As Holt was settling the bill, a dapper middle-aged man in wellies with khaki pants tucked in the tops stopped at their table. “Can we move our appointment to after Christmas, Holt?”
“Sure. No hurry.” Holt gestured toward Claire. “Have you met Claire Smythe? This is Doctor Jameson, former mayor and local veterinarian.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” Claire exchanged a handshake with the man.
Dr. Jameson’s eyes brightened. “You’re the Scottish lass I’ve been hearing about. Welcome to Highland. I’m fascinated with Scottish history and genealogy. I’d love to hear about your family if you have time. Dessert is on me.”
Claire froze with a smile on her face, unable to think of a worse turn of events.
Holt rose and Claire followed his lead, grateful for the escape. “Claire has work to do for Ms. Meadows. Rain check?”
“Of course! Anytime.” Dr. Jameson wandered to the table with the gathered men and took a seat.
“That was a close one,” Holt whispered, taking her hand. “Where to now?”
“Ms. Meadows’s house. I actually do have work to do. I’m going to organize her den as requested.”
Holt had her back to the house in ten minutes. He let the truck idle and shifted toward her, one arm across the steering wheel, the other draped over the back of her seat. “I’ll pick you up at a quarter to seven this evening. Why don’t you pack an overnight bag and plan to stay at the cabin with me?”
Claire looked to the house and opened her mouth to decline, but did she really want to stay out here all alone when he had such a lovely big … bed? “That sounds brilliant. Thanks for the offer.”
A charmingly crooked smile spread slowly across his face. “I’m not being strictly altruistic, you understand.”
Her answering grin was as inevitable as the end of their relationship. “I certainly hope not.”
Claire slid out of the truck and gave him a wave before entering the house. The silence was unnatural. What would happen to the house without Ms. Meadows? Would it be consumed like the old car outside?
She closed her eyes and turned in a slow circle in the den. She could almost hear the clatter of feet and the laughter of a family. Melancholy slashed and burned its way through her chest. She shook herself out of the mood, looked around her, and got to work.
The noise of the telly helped to banish the gloom, and the afternoon sped by. Stacks of magazines were ready to be hauled to a recycling center, and books were separated into hardbacks and paperbacks. With Ms. Meadows’s poor eyesight, Claire wasn’t sure if she would want to keep any for the sake of sentiment, but she set aside several volumes that appeared to have been enjoyed countless times.
Standing at the kitchen counter, she ate a bowl of tinned soup with white water biscuits and then washed up and placed the chipped bowl on the drying towel. It looked forlorn and lonely. Was this how Ms. Meadows felt before Claire had come to stay with her? And why was the emptiness leaking into her? She had been alone most of her life and had learned to adapt to any situation.
Suddenly she felt like an interloper and missed Ms. Meadows more than she thought possible three months ago. The job had offered a place to stay and seemed easy enough. Claire had planned to bide her time, decide on her next move, and leave with no attachments or regrets.
How had her plan blown up so spectacularly? Instead, she had gained a cadre of friends, a grandmother-like figure, and a lover.
She took a shower, packed a few things in her canvas duffel bag, and waited on the porch for Holt, unable to stand another moment of silence and solitude. At the sight of Holt’s truck turning onto the lane, her heart filled with warmth and sped up.
She hopped inside the cab and before she even realized what she was doing, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. She froze at his startled expression.
“Sorry?” she said with a lilt of uncertainty.
“What exactly are you apologizing for?” He caught her wrist when she tried to retreat to the passenger door.
“Was that overstepping or whatever?”
“It was—how do you say it?—absolutely brilliant.” His fake Scottish burr was so terrible, it was hilarious.
He returned the favor and kissed her cheek, but when his mouth moved over hers, any humor disintegrated in a wave of wanting. With more self-control than she could claim, he broke away with a low whistle.
“I wish you didn’t have someplace to be. Damn the Jacobites.” The look he shot her could melt metal. “To be continued, Miss Glennallen.”
