  The truck backed out of the lane with a roar and disappeared. Part of her had hoped he would change his mind, march to the door, and demand answers to the questions he hadn’t asked but she could sense brewing. That same part wanted to tell him everything. It was a good thing he’d left, because she was feeling especially vulnerable. Tomorrow, she would be strong again.

  The engine noise faded and tension unwound from her shoulders. She pulled out the piece of paper he’d written his mobile number on. The last three numbers had smudged beyond all recognition in her wet pocket.

  She told herself she was relieved the temptation to call him was off the table. A wash of disappointment proved she was a liar.

  “Did young Mr. Pierson behave himself?”

  Ms. Meadows’s voice right behind her made her start around. How had the old woman snuck up on her?

  “He did.” He did more than behave himself, he had been … kind. At least, she thought it was kindness. As she had so little experience with the motivation, she couldn’t be sure.

  Ms. Meadows cocked her head to the side. “You like him.”

  “No, I don’t. He was convenient. That’s all.” Her cheeks grew warm and her gaze darted toward the kitchen, searching for an excuse to change the subject. Even though she’d done her fair share of lying over the years, she’d never become an expert.

  Ms. Meadows’s hum transmitted sarcasm. “I’m old, but I ain’t dead, girlie.” She turned and tottered away without the gun or her cane.

  Claire hustled to her side and offered a steadying arm as they made their mincing way toward Ms. Meadows’s chair and the telly.

  “Could you put the gun back in the closet?” Ms. Meadows waved a hand toward where the gun was propped against the wall.

  Claire tucked the gun into the farthest corner of the closet. “Why do you have a gun? Did you used to hunt, Ms. Meadows?” Claire’s father had been a weekend hunter. She had never understood the appeal of shooting at birds for sport.

  “Goodness, no. My husband kept it around to chase off varmints and for protection, I suppose, although no one ever bothered us out here. Only time I had to pull it on a person was Holt’s good-for-nothing daddy. The junk drawer ate the ammo years ago.”

  Ms. Meadows didn’t often mention her husband, and even though she didn’t want to be interrogated in return, Claire couldn’t help but be curious. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Thirty years this Christmas.” Ms. Meadows’s voice was completely matter-of-fact.

  Thirty years. It was longer than Claire had been alive. A pang of echoed loneliness seemed to resonate between them.

  “I’m so sorry,” Claire said softly enough that Ms. Meadows could choose to ignore or recognize the sentiment.

  “I’m sorry too. Samuel was a good man.”

  “What happened?” Claire snapped out of the line of questioning before Ms. Meadows could tell her off for being so nosy. “You don’t have to—”

  “Heart attack,” Ms. Meadows said brusquely. Claire didn’t move or speak, afraid Ms. Meadows would slam the door that had opened between them. In a softer voice, she continued. “It was sudden. He was only fifty-five. I suppose that seems old to you, but he was young. It happened right outside at the bottom of the porch. I can still remember being confused at the way he was lying there so still.”

  Ms. Meadows reached out a hand as if touching a photograph that existed only in her mind. Claire’s chest hurt and tears stung her eyes. Keeping her distance from Ms. Meadows should have been a snap. After all, the old woman hadn’t inspired warm and fuzzy emotions when Claire had first met her. She had been short and a bit cold and had only grudgingly admitted to needing help.

  Bit by bit, Ms. Meadows had softened toward her. Claire supposed you couldn’t live with someone, eat with them, spend day after day in each other’s company, and not unbend. Claire’s own defenses were rotting away in the comfort of Ms. Meadows’s home.

  Claire reached out a hand with a tentativeness that reflected her fear of getting it slapped away. Ms. Meadows allowed Claire to give her arm a slight squeeze. Although Claire didn’t let her hand linger, the moment veered awkward.

  Ms. Meadows cleared her throat. “You should go take a hot shower and change into dry clothes.”

  Claire took the opening to retreat to her small room in the back of the house. If not for Holt’s rain jacket, she would have been soaked to the bone.

  Routine ruled the rest of the day and evening. After dinner, they played a few hands of cards. As casually as possible while discarding the six of hearts in their game of gin, Claire said, “I noticed a lovely silver box in the shed when I was looking for a bike tube. I’d be happy to bring it inside and polish it for you.”

  Ms. Meadows picked up the six and tucked it into her hand before discarding. “No, thank you.”

  Claire contemplated her next play, not in the game, but in the conversation. “Are you sure? It can’t be good for whatever is inside to be subjected to the weather.”

  “I said, no.” The word ended the conversation like a key locking a door. Before she could probe further, Ms. Meadows picked up Claire’s next discard and lay her cards down, announcing, “Gin!”

