Gillian leaned back against the cooler and put both hands over her face. I almost went to comfort her, but I was pretty sure my support wouldn’t be appreciated. I backed slowly away from the food tents and began to make my way back to my booth.
As I walked past the VIP tent, I saw a crowd gathering in anticipation of the author’s talk. People clutched hardcover books under their arms or eyed a sizable pile on the table next to the podium. I made out Morris Hart himself, looking a bit grayer than the photo Letty had showed me, talking with none other than Ladd Foster. The guy definitely got around. He had a red mark on his cheek but looked otherwise unscathed by his altercation over Gillian. He spoke rapidly to Hart, full of swagger and laughter. But Hart wasn’t amused. He frowned with his arms crossed on his chest, clearly displeased at what he was hearing.
I wondered what that was about.
But I didn’t have time to linger to find out. It was time for me to give Letty a break. She was practically dancing when I got back to the booth.
“I gotta go! That rocking chair is sold, and the guy’s going to come back and pick it up at three. You’re almost out of red bow ties.” She ducked out of the booth and ran for the ladies’ room.
I tidied my wares, shifting Letty’s linens back to their place to uncover a hidden trove of red bow ties. I tucked them back into the wooden chest as the thumping bass of the Twisted Armpits filled the air. Must be lunchtime.
Letty returned to the booth with her hands over her ears. “We won’t get any business during lunch with that racket just across the way,” she shouted.
I couldn’t argue. Still, the noise wasn’t as concentrated as it was in my basement, so I could actually enjoy the music here. I sent Letty off to get some lunch and watched the band.
I hadn’t seen them perform on stage since Corgi had added the bagpipes. What a cool addition! Corgi had traded his military piper’s coat for his customary black leather bomber jacket looped with chains, which made an imposing ensemble paired with his lightweight kilt and black army boots. He had miked the bagpipes so they could be heard clearly over the screaming guitar. He played the same tunes I’d been hearing all morning, but in the midst of the metal band they took on a whole new dimension. I was glad the assembled bagpipers got the chance to see what else their instruments could do.
McCarthy circled around the bandstand, taking pictures of Aileen and her gang. He drifted over to lean on my front table.
“Who knew these Highland Games would be so exciting? I’ve got photos of Aileen about to whale on Ladd Foster with her guitar, and others of Ladd about to bean Ryan King over the head with a folding chair. The man’s a photog’s dream!”
I laughed and accepted the sandwich he held out to me. “What, no haggis?”
He passed me a napkin. “Corgi tells me the haggis comes out at the ceilidh tomorrow evening. The Pipe and Drum Corps is going to be making it all morning. He’s promised to let me document the process.”
Corgi had outlined this process to me, which included mixing oatmeal with ground meat and various spices and stuffing it into a sheep’s stomach for baking. I privately resolved to steer clear of the haggis at the Scottish party the following evening.
McCarthy spied Letty’s copy of Over the Sea to Skye on the table. “You got yourself an autographed copy?”
I shook my head. “It’s Letty’s. I might have to, though. Everyone’s raving about it.”
“I read it last week. Couldn’t put it down. Then I spent the next few days looking up Scottish history. I’ve never been big on the kings of Great Britain, but Hart made me want to know more. I’d call that a successful writer.”
McCarthy had been shouting throughout this conversation, to compete with the noise from the band. A sudden lull in the music caused his voice to carry across the field. Morris Hart, who appeared to be wrapping up his question-and-answer session, turned and inclined his head toward us.
I blushed, but McCarthy was unfazed. He gave Hart a grin and a thumbs-up, then turned back to me as if nothing had happened. “I’ll get you a copy, in exchange for this natty bow tie.” He caressed the tie. “I’ve gotten loads of compliments on it. Even discounting the ones who are clearly making fun of me, I’d say you’ve got a winner.”
“No! Somebody made fun of you?”
He laughed. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He lifted his camera and took a few shots of me tending the booth alone. “Sounds like it’s just about time for the field events.”
