She was tempted, tempted to sprawl on Declan’s enormous bed and cry herself to sleep. The day after tomorrow, she’d catch a morning flight out of Edinburgh, and Scotland would become a collection of memories too dear to be examined often.
“I’m dressed for the occasion and so are you,” Megan said. “Give me the deceased. You fetch a shovel.”
Declan buried the cat along the fence line, the cows looking on, and Mary snacking in the vicinity. Curled in the dirt in the bottom of a hole, Hughey looked small and frail, a limp, spent blossom of a cat. Declan covered him up, tamped down the sod with the flat of the shovel, then took Megan in his arms.
“Don’t cry, Meggie. Hughey did as he pleased for seventeen years and died napping in the sun near his friends. He had a good, long life.”
And they’d had a good two weeks.
“I’m sorry, Declan,” she said, the words miserably inadequate for the sorrow and remorse nearly choking her. “I wish… I’m just so sorry.”
He scooped her up and carried her to the house, then kept right on going, straight upstairs to the bedroom. Not until they were naked under the covers and Megan was sprawled on Declan’s chest did she finally let the tears come.
***
From Declan’s perspective, Megan’s last full day before leaving could not have gone worse.
Declan got up to help with the milking, hoping to climb back between the sheets with Megan before the morning was too far gone.
Dundas wrenched his back trying to avoid a tail-swat from a muddy heifer, and milking took forever. By the time Declan got back to the house, Megan was out of bed and packing.
She was also preoccupied with an inability to contact her staff at the flower shop, though the loan officer bloke assured her the store had been opening on time since he’d dropped by to buy flowers for his secretary several days ago.
The feed store chose that morning to deliver a month’s worth of grain a day early, and if Declan wanted the truck leaving any time before lunch, he had to help unload. By the time that was done, Megan was sitting on the porch steps, waiting for her sister to pick her up.
“You and Julie are grabbing a bite at the Hare?” Declan asked, taking a place beside her on the hard stones.
“You smell like molasses,” Megan said, sniffing his arm. “No wonder the heifers like you. I thought we were meeting at the Hare, but Julie wants to pop over to St. Andrews on some golf errand for Niall, and she says the souvenir shopping there is good.”
Declan had no more souvenirs to give Megan, for she’d already taken possession of his heart.
“Enjoy the outing, then,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Would you like to have dinner at the Hare? I can start the milking a little early, and Dundas can finish up.”
Megan leaned into him, her complicated, flowery fragrance settling something inside Declan that no amount of sleep, hard work, or talking to the cows could settle.
“I’d like that. They have very good grilled cheese sandwiches, and I want to suggest some flowers for Hamish’s window boxes that won’t be as temperamental as what he has now.”
Her wedding flowers had been lovely, a blend of artless and unusual, and Declan had heard more than one prospective bride asking Megan for a business card.
For the hundredth time in half a day, the words, “If only….” chanted through his mind. If only Maryland were not so expensively, impractically far away. If only a farmer were not married to his land and livestock, renewing the vows to the one every waking hour and to the other twice a day. If only the flower shop in Maryland were not Megan’s every dream and hope poised to soar.
If only Megan showed the least indication of feeling the same yearning for a shared life that Declan did.
“Here’s the new bride,” Declan said, tugging Megan to her feet. “Mary and I will await your return.”
Megan left with a hug and kiss, and all that was left for Declan was to watch her go, and wish she’d turn around, even once, to wave good-bye.
***
“If I’d stayed at the farm this afternoon, I’d have curled up in Declan’s arms and bawled my heart out,” Megan said. “I hate this.”
Julie drove along as if she’d been managing Scottish roads since high school. “Love is hard. I thought I loved that rat I was married to before, but that was nothing compared to what I feel for Niall. Derek was a very sad speed bump. Niall is… Niall is the other half of my heart.”
“Shut up, Jules. Please?”
Julie patted Megan’s hand, while outside, the lovely green countryside rolled past.
“Wasn’t Macbeth killed somewhere around here?” Megan asked.
“That’s a little farther north,” Julie said. “Why not sell the flower shop and move here? I’d love it if you did that.”
Oh, a sister was the damnedest sort of friend. “Declan hasn’t asked, and I’m less than a week away from having the means to open a second shop, Jules, provided I don’t kill my senior staff first.”
Julie slowed down as they came up behind a truck loaded with hay—a lorry, here.
“They’re goofing off?” she asked.
“They’re probably screwing like rabbits in the back room, and they’ll claim they didn’t get my texts, my e-mails went to spam, and my phone messages all got hung up somewhere over Iceland. Tony can be flaky, and that means Dixie has her own work and mine to do, plus anything that pops up unexpectedly.”
“What pops up unexpectedly?”
Dundas’s bad back, for one thing. Megan had lