A twinge of guilt joined forces with the hunger prickling her insides. “I have to go. I need to get ready for dinner. Give Ted a kiss from me.”
Without waiting for her mother to launch into another diatribe of reasons why she should have come with her, Skye aimed two pecks at the phone and cut the call. She dropped the device into her bag and licked her lips. She could almost taste Mary McGuire’s shepherd’s pie—a home-style stew of meat and root vegetables simmered in a rich stock, topped with a browned layer of mashed, redskin potatoes. Her father had loved to take her there. He, too, believed there was nothing quite like Mary McGuire’s shepherd’s pie. Mother never joined them. If Mother only knew what she’d missed out on all those years.
Skye hurried into her clothes. Brown boots hid her denim skinny jeans to the knees, while a white Aran sweater with a vertical cable pattern covered her from neck to thighs. She ran her fingers through her hair and fluffed the thick strands across her shoulder. Her flaming tresses stood in stark contrast to the soft white wool. Fire and ice.
After applying light makeup and a spray of perfume, Skye wrapped her father’s tartan scarf around her neck, the Hunter plaid of red, blue, green, and white deepening her feelings of being home. She donned her coat and headed out the door, her mind alive with anticipation of what waited.
Outside the hotel, she hailed a taxi.
“McGuire’s, please.” Wouldn’t her mother just have a fit if she knew where Skye planned to have dinner?
The driver turned around. “On Anderston Quay?”
“That’s the one.” She smiled. “I would’ve walked, but the weather…”
“It’s dreich.”
“Aye, that it is.” She laughed, surprised at how easily she’d slipped into the old ways. She hadn’t said “aye” in years.
As they drove, the words of her opening song drifted into her mind, and she hummed: “Think of Me.” Did Callum ever? Did he remember her at least once in a while? For a long time she used to dream of him, could sense him when she sang. But the memory of him faded with time.
“Yiva awfy fine voice furra chantin’.” The driver pulled up in front of McGuire’s.
“Thank you.”
Skye paid the fare and the taxi pulled away, leaving her alone on the snow-covered sidewalk. She stepped up to the familiar wooden door and stood rooted beneath the black awning. Would Callum still be there?
~*~
After the brush with his mother, Callum had returned to his guitar. Soon a steady stream of patrons drifted into McGuire’s—some for a drink after work, others for an early dinner. Friday nights were always crazy at their pub. Tonight, the night before Christmas Eve, promised to be worse.
The place reverberated with chatter and laughter. Callum sat on the edge of the stool—one leg stretched out, the other bent—his guitar resting on his thigh. He felt a little delinquent not waiting on tables. The staff seemed stretched tonight. But he’d done his time at the tables—it was how he’d paid for his studies in Edinburgh. He was here purely to entertain. Voluntarily. What he did tonight at McGuire’s was for enjoyment alone, not recompense. Dr. McGuire no longer had need of small change. But he did need to be among his kind, his family.
Callum played a combination of lively jigs, and slow, soothing ballads, easing from “Gypsy Rover,” to “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” to “Coorie Doon,” to “Skye Boat Song.” His mind returned to the girl who’d stolen his heart a lifetime ago. If he ever saw her again, he’d hold her tight and never let her go.
When Skye’s father was alive, their relationship had stood a chance. That chance died along with Dr. Hunter. What would happen now that she was a grown woman, able to make her own choices? Skye’s father had liked him, but her mother…the woman had treated him with disdain his entire life, determined to come between him and the girl he’d loved—and won. Would she still stand so vehemently in the way now that his life was different?
2
Tinsel strips hung between the wooden crossbeams above Skye like a silver lining to the dark clouds of all those lost years. Time slipped away the moment she’d stepped through the familiar door.
Unbelievable. A girlish giddiness filled her. Pinch me, quick. I’m sitting inside McGuire’s, eating Mary’s shepherd’s pie, listening to Callum sing. Can life get any better? Being here—seeing, smelling, tasting, touching, and hearing her childhood days, her teenage years—was almost too much to take in. Every one of her senses begged to explode like the shooting star ornaments that adorned the tall Christmas tree behind Callum.