Indeed, the Twisted Armpits were bringing their song to a crashing finale, signaling the end of lunchtime. McCarthy turned to head over to the athletic field when he was accosted by Morris Hart.
“I gather you enjoyed my book?”
McCarthy held out his hand. “Sean McCarthy, of the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle.” The two men shook hands. “And this is Daria Dembrowski, a seamstress with a passion for history.” I smiled and shook Hart’s hand as well. Up close, I could see the lines on his face. I guessed him to be in his fifties, and his trim build spoke of a passion for fitness as well as history. He gave me the barest glance, his attention still focused on McCarthy.
“I was just telling Daria that your book made me want to know more about Scottish history, a field I know very little about,” McCarthy said.
Hart bowed his head. “If I can stimulate even a bit of curiosity about history through my writing, I consider I’ve made a useful contribution to society.”
I bit back a smile. McCarthy, with his almost insatiable curiosity and boundless energy, didn’t need to be the recipient of this lecture. But he merely nodded with a genuine smile. “Part of the fun for me was trying to figure out what was historical fact and what was pure invention on your part. I’m still working out some of the details.”
“I never disclose my sources.”
McCarthy grinned. “You must have been a journalist in another life.” He held up his camera. “I’m off to cover the athletic events, but I’d like to get a book. Will you be around later?”
“I’m here all day,” Hart replied. “I’ll walk along with you. I always love the caber toss.” The two men took off, chatting companionably, just as Letty returned to the booth.
“Oh, you got to meet Morris Hart. He’s so down-to-earth for being such a famous author. I see you put out more red bow ties—good choice. Did someone purchase the bone china tea set with the lavender pattern? I hope you wrapped up each cup individually.”
“Yes. I did.” I figured that answered all her questions at once. “It’s time for the field events. Did you want to go see Ladd Foster throw the caber?”
“Honestly, I think I’m going to pass. He thinks I’m interested in him, but after seeing him with a fifteen-year-old, I’m done.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Flirting is a sport to me, but you have to play by the rules. He went offside when he pursued a teenager.” She chuckled at her analogy. “You go and watch, Daria. Have you ever seen anyone throw a tree trunk around for fun?”
I shook my head. “I can’t even imagine it.”
A crowd was gathering at the athletic field, which was delineated by a series of tall metal torches stuck into the ground every five feet or so. They weren’t lit yet, but I could imagine how impressive they would look in the evening. I didn’t know if I’d stay for the evening festivities, which included the awards presentation followed by another set by the Twisted Armpits. It depended on how tired I was after a day on my feet.
I found a spot on the edge of the crowd where I had a good view of the athletic field. The grass was chalked in various places, with a large circle in the middle and a number of lines along one side. A couple of officials in kilts and matching green polo shirts hovered on the sidelines. They flipped through untidy papers on the clipboards they carried. A parade approached the field, led by four bagpipers and a boy playing a snare drum, followed by a heavyset man dressed in the Kelly g
reen polo shirt of the officials, which clashed with his kilt in the dark green Oliphant tartan. They marched in the athletes: four enormous men who were about to prove their strength. The announcer introduced himself as Herman Tisdale, and then called the name of each athlete in turn: Jamie Deakens, Tom O’Flaherty, Patrick Ames, and Ladd Foster.
The first event was the hammer throw. Each athlete would swing around the twenty-pound stone attached to the end of a stick and heave it as far as possible. I marveled at the officials, who stood without flinching in the stone’s path to record its landing spot. I wouldn’t want that to land on my head!
“Patrick Ames is the guy to beat today.” I turned to see Corgi standing next to me, dressed in his full Highland regalia once again. “I hear he’s got a blood feud going with Ladd Foster. The two of them have been fierce rivals ever since the Whidbey Island Games ten years ago.”
I regarded Patrick, who was about to release the hammer. He looked like he weighed at least three hundred pounds of pure brawn. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged as he whirled around and flung the hammer down the field. “What happened in Whidbey Island?”
Corgi rolled his eyes. “I heard there was some serious cheating going on. How you can cheat when you’re throwing sticks and stones around, I don’t know. Still, Patrick accused Ladd of cheating, and Ladd said no, it was Patrick, and in the end they both got disqualified. Evidently, even after ten years, each Games is a rematch, with both guys out for revenge.” He gazed out at the field. “I wouldn’t want either one of those giants looking for revenge on me.”
I watched as Ladd and Patrick squared up for the pole push inside the chalk circle. They each took hold of the handles on either end of a thick log about twelve feet long. At the whistle, they started pushing against the pole, trying to push the other out of the circle. It was like the opposite of a tug-of-war, with the opponents pushing toward each other, attempting to throw the other off-balance. They grunted and strained with the pole barely budging, until all of a sudden, Ladd shot out with his feet and swiped at Patrick’s legs. Patrick roared and lashed out at Ladd with his own feet. The two of them started circling around, still clinging to the handles on the pole, each one trying to kick his opponent’s legs while sidestepping to avoid getting kicked. It would have been laughable, watching them trying to get at each other when all they had to do was drop the pole, except for the fury on their faces. The officials hovered on the edge of the altercation, calling out for the two men to cease and desist. But the officials couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get close enough to stop the pole.
Finally, Ladd tripped, and on his way down, he wrenched the pole sideways and threw Patrick off-balance. The ground shook with the force of their fall. Patrick bounced up, but before he could tackle Ladd, the other two athletes stepped in. Jamie pushed on Patrick’s chest to get him away from Ladd, while at the same instant, Tom wrestled Ladd’s arms to his sides.
“Show some respect for the fans,” Jamie growled, pointing to a terrified toddler seeking shelter in his mother’s arms.
The two foes looked abashed. They didn’t resist any further when Tom and Jamie led them off to the sidelines.
Herman Tisdale wiped his brow and bustled up to the microphone. “Let’s give the athletes a break and have all the kids out here for the tug-of-war!”
The kids ran to line up on either end of the rope, while the officials lectured Ladd and Patrick on their conduct. It looked like they were both disqualified in the pole push event. The flame of their rivalry burned higher.
The lecture ended before the tug-of-war. Patrick sat down on the grass and massaged his calves, while Ladd wandered over toward the VIP tent and pulled out his flask for a big swallow of whiskey.
Gillian ran up to him, her bow tie askew in her hair. “I was so frightened for you! Are you okay?”
Ladd held out his arms and turned slowly in front of her. “Not a scratch on me.” He slugged down another swallow and handed the flask to her. “Be a dear and hold this for me, would you? It gets in my way when I’m tossing the caber.”
Gillian took the flask with a glance over her shoulder, checking to see if her father was watching, no doubt. She had just enough time to say, “I hope you win,” before Ladd turned away to return to the field. He’d left a fifteen-year-old girl in charge of his flask of whiskey.
I kept a sharp eye on her. If she looked like she was going to take a nip, I planned to snatch the thing out of her hands.
She turned the flask over, running her fingers over the etching on its silver surface. She unscrewed the top. I started edging through the crowd, keeping my eye on Gillian. She lifted the flask to her nose and inhaled. Then she made a face I’m sure she didn’t expect anyone else to see and screwed the top back on. She darted into the VIP tent and reappeared a moment later without the flask. She must have set it down inside for safekeeping.
Just in time. I spied Ryan on the edge of the crowd, completely absorbed in a conversation with Morris Hart. He must not have seen his daughter chatting with Ladd. It was all good. I turned my attention to the field. The caber toss was about to start.
The caber was a long, thin log, easily fifteen to twenty feet in length. Jamie Deakens, a young blond giant with a round face softened by peach fuzz, was the first to toss it. Two of the officials carried the caber to him, and then walked it to a vertical position in front of him, with the narrow end on the ground.