  Claire grumbled good-naturedly about losing again, then helped Ms. Meadows, wearing a fresh nightgown, settle down in her bed in front of a small telly sitting on her bureau.

  The channels were limited to whatever the antennae on top of the house could pick up, and Ms. Meadows complained about the mind-rotting shows she had to choose from.

  “Why don’t you read instead?” Claire asked. “You have a bookcase full in your sitting room.”

  “Oh that I could. My eyesight has gotten too poor. I used to love reading.” A wistfulness threaded the words.

  “Audiobooks are all the rage, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with your hearing. Do you want to try one?”

  “I don’t have the money to toss around willy-nilly on such extravagances. TV is free.” Ms. Mead
ows sniffed, which Claire had come to recognize as the close of any conversation.

  After saying their good nights, Claire lay down in her twin bed in the dark and listened to the rain patter on the roof. Her thoughts drifted like metal filings toward a Holt Pierson–shaped magnet.

  The day had done damage to her recent theories on people—men in particular. Wayne had fixed her bike and seemingly required nothing in return. Not even her thanks.

  In addition, not only had Holt not put the moves on her, but he’d come as near to offering her friendship as she’d experienced in a long time. It felt strange. But also nice. Except another dynamic was at play between them. One she wasn’t immune to.

  Holt was attractive. Not just attractive. He was sexy. Not in the bad-boy way she’d gravitated toward in the past but in a stable, and—dare she say?—mature way. He was an adult, and she was … not a grown-up. At least, she didn’t feel like one, even if her age said otherwise.

  She should have studied harder in school. She should have gone to university. She should have returned home to apprentice in the distillery. She shouldn’t have picked the worst men to date as a rebellion. She shouldn’t have thumbed her nose at her responsibilities. She shouldn’t have joined a touring band.

  Regrets made for poor bedfellows. She punched the pillow and turned over to face the window. On clear nights, silvery moonlight lent a fairy-tale-like quality to her room. Those were her favorite nights. Nights when she believed in redemption and forgiveness. Tonight, though, it was dark and her dreams would be full of shadows.

  She cast off the covers, pulled on a pair of ratty sweatpants, and tiptoed through the quiet house, pausing at each squeak of the wooden floorboards. The telly was off in Ms. Meadows’s room, and nothing stirred.

  Once she was outside, she straightened from her hunch and took a deep breath. Her travels had taken her to fairs and festivals around the United States. They smelled of cotton candy and frying oil. The Glasgow of her youth had smelled of old stone and whisky.

  The surrounding woods were rich with unfamiliar earthy scents. The wind in the trees spoke of decay and growth—an ancient cycle of life. Her shiver wasn’t entirely from the cold. Had someone traipsed over her grave?

  The sky spit out errant raindrops, but the worst of the deluge seemed to be over. Claire shifted the door of the storage shed open enough for her to slip inside. Fear crawled over her like all the spiders and beasties she was imagining hovering in the shadows of the shed. An irrational fear of being shut inside had her pushing the door open wider.

  She put out her hands and shuffled toward the shelf with the silver box. Had this been her plan when she got out of bed? Yes. Right or wrong, she had known since the moment she’d seen it that she’d be unable to resist the call of her curiosity.

  Her fingers brushed cool metal. She’d been anticipating it yet still jerked at the sensation. Tucking the cold metal box under her arm, she tiptoed back toward the house, fighting the feeling she was betraying Ms. Meadows. Whatever was in the box was none of Claire’s business.

  When she reached her room, she slipped the box under her bed and pushed it toward the wall. While there was little chance Ms. Meadows would notice the box gone from the shed, she didn’t want Ms. Meadows to see it until she’d had a chance to polish it to a shine.

  Sleep, when it finally claimed her, was restless. Her imagination soared in directions that were both fanciful and troubled. Pieces of her past mixed with whatever the box held captive.

  Birdsong and the sun shining brightly through the window woke her. She rubbed her gritty eyes and lay there a moment to get her bearings in time and place.

  Hauling herself up, she dropped into her typical morning routine. The perking coffee gave her a shot of vigor, and she enjoyed a cup before noises from Ms. Meadows’s room signaled her wakefulness.

  Claire knocked before cracking the door. “Need any help?”

  “Good morning, girl.” Ms. Meadows had already changed out of her nightgown and into one of her sack dresses, this time in blue with white daisies, along with woolen socks and brown clunky sandals. The combination of the old-fashioned dress with the irreverent footwear on an eighty-five-year-old woman never failed to make Claire smile.

  “Let me do your hair.” Claire moved a squat stool in front of the mirror hung on the closet door and steered Ms. Meadows to sit.

  Ms. Meadows had resisted Claire’s offers of hair care for the first month of their arrangement. When she had finally relented, it was obvious the pleasure she took in the attention. Ms. Meadows had a head of thick, snowy-white hair. Claire had given it a trim and kept it combed and curled.

  “I can’t believe you get to enjoy days like this in winter,” Claire said while waiting for the curling iron to heat. “Glasgow is damp and miserable for a good six months out of the year.” It was an exaggeration but not much of one.

  “Speaking of Glasgow, you’ve never asked to use the phone to call home. Do you have any family left in Scotland that might be wondering what you’re getting up to in Georgia?” Ms. Meadows arched a brow when Claire’s eyes met hers in the mirror.

  The question caught her with her guard down. Not just down, but decamped entirely. She made a few um and uh sounds that didn’t jump-start her ability to come up with a suitable lie.

  “My parents and I aren’t close.” The truth shot out before she could stop it. The more she thought about it, though, the more she wondered why she was keeping so many secrets. Who would Ms. Meadows tell?

  “They’re still in Glasgow?”

  “Yes.” According to the internet, they were still hosting fundraisers and smiling with peers and millionaires. What did her parents tell their friends about her? Maybe they didn’t talk about her at all. Out of sight and all of that.

  “I imagine they regret the distance as much as you do.”

  The observation rocked Claire’s stomach, making her feel sick. Did Claire regret the distance? Of course she did. Especially as decisions that would affect everyone in the Glennallen family were approaching like the fall of a blade. That’s how she felt some days. Her execution was nigh.

  No matter what she decided, whether to sell her shares or return to sit on the board, people would be hurt. People she cared about despite the physical and emotional distance of the last few years. After all, she was the one who had left.

  “I thought I might test out the new tubes and ride to town today as it’s so pretty out. Need anything?” Claire finished curling Ms. Meadows’s hair and unplugged the iron.

  Ms. Meadows patted her coiffure and smiled. “Could you pick up a quart of buttermilk? I have a hankering for biscuits. It can be your next lesson, but I’ll warn you, they are tricky little buggers to get right.”

  After making them both a breakfast of poached eggs and toast, Claire set out cycling to town. Although the air held a chill, the sun was warm and the sky was blue. The shimmy in her wheels had smoothed and the gears changed without a clang. With the wind roaring in her ears, she flew along the country lane, humming an old Scottish folk song. Her optimism soared like a hawk on the wing.

  She made it to Highland in record time and left her bike leaning up against the brick wall in her usual alley. Occasionally, a couple of kid-sized bikes would be there, but not this morning.

  Flipping her sweatshirt hood up to hide her face out of habit, she strolled down the street, window-shopping along the way. She would stop to get buttermilk on her way back, but first she had another mission.

  The Highland library sat at the end of Main Street. It was a large two-story brick building that once might have been someone’s house. Stone steps led up to the double doors. Claire had avoided the library, not sure how the system worked in the States.

  Institutions usually required names and numbers and proof of existence. While her passport required her legal name, she didn’t want to be flagged in Highland. Her family had the wherewithal to find her, and as the days ticked down to her birthday, she would imagine they we
re growing desperate.

  Despite the risks, she hoped to gain access to audiobooks for Ms. Meadows, and sidled inside with a deep breath. The scent of paper and ink lingered over the more industrial smells of cleaners and technology. Rows of books formed a gauntlet between her and the librarian staffing the large circulation desk along the back wall. She wandered up and down the rows, letting her fingertips glide along the spines of mysteries and romances and science-fiction books.

  A bank of computers made her stop short, and she glanced at the closest unoccupied cubby. The last person had left the browser open to a website with detailed knitting instructions. She waited for a few minutes, but no one returned to claim the computer. Glancing to either side of her, she slipped into the seat and was sure a librarian was going to ask what the devil she was about, but she was ignored.

  Cracking her knuckles like before a fight, she typed in her parents’ names. The social section of a Glaswegian newspaper was listed first. The post was only a month old. Claire clicked through the pictures. There were her parents smiling without a care and holding champagne flutes.

  Did they worry about her? Did they scour the internet for any mention of her? Not that they would get any hits returned. She’d used a variety of stage names when she traveled with the Scunners. Her bandmates had chalked it up to artistic eccentricity. Unless her parents tapped friends in government to check the movements of her passport, they would have no clue she was even in the States, much less Highland, Georgia.

  Next, she searched for her cousin Lachlan Glennallen. The under-thirty rising stars of the Glasgow business community had been announced for the year. With a head full of the Glennallen auburn hair, Lachlan smiled at her from the number one position. She smiled back, pulled up her email service, and logged in before she could think any better of it.

  Saw the paper. Are you having to live in the garden because your head is too big to fit in the door? She didn’t bother with a greeting or a signoff.

  Her in-box popped up with a reply almost immediately. You little git. Where are you?