Two things had prevented Skye from rushing over to him the moment the pub door closed behind her: he was in the middle of a song, and her legs would only carry her as far as the nearest open table. The seat was a good one though. Dim lighting, and an uninterrupted view of Callum. She could remain anonymous while she composed herself. Maybe when he took a break, she’d be able to catch his attention and say hello.
She’d spotted his father between the faces that lined the bar. After all these years, Robert McGuire still made patrons laugh with his jokes while he served drinks. Some things hadn’t changed.
She filled her fork and took another bite. Hmm, just as I remembered. Only one person could make a shepherd’s pie like this. Mary McGuire had to be busy in the kitchen.
On the opposite side of the room, Callum’s brother, Tavish, waited on tables. Younger than Callum by five years, the gawkish lad she remembered had turned out to be a fine-looking man. But nowhere near as fine as his sibling. Callum had grown into a handsome, rugged man. She loved the way stubble darkened his jawline. Had he forgotten to shave today? Perhaps he always wore a five o’clock shadow.
Skye burned to take her place beside Callum and join in his song, as she’d done a thousand times before. Did he ever think of her when he sang of the Isle of Skye?
She resisted the urge to dash across to the bar, run to the other side of the room, and then burst into the kitchen to greet every one of the McGuires. What if they didn’t feel the same excitement as her? After Da died, Mother caused a scene every time she found Skye at McGuire’s. The last time was the worst. Skye barely had time to say goodbye before their belongings were packed and Mother had whisked her away to her native Australia. Was that why Callum had never answered the endless letters she’d written?
She’d been stupid to come here, and only by God’s providence had she found a secluded table. She should leave, before she was seen. Probably no one would recognize her, but she couldn’t take that chance.
Her meal finished, Skye wiped her mouth and stood. Callum had set down his guitar and disappeared into the crowded room. Although she had enjoyed her dinner and the music, this hadn’t been a good idea to come here tonight. Could one really go back in time? Things changed. People changed.
Skye dropped a twenty pound note on the table to cover the bill and a tip. She slipped on her coat and draped the scarf around her neck. Bag slung over her shoulder, she turned to leave and bumped into the back of someone.
The man swung around as she lost her balance and grabbed Skye to steady her.
“I’m so sorry.” Her legs weakened as she looked up.
“Skye?” Callum stood rooted and wide-eyed for a moment before he wrapped her in his arms. “Is it really you?”
~*~
Could she feel his heart beating inside his chest? Not ten minutes before, he’d declared if he ever saw Skye again, he’d hold her tight and never let her go, yet Callum released her and held her at arms’ length. He had to get a good look. She was even more alluring than her poster, and more beautiful as a woman than she’d been as a lass.
“I can’t believe it. Skye Hunter.” Nothing could wipe the grin from his face.
She smiled. “Yes, Callum. It’s me.”
“What are you doing here? Now? I thought you’d only be here after New Year’s.” Forgetting everything but her, he drew Skye close again. So what if she felt his heart thumping.
She pulled her he
ad back slightly, her eyes searching his. “You knew I was coming to Glasgow?”
“I saw the posters at the Clyde Auditorium—your face, and then your name. I inquired and was told that rehearsals would begin in January.”
She cupped his cheek, her hand soft and warm. “You recognized me? After all these years?”
“Are you kidding? How could I forget the face I’d gazed into for half my life?” He resisted the urge to turn and brush his lips across her fingers. She could be in a relationship. She could be married. She could have children. He’d found little personal information online. Only one photo of Skye with Mrs. Rita Robinson. Her mother had remarried. He needed to find out Skye’s marital status. Fast.
Callum glanced at her coat, the scarf around her neck, the bag on her shoulder. Disappointment shoved a bayonet through his gut. “You were leaving? Without saying hello?”
She lowered her gaze. “I-I wasn’t sure you or your family would want to see me.”
“Not want to—how could you think we wouldn’t want to see you? Ma and I were just talking about you this morning, wondering if you’d come to McGuire’s when you got to Glasgow. I can’t wait to show you off to them. But first, I want you all to myself.” Callum pulled the chair out for her. “Sit back down and tell me what you’ve been up to these past sixteen years.” He removed her coat and draped it over the back of her chair.
Skye sank into the chair and placed her handbag on the table. She slid the scarf from her neck and laid it on top of her bag.
Callum claimed the seat opposite and leaned forward.
Hands clasped together, she rested her elbows on the table and set her chin on her hands. Eyes, green as the Scottish Lowlands, glistened at him. “Oh, my, where do I start?”
He smiled, unable to take his gaze from her. “You talk different.” She was different, in many ways. Would there still be something left of the girl he’d loved forever?
And then she laughed. There were some things time could never change. How he’d missed that sound.
“Elocution lessons,” Skye confessed. “Orders of Mrs. Robinson.”
“Mrs. Robinson?” Wouldn’t do to let her know he knew.
“Oh. My mother. She remarried eighteen months after Da died.”
She didn’t waste much time. He’d not verbalize the thought and risk hurting Skye. “Well, I like the way you sound. But has some Aussie crept into that refined accent?”
Skye gazed at him through lowered lashes before glancing up again. She laughed. “I guess it has. I have spent almost a lifetime in the country.” Skye unclasped her hands and twirled a strand of hair around her index finger, just as she always had for as long as he could remember. She leaned forward. “You sound so different, too.”
“I spent some time out of Glasgow. I guess the patter eased.”
“Eased? How about completely disappeared?”
He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. If she showed any interest, Callum wanted to know it was because of who he’d been, and still was, not for what he had become. How would she react if she knew he’d studied medicine in Edinburgh and was no longer just Callum Robert McGuire, son of a pub-owner? Now he went by the title Dr. C. R. McGuire. Callum had to know if the years under Rita Robinson’s sole influence had changed her.
And her mother? Would she eat her words that he’d amount to nothing?
Skye’s father was the one who’d inspired him. His death spurred Callum to study medicine, specializing in the field that sought to treat those afflicted with the very disease that had claimed the life of Dr. Lewis Hunter.
Clearing her throat, Skye broke the silence between them. “You sound good, Callum. You look good, too.”
She liked the way he spoke? Voice coaching. But he’d not tell her of his determination that if he and Skye ever met again, her mother would have one less reason to disapprove. His accent had grated on Rita. She’d constantly reprimanded him for stringing his words together. How could he help it? He was from Glasgow—and not the posh side like the Hunters. Wouldn’t you love to hear me now, Mrs. Robinson?
“I can’t believe we’re sitting here together, after all this time.” Her laughter filled the space around them.
Callum fixed his gaze on Skye. Taking her hands in his, he caressed her skin with his thumb. “Why didn’t you write?”
“What?” She breathed out the word.
“Why didn’t you write to me? You promised you would keep in touch, that we’d find a way to be together again.” The memory of those agonizing months that had trickled day by day into years of waiting, not hearing, ached in Callum’s chest.
“I did write—for months. You never wrote back.”
“How could I? I had no address. I needed that first letter from you. But it never came.”
Skye’s eyes narrowed. Creases formed across her brow. “Mother…she encouraged me to write to you, and then offered to post my letters. She even extended her shoulder to cry on when the mail box remained empty. I trusted her…”
Was that woman so malicious? Callum squeezed Skye’s hand.
She returned the gesture. “When I speak to her again, I will confront her on this. If I ever speak to her again. I promise, Callum, I did write.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. He didn’t want to think about Rita Robinson and all she’d stolen from them. Skye had written, that’s the only thing that mattered.
“I believe you.” Callum wanted to take her in his arms and make up for sixteen years of lost kisses. Easing out of his seat, he leaned across the table and slid his hand up her arm until it was lost beneath her auburn tresses. He drew her head closer until they were inches apart, her breath warm against his cheek, her lips beckoning.
“Callum.” Tavish’s voice broke the moment. Of all the times for his brother to intrude.
Callum released his hold on Skye and sank back into his chair.
“Ah’m sorry, bit Da’s lookin’ fur yi. The guys it the bar want yi tae gie ’em a wee chant agin.” Tavish turned to Skye and grinned. “An who’s this guid lookin’ bit oh gear?” He glanced at Callum. “Who’s yir bonnie freen, big brither?” Tavish stuck out his hand to Skye and winked. “Hiya. Ah’m Tavish, byraway.”
Callum couldn’t believe it. His little brother was hitting on her.
“Tavish, don’t you recognize who this is?”
Skye laughed and took Tavish’s hand. “Hello, Tavish. Looks like you don’t remember me. It’s only been sixteen years.”
Only? It’s been a lifetime.
Tavish snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Ahm ah blotto oot ma heid? Skye Hunter. Whit yi daein here in Glesca?”
Callum could tell by the frown on Skye’s face that she struggled to understand Tavish, so he answered on her behalf. “Skye’s performing in the opera at the Armadillo. She’s the Phantom of the Opera’s leading lady. The prima donna.”
Skye touched Callum’s arm. Her hand lingered. “The Armadillo?”
He laughed. “It’s what we’ve nicknamed the Auditorium. You’re clever enough to figure out why.”
“It does look rather like one. But armor-plated creatures aside…you’re into opera? I’m surprised.”
“Yi dinnae knaw the half—”
“Tavish!” Callum glared at his brother then turned his attention back to Skye. “What do you say we go and say hello to my ma and da?” Callum grabbed Skye’s hand and stood. He nudged Tavish aside. He’d have to talk to his family. He should be the one to tell Skye everything about his life. When the time was right.
“Why dinnae yi let hur dae a turn wi yi an yir guitar? Surprise Maw an Da?”
There went spending the evening getting to know her again. But, she was here for a few months. There’d be other opportunities to find out all that she’d done with her life. So why not? He’d love to have her up there singing with him. “What do you say, Skye?”
She gave Callum a blank look. Seemed he’d have to play interpreter for some time.
&n
bsp; He tipped his head to where his guitar stood on its stand. “You want to do a few songs with me? It’ll be like the old days.” Or would it? He sang pub songs. She sang opera. Unease wrapped its fingers around his heart and squeezed. He chewed the side of his mouth. What if they sounded awful together now?
~*~
Sore throat aside, she wouldn’t miss this. “I’d love to.” Skye brushed her hand across his cheek, attempting to allay his apparent fears. “Don’t worry, Callum, I’ll put away my opera voice. It will be just like the old days.”
His dark eyes bored into hers, the spark undeniable. Was it possible they could rekindle what they’d lost? In an ebb and flow of emotions, his somber expression retreated as a smile spread across his face. “Great, because I don’t have an opera voice to match yours. Besides, I don’t know how well opera would go down here.” His smile gave way to laughter as he turned to Tavish. “Grab Skye’s things, would you, and put them behind the bar. We’ll get them later.”
Holding Skye’s hand, Callum drew her along, weaving through the crowded room to where his guitar rested. His hand was warm and strong. Stronger than she remembered. It was also smooth and soft, but washing dishes every day would do that, she guessed. Had he become nothing more than he’d been when she left Scotland? Still working and singing in his parents’ tavern? Didn’t he want more out of life? Should he? One day, when he inherited McGuire’s, he’d be a business-owner, at least. That wasn’t so bad. Did it really matter if he was a pub-owner, a singer in a bar, or a…a pilot, or a brain surgeon? He was Callum McGuire—the man she’d loved since she was seven. The only man she’d ever loved. But was a future possible for them? For all she knew, he could be married.
She glanced at his ring finger. Naked. There was hope that he was still single.
Callum pulled another high wooden stool beside his for Skye. Then he picked up his guitar and slid the strap around his neck as he sat on the stool. He glanced at her and grinned, raking his fingers through his hair. It seemed darker than she remembered, but there was still a tinge of auburn in the brown. He wore it shorter on the back and sides now. She liked it—made him look more distinguished.
Glasgow Grace Page 2