Jamie grasped the caber with cupped hands, about a yard above the ground. He worked his way down the caber, resting its weight on his shoulder, until he could grasp the butt of it and lift it off the ground. He staggered forward, the caber swaying slightly in its vertical position, until he gained control over it. He continued to run until he gave a huge grunt and heaved the caber into the air. It turned over, the thick end hit the ground, and the caber fell with the narrow end pointing away from the athlete. The crowd applauded.
Corgi cheered beside me. “Fantastic throw! He turned the caber on his first try. I’d say it fell at about one o’clock—pretty darn good.”
I stared at him. “It’s well past two. What are you talking about? The caber didn’t go very far at all.”
“The point isn’t for it to go far. The point is for it to flip over—we say he ‘turned’ the caber. Not everyone can turn it. Then it’s supposed to land in a straight line from where he stood when he tossed it. Twelve o’clock, if you picture the face of a clock. Jamie’s was angled a bit off to the right, at one o’clock. Pretty close, if you ask me. He gets two more tries, but I’ll bet he can’t beat that.”
Aileen walked up to stand beside me. “A bunch of overgrown guys are throwing logs around. Sheesh.” She crossed her arms and watched Tom O’Flaherty throw. The caber didn’t flip over. It approached the vertical, only to fall back down to the ground. The crowd sighed in disappointment.
Corgi poked her. “I’ll bet you couldn’t do that.”
Aileen snorted. “If I thought it was important, I’d learn how. Flipping a log over endwise is not important to me.” She struck a dramatic pose, her hand over her heart. “'No human thing is of serious importance.’” She bowed with a flourish. “Plato, in case you were wondering.”
Corgi and I were still laughing when Ladd approached the caber to take his first turn. He saw Aileen in the crowd and flashed her a thumbs-up. She turned her back on him.
Ladd hefted the caber into his hands and staggered backward, trying to balance it before starting his run. His muscular arms shook and sweat ran down his face. The crowd gasped and parted as he staggered sideways, before finally getting it under control. I tapped Aileen’s shoulder. “Not a good plan to turn your back on a caber in motion.” She turned back around to watch.
Ladd ran a few steps and flung the caber into the air with a huge grunt. It had just enough momentum to flip over and land with a thump on the ground. The crowd cheered. Ladd had successfully turned the caber on his
first try.
He hobbled over to the sidelines and bent over with his hands on his knees, panting for breath. He looked to be at least ten years older than any of his competitors. I watched the red slowly fade from his face and wondered if he should maybe think about retiring.
He lifted his head and scanned the crowd. Aileen crouched down behind Corgi. “See you later.” She slipped through the crowd and ducked into the VIP tent, brushing past Ryan King on his way out. Ryan checked and stared at her, the way people always did at the sight of her. He dusted off his arm as if she’d sullied it with her contact, and then he returned to watching the heavy athletic events.
I turned to Corgi in confusion. “I’ve never seen Aileen hiding from anything before. What’s the story between her and Ladd?”
He was as mystified as I was. “I’ve never heard her talk about him. Obviously, there’s some history there. If she wants to talk about it, fine, but I’m not going to pry.”
Smart guy.
It was Patrick’s turn at the caber. I watched his technique to see if he was a match for Ladd. He was an immense man sporting a black goatee and an armful of Celtic tattoos. He grasped the caber with confidence and hefted it to balance against his shoulder. He ran a few steps and threw his hands up in the air, launching the caber. It flipped over and hit the ground with a resounding thud.
After the first round, three out of four of the athletes had turned the caber.
McCarthy stopped by for a quick word as Jamie stepped up to start the second round. “Given up on the bow-tie trade, have we?”
I gave a guilty start and checked the time on my phone. “I guess I should get back to the booth.” The crowd roared, signaling their approval of Jamie’s latest toss. “Or at least I should check in with Letty to see how things are going.” I texted her, to receive the reply: “All’s quiet on the Scottish front. Take your time with the hunks.”
I smiled and tucked my phone into my pocket. “Sounds like everyone is gathered around to watch the show. They’ve probably all got their eyes on you and your camera, figuring wherever you go is the place to be.”
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