“Not knowing is worse than knowing one way or the other,” Claire said as if she possessed a dram of wisdom, which she didn’t. If Anna knew how difficult it was for Claire to make a decision or embrace responsibility, she wouldn’t be looking to her for support or advice.
“Could you stick around for a couple of minutes?” Anna pulled out one of the tests and stared at it. “At least five according to the box. I don’t want to be alone.” The last she added in a soft voice Claire couldn’t deny.
“Of course. I’m not in any hurry. Go on, then, and take it.”
Anna disappeared into the bathroom. Claire stared at the door for a long moment. When Anna didn’t reappear, she wandered over to the ballet bar mounted on a wall lined with mirrors.
It had been months since Claire had spent more than a few seconds in front of a mirror. Thankfully, the soft white light reflecting off the wood floors was flattering.
The bike riding under the winter sun had given her face more color than usual. While her hair was choppy, it was beginning to curl at the edges, giving her a gamine appearance that wasn’t as boyish as she’d feared. Her natural red sparked attractively in the light. There was nothing she could do about her clothes. The layers made her look boxy, but they were warm and comfortable.
She’d left her stage costumes behind with her bandmates and wouldn’t be surprised if another woman was already wearing them in her place as lead singer. Which was fine. It’s not like she had a use for tight leather pants and sequined tank tops.
Except she wouldn’t have minded a few sexy pieces to wear to Holt’s cabin for Saturday-night soufflé. She wanted to capture his attention and keep it. At least for as long as she was in Highland. Without her stage persona and sexy outfits, she would have to rely on her ripped jeans and sweatshirts and not-so-sparkling personality.
That nailed it. She would get in touch with him somehow—smoke signals? Morse code?—and bow out of his dinner party. The decision filled her with relief and regret.
How many minutes had ticked off? At least five. Claire rapped lightly on the bathroom door and pushed it open a crack. “Anna? Everything okay?”
“I don’t know.” Anna’s voice came from the back corner, trembly and weak.
Claire entered and sidestepped to the second of two stalls. Anna sat on the toilet lid holding white stick in one hand and a paper covered in tiny lettering in the other.
“Did you wee on it?” Claire asked.
Anna nodded.
“Are you…?”
Anna shook her head. “Afraid to look.”
“Do you want me to look and tell you what it means?”
Anna held out the stick and what turned out to be the instructions. Claire had never taken a pregnancy test. She’d been scrupulously careful with her sexual partners. Her life was already complicated enough without adding a baby.
Claire held the stick up. Turns out she didn’t need the instructions, as the word PREGNANT was boldly displayed in red. Anna had dropped her head in her hands, her fingers clenched in her hair, wisps of red sticking out from her braid.
Claire wasn’t sure how to impart the news. Should she gently ease Anna into her new reality or give her a shove? “You’re pregnant.”
Anna didn’t move or acknowledge the shove in any way.
“You’re pregnant, Anna. I’m—” Was this a situation that demanded congratulations or commiseration? Claire wasn’t sure, so she stilled her tongue and let Anna assimilate the news.
Anna’s rapid breaths reverberated off the tiled floors and walls. Finally, she stood and smoothed her tutu, her fingers staying to fiddle with the hem. “That is obviously a defective test. I can’t be pregnant. We’ve been careful. How could this happen? What am I going to do?”
Anna had pinged from denial to acceptance to panic in record-setting time.
Claire patted Anna’s arm awkwardly. “Birth control fails all the time. If Iain is that bad, then you have choices, don’t you?”
“Iain’s not bad. He’s wonderful. Amazing. Our life right now is nearly perfect. That’s the problem.” Anna closed her eyes and covered her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
It took a few beats to realize Anna wasn’t speaking metaphorically. Claire flipped the lid of the toilet open and pulled Anna’s braid out of the way while she retched. Claire looked anywhere but down, feeling sympathetic queasiness herself.
After the storm had passed, Anna grabbed some tissue to wipe her mouth, flushed, then staggered to her feet and the sink. She rinsed out her mouth and splashed water on her pasty-looking face.
Not sure what to do, Claire stood close to the door and escape, thumbing over her shoulder. “Would you like to take another test for confirmation?”
Anna’s bark of laughter was uncomfortably loud in the small space. “No. My gut told me I was pregnant before I even peed on the first test. Me tossing my biscuits, as Iain would say, is enough confirmation.”
“If Iain is a good bloke and your life with him is perfect, then what’s the problem?” Claire asked.
Anna turned and leaned against the counter. “We haven’t been together very long. Just since the festival. A baby”—she stumbled over the word—“was not in the plans. We agreed to take things slow, and now I’ve screwed it all up.” Tears shone in her eyes.
“Unless biology has undergone a transformation, he is as responsible for the situation as you,” Claire said with more tartness than she’d intended. It was infuriating that women took the brunt of responsibility and castigation in these circumstances. “Do you want to keep the baby?” she asked bluntly.
Anna’s hand went to her belly as if already protecting it. “I don’t know.”
“That’s the first thing you should decide. Talk to Iain. Will he stick by you and the baby if you choose to have it?”
“I don’t have a great track record of people sticking in my life, but I think so.”
“Do you want to be together baby or no baby?”
Anna didn’t shy away from the question but seemed to give it due consideration. “Yeah, I do. I want him for forever no matter what.”
“Then tell him that.”
“Do you mean I should ask him to marry me?” Her voice rose to a near squeak of fright.
“Not necessarily. You can have a baby together without getting married.” Claire shrugged. “But if you love him and want to be with him forever, then why not get married?”
“Why not?” Anna repeated as if Claire had suggested she jump off a cliff.
Then Anna did something that rocked Claire back on her heels, both physically and metaphorically. She threw herself into Claire for a hug. A tight one she couldn’t wriggle out of without seeming rude.
It had been a long time since she’d had a real friend. The boys in the band had been like brothers. Annoying ones, at that.
A few of the girls at boarding school had been friends. They borrowed one another’s clothes and whispered about boys at night, but those relationships hadn’t lasted beyond school. Once they’d gone their separate ways, promises to text and meet up were forgotten. What had happened to those girls? Had they fared better than she had? Had they made better decisions?
She stood still, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides. It took a few breaths to turn her focus outward and realize Anna was crying on her shoulder. Like a seed finding itself in rich soil, something in Claire’s heart sprouted, and her arms found their way around Anna. Claire patted her on the back and murmured, “There, there. Everything will turn out fine no matter what you decide.”
And Claire was confident that it would. For Anna, at least. Why couldn’t Claire be as confident in her own future?
Taking a shuddery breath, Anna lifted her head but didn’t break their connection. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I hardly ever cry.”
“I expect it’s the hormones,” Claire said with more expertise than she felt.
Anna let out a gasping laugh, smiling even as tears still wet
her cheeks. “I’m sure you’re right. I’m sorry for turning into a blubbery mess. You must think I’m nuts. We just met.”
Claire was actually thinking how nice it was to have something resembling a friend. “I don’t know many people in Highland. Just the preacher, Ms. Meadows, and Holt Pierson.”
Anna unrolled some toilet tissue and blew her nose. “That needs to change.”
A streak of fear jolted Claire back a step toward the door. This was why she couldn’t afford a friend. “Ms. Meadows keeps me busy. In fact, her buttermilk is getting warm, and I need to be getting back to cook her supper.”
Anna grabbed her by the wrist. “Do you mind keeping this news to yourself? I need time to process it and decide how best to handle it.”
“Of course. Your secrets are safe with me.” Claire was the keeper of many secrets. One more wouldn’t be a burden.
The two women exited the bathroom together.
“Thanks.” Anna glanced up at a wall clock featuring a ballerina whose legs moved around the face and groaned. “I’ve got a class to teach in a quarter of an hour.”
“It’ll be a good distraction.” Singing on stage had been Claire’s escape until she couldn’t run any longer.
“What’s your number?” Anna called out when Claire was halfway out the door.
“Sorry, I don’t have a mobile,” Claire said with a tight smile as she slipped outside with her things. Keeping her head down, she crossed the street and retrieved her bike from the mouth of the alley.
All of a sudden, she was feeling conspicuous. It was nerve racking. Holt and Anna had turned their gazes on her and left her vulnerable. The promise of friendship dangled from Anna. Claire wasn’t sure what kind of promise Holt offered, but it seemed more complicated than mere friendship.
Claire stowed the buttermilk and the audiobooks in the basket on the front of the bike and set off toward home.
Home.
The word echoed in her head. She shouldn’t think of Ms. Meadows’s house as her home because it wasn’t. It was a temporary place to land. She couldn’t get attached to Ms. Meadows or Anna or Highland—and most especially not to Holt Pierson.
Chapter Six
The sky overhead was blue for the moment, but the chilly wind whipping around her portended another storm. Claire coasted down the hill toward Ms. Meadows’s house. The changeable weather reminded her of Scotland. She couldn’t worry about what was going on above her, because the most dangerous section of road was upcoming. It narrowed and grew rocky at the edges. She wished for a scant few inches on the safe side of the crumbling yellow line.
A truck appeared on the rise heading in her direction, and she braced herself for the buffeting wind it would produce on its way past her in the other lane. Claire kept her head down and concentrated on keeping the bike on the straight and narrow. After Wayne’s tune-up, at least the bike felt more stable.
A few minutes passed where her quickened breathing and the clank of her chain as she cycled were the only things she could hear. A roar grew louder behind her but she didn’t dare glance over her shoulder. The motion might accidentally send her into the lane of traffic. A tiny puff of anticipation had her hoping it was Holt. If he offered a ride this time, she would say yes before he could finish the asking.
The pulse of bass music hit her, and she tightened her grip on her handlebars. She couldn’t imagine Holt listening to rap, but people surprised her all the time, especially since she’d landed in Highland. The truck approached with the subtlety of an airplane landing, but as the bumper came into her periphery, the driver shifted over to pass her. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
The truck’s passenger window came even with her, and it slowed to pace her. She glanced over and caught a flash of white teeth in a spotted face. The teenage boy hollered something at her and the truck made a quick lurch in her direction. She reacted instinctively and jerked her bike toward the side of the road.
The driver of the truck accelerated and laughter carried over the growl of the engine. The front tire of the bike hit the crumbling gravel at the edge of the road. In slow motion, the bike skid and her center of balance shifted off the seat. She let go of the handlebars and closed her eyes, bracing for impact.
Her right hip and hand took the brunt of the fall. She came to a stop on her back, her arms thrown out to her sides, the fingers of her right hand digging into gravel and her left clutching a handful of grass.
Stunned like a bird hitting a window, she lay there, blinked up at the sky, and assessed her injuries. Her hip throbbed and her palm stung. She rotated her ankles. No excruciating pain, which meant she hadn’t broken anything. She lifted her hands above her face. Her right hand was in the worst shape. Blood welled along a couple of scratches, and the rest of her palm was reddened and raw.
Besides processing the sudden shock, her brain seemed to be working normally. She knew her name—her real one and her fake one—and what year it was. It didn’t take long for anger to blossom. What a bunch of unholy gits. A string of Glaswegian curses rolled off her tongue with satisfaction. Holt had set a high bar when it came to gentlemanly behavior, and those boys hadn’t had any trouble limboing under.
Sitting up, she looked around for her bike. The right handlebar had caught on the lowest string of a barbed-wire fence, which kept it from sliding down the embankment and into a puddle of mud. The buttermilk and audiobooks seemed to have survived minus a little dirt. A cow on the other side of the fence watched her and chewed its cud. She counted her blessings. Her bike was on this side of the fence, and the cow was on the other.
Gingerly, she rose and dusted herself off, wincing. Her hip would be bruised and her hand sore, but otherwise she would survive. She hauled the bike out from under the barbed wire and said a little prayer when a cursory examination showed that neither of her tubes had busted. Returning her things to the basket, she pushed the bike to the pavement.
With shaky knees, she looked up and down the road for traffic before straddling the bike and pushing off. The pedals flew around too fast. Her feet slipped off and nearly caused her to crash again. She walked the bike to the opposite side of the road and the flatter grassy verge to examine it. There was no tension in the gears because the chain was gone.
As it turned out, glares and curses didn’t shame the chain into reappearing. There was nothing for it but to walk her bike back to Ms. Meadows’s place. The wind whistled around her even though she wasn’t riding. Dark clouds amassed on the horizon like an invading army. On her bike, she would have outrun them, but she was sure to get a soaking at a walk.
Had an evil fairy cursed her at birth or was her luck earned on the back of her bad decisions? She was going with the evil-fairy theory.
With her head down against the wind, she set off, pushing the bike. The occasional hill offered her tough going on the way up, but a break on the downward slope where she could coast while perched on the seat. Most of the country road was flat, and she plodded along, estimating she still had at least two miles to go.
The clouds began their assault and the temperature dropped along with the rain. She hesitated, then jogged with the bike across the road and continued her trudge under the cover of the trees. The bike bounced across the roots and rocks, but she was shielded from the worst of the rain.
She groaned. If Holt saw her now, she’d never hear the end of it. Even so, she glanced up and down the road, her heart dipping. All she could see in either direction were sheets of gray rain.
* * *
Holt tossed the French cookbook he’d checked out on his couch and huffed a laugh. He’d wanted a date with Claire and he’d gotten one in the most roundabout way possible. He’d have preferred taking her to the pub, but if what it took to get her alone was him navigating a complicated recipe, he would risk the possibility of food poisoning or burning his cabin to the ground.
The fever of his anticipation was alternately exciting and uncomfortable. She put him on uneven ground. He’d been stuck in a mire
for so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to not know what he was risking or how far he might fall. Their date—he hoped to goodness she considered it a date too—loomed with importance.
With the clouds gathering on the horizon, he got his chores done. While he fed the goats, he wondered if she would find their antics as amusing as he did. While he refilled water bowls for the barn cats, he thought she might like one of the kittens still suckling from its mama. And as he moved baled hay into the feeding corrals for the cows, he cursed his lack of self-restraint.
His inability to focus on anyone or anything else besides her was worrisome, but not enough to stop himself from heading to Ms. Meadows’s house to see her. Anyway, he had the perfect excuse. Before heading back to his cabin to clean up, he grabbed his dad’s dusty CD player and stowed it on the floorboard of his truck. He could spin the visit as merely being neighborly. He was basically Mr. Rogers.
By the time he’d showered and pulled on clean clothes, rain pattered against the windows. Nerves had him goosing the gas and kicking up gravel on the way to Ms. Meadows’s place. Would he be greeted with the wrong end of a shotgun again?
He would take his chances. Cradling the CD player, he walked up the porch steps, rapped on the front door, and rocked on his feet while waiting to see how he would be received by the ladies of the house.
Ms. Meadows opened the door. His rehearsed greeting flew from his mind on seeing her serious expression. The grooves around her mouth had deepened and aged her.
A frisson of her worry arced to him, clipping his words. “What’s wrong, ma’am?”
“Claire isn’t home.”
“You mean, she never made it back from town?”
Ms. Meadows’s hands restlessly moved along the top curve of her cane, transmitting her disquiet. “I called down to the Drug and Dime, and she was there, but that was some time ago.”
Best-case scenario, her errands had run long and she’d taken refuge in the Brown Cow or the library until the rain passed. Worst case, she had started home and gotten caught by the storm. He cursed himself for letting her bike the narrow road. Not that he’d had a choice. There was no letting Claire do anything. She was dead set on remaining independent even when common sense should have prevailed.
A Highlander is Coming to Town Page 8