She latched the seat belt and thought how natural her real name sounded coming from him. She had reclaimed her identity. Now she just had to figure out who she wanted to be.
The lights were on in Anna’s studio, and a muffled cacophony of sound made it all the way to the sidewalk. The tuning of instruments was like hearing a favorite song. She took a deep breath, stretching her diaphragm, and smiled.
“You’ve missed this,” Holt said as he opened the door for her.
“I left the Scunners with no regrets, but maybe leaving the band doesn’t mean I have to leave music behind entirely.”
Anna burst into the front room and gave first Claire and then Holt a hug. “Iain is super excited you agreed to sing. And so am I. After all, the Burns Night festival is all about music. A bonus that you are well versed in Robert Burns.”
“They strip you of your Scottish citizenship if you don’t love Burns.” Claire’s smiles were coming fast and furious these days. Her level of comfort with Anna surprised her. In a good way.
Anna looped an arm through Holt’s. “Let’s hang out in my office while they get on with things. It’s been a while since we had a good gossip.”
“I figured all the good gossip was about you and your baby-daddy.” Holt tossed her a knowing glance.
Anna shushed him. “We’ve managed to keep the news under wraps so far, but that won’t last if you go flapping your gums.”
Holt and Anna retreated to her tiny office while Claire joined the Jacobites. It took three songs for Claire to find her groove, but once she did, she was surprised at how comfortable she felt with the group. It was a different dynamic than with the Scunners. For one, these weren’t professional musicians, but hobbyists who had day jobs in accounting and factories and plumbing, among other professions.
What brought them together and kept them together was a simple love of the music. They were older and more mature, and she observed no battles between egos. Robert helped her and Iain work up harmonies, and soon their voices melded with a sweetness that made her heart long for things she couldn’t even name.
Her voice was tired and cracking by the time they wrapped up. She was out of singing shape but there was little time to build her stamina back up. The rest of the Jacobites packed up and headed to their various homes in a fine humor, leaving Anna, Iain, Holt, and Claire alone in the studio.
Anna tucked herself under Iain’s arm and looked up at him. “You want to ask Holt now?”
“I proved at an early age that I’m a terrible singer and a worse dancer,” Holt said with his trademark grin. “I’ll only drive people away from your festival.”
Anna waved her hand as if shooing him away. “Nothing to do with the festival. You could help with another venture we’re planning though.”
“What’s that?”
“Our wedding,” Iain said.
Claire gasped. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you.”
Anna had tears in her eyes, but a smile on her face. It was like a rainbow appearing in the middle of a spring shower. “We were thinking sometime between Christmas and New Year. Something small. But … I’d like you to give me away. You’ve been a good friend to both of us.”
Holt put a hand over his chest, his smile swallowed by his surprise. “I would be honored. Truly.”
The couple visibly relaxed into each other. Anna shifted toward Claire. “I hope you can attend. You were the first one to know I was expecting. You’ve become part
of our story now.”
Claire’s breath caught. She had felt like a footnote in her parents’ lives, but in Highland, she was writing her own story. She daubed her dry lips with her tongue before saying hoarsely, “I don’t know yet where I’ll be.”
The weight of Holt’s regard was a physical pull she couldn’t deny, and she shifted to meet his gaze. Questions she couldn’t answer yet were writ across his face, but he wouldn’t ask anything more of her than she’d already given him. She teetered between being grateful and disappointed.
“Yes. All right, then.” Iain cleared his throat. “We’ll let you two get home, shall we?”
Holt and Claire said their farewells and were in his truck headed toward the farm in minutes. The tension had accompanied them.
“You know things are complicated.” Uttering the tripe made her feel like the pathetic heroine in her own romantic comedy. No, a rom-com ended happily. While she hoped things didn’t take the tragic turn of Romeo and Juliet, her life was a mess. A mess no one could clean up but her.
“I didn’t say anything.” Holt’s calm pragmatism only increased the flood of what-ifs.
What if she hadn’t left the Scunners and stayed in Highland? She would never have gotten to know Holt. He would have remained the good-looking Highlander she’d watched compete in the athletic games from afar.
She wouldn’t have discovered the funny, stalwart, loyal man and most definitely wouldn’t be headed to a night of fun and bliss in his bed. She packed up her regrets for another time and vowed to enjoy him while she could.
She reached across the space in the cab and took his hand in hers, linking their fingers. His surprise at her gesture registered, but she didn’t acknowledge it. “You are a better man than I deserve, even if it’s just for a little while, Holt Pierson.”
His puckish grin stamped out the remaining tension. “If I’m such a saint, why do I want to do such devilish things to your body?”
She laughed and snuggled into his shoulder, her anticipation rising to fever-like levels.
Chapter Sixteen
After a night in which Holt fulfilled his devilish prophecy in bed, Claire helped Ms. Meadows settle back into her house. The lengthy discharge process in which Dr. Marilee Ivey had relayed copious warnings and instructions on what to do if Ms. Meadows had another episode had left Claire on edge.
It took all afternoon and evening for Claire not to tense every time Ms. Meadows rose from her armchair to go to the bathroom or to the kitchen. Claire continued to sort through books and magazines. Input from Ms. Meadows made the sorting go faster, and it was clear she was being brutally unsentimental. She was serious about selling and moving into a retirement facility.
“Did you talk to Holt? When is he going to make me an offer?” Ms. Meadows sipped her sweet iced tea. “No. That book goes in the library donation pile.”
Claire flipped through an illustrated edition of Robinson Crusoe. “I’m not sure the Piersons are in a place financially to offer for your house and land.”
“What? After all these years of sniping at me, they don’t even want my land?” Ms. Meadows looked more stricken than angry.
“Holt said they took on a loan to upgrade their milking machines last year.” At Ms. Meadows’s continued silence, Claire said, “We’ll figure something else out.”
“I can’t afford the assisted living place without selling at a good price, and I don’t want to go back to living here all alone.” Her despondency was at odds with her usual biting optimism.
“You’re not alone. I’m here.”
“Not for much longer.”
Claire wanted to reassure Ms. Meadows, but couldn’t. Her hands tightened on the book, and she hugged it to her body as if it could offer stability. Wasn’t it about a man adrift on an adventure? Maybe she should keep it as a manual. She was unwilling to make a decision because as soon as she did things would be put into motion she couldn’t undo. It was cowardly and unbecoming a Scottish lass descended from battle-hungry Highlanders.
“I don’t expect you to stay, girl. You have a family business to see to in Scotland. After all this time, I’m sure your parents will be thrilled to have you back in the fold. I hope you’ll call me every once in a while, though.” Ms. Meadows smiled, but her lips trembled with unexpected emotion, and she didn’t meet Claire’s gaze.
Claire cleared her throat. “Holt is renting a wheelchair from a medical supply shop, and you are coming to the Burns Night festival tomorrow. I insist.”
“I’ll have to check my calendar.” Ms. Meadows winked and whisked away the tension.
By bedtime, they were both tired, but Claire slept poorly, fearing Ms. Meadows would wake with another episode, or worse.
Blue skies and bright sunshine greeted them the next day. The chill that had descended from the clear night warmed into springlike temperatures. It was a good omen for the street party. The Burns Night festival would begin late afternoon to attract families and continue into the evening. The Jacobites would perform twice, early and late. Several other singers and groups would also pay homage to Robert Burns, the patron poet of Scotland. She was unaccountably nervous, considering she’d played bigger venues many times.
A knock on the door had Claire and Ms. Meadows exchanging a glance.
“I’ll answer it.” Claire rose from the floor of the den where she sorted.
Holt stood on the porch wearing a sheepish smile, a box of Christmas lights tucked under his arm. An evergreen tree was hidden poorly behind him.
“Is that a tree behind your back or are you just happy to see me?” Claire’s nerves evaporated.
Holt looked over his shoulder with a fake look of shock. “Well, would you look at that? We shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
He set the tree next to him and shook it. The scent was heady. It didn’t invoke memories—her mother had favored a professionally decorated fake tree—but a fuzzy picture that might have been a premonition.
“It’s for us?” She touched a branch, and her fingers came away slightly sticky with sap and smelling like the woods.
“If Ms. Meadows approves.” His eyebrows quirked up.
Claire couldn’t guess what Ms. Meadows’s reaction would be. “Nothing to do but ask. Come on.”
In the den, Claire said, “Holt brought a gift.” She gestured behind her but kept her eyes on Ms. Meadows.
“I haven’t had a tree since…” Ms. Meadows’s eyes went glassy with tears. Claire tensed, ready to bundle Holt out the door, but a smile broke over Ms. Meadows’s face, one that was equal parts happy and wistful. “Somewhere in the shed is a tree stand and box of ornaments.”
“I’ll find them. You ladies decide where you want to put it.” Holt handed the tree to Claire and went out the back door.
“Prop it to the right of the fireplace.” Ms. Meadows pointed with her cane.
The space had already been cleared and organized, and Claire leaned the tree against the bookcase and stepped back. It was a short, full tree, and already the tang of fresh pine cut through the scent of old books and woodsmoke.
Holt returned carrying a green plastic tree stand and dusty bin. The sound of sleigh bells and the tinkle of ornaments accompanied his every step like a sexy Christmas elf. He had the tree set up in moments, and Claire filled the stand with water. Holt opened the box of lights he’d brought and untangled them.
Ms. Meadows opened the bin and stared inside as if facing a chasm. Her shuddery breath drew Claire to her knees at the old woman’s side. A tear slipped down Ms. Meadows’s cheek as she lifted out a homemade wooden ornament in the shape of a child’s hand. She laid it on her palm as if she could re-create a time when her son slipped his hands in hers to cross a street.
With the string of lights draped over his shoulders and twinkling, Holt stood rooted, as still and silent as a tree himself.
Claire clasped Ms. Meadows’s hand, enfolding the ornament between them. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Their finge
rs entwined like a time-lapse movie, young and old. What would the years bring for Claire, hope or heartache? No, it wasn’t so simple. Her time with Ms. Meadows had taught her life would be full of all that and more.
“I should have done this years ago. Samuel and I couldn’t bear to decorate after Kevin died, but it’s my last Christmas in the house. It’s time.” Ms. Meadows pushed herself out of the chair, shuffled to the bare tree, and hung the red-painted wooden hand front and center. “Go on and string the lights, Holt.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was raspy with reflected emotion, but he got to work. Claire helped pass around the lights and then a length of raggedy silver tinsel.
“Sing us a carol, girl.” Ms. Meadows banged the end of her cane on the floor like a queen commanding her bard.
Claire would miss Ms. Meadows terribly. She fiddled with the tinsel to hide a rush of sadness. A sad song wouldn’t do. She launched into “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” Before she’d made it to the chorus both Holt and Ms. Meadows had joined her, Holt in a pleasant baritone and Ms. Meadows in a shaky alto.
Claire led them straight into “Frosty the Snowman” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” She should have saved her voice for her Burns Night performances, but she had no regrets when she saw the happiness on Ms. Meadows’s face. By the time she launched into “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” they had most of the ornaments on the tree.
As the sun was setting, Ms. Meadows held out a star made of silver filigree. “Don’t forget the most important decoration.”
Claire held the star carefully. “It’s lovely.”
“It was my mother’s. I want you to put it on top, Claire.”
The use of her given name didn’t go unnoticed, but Claire didn’t remark on it. Instead, she looked back and forth at Holt and Ms. Meadows. “I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree. I made ornaments in school, but I don’t know if my mother even kept them. She certainly never had them hanging on our tree. I’ll—” She swallowed, but her voice still cracked when she continued. “—never forget this.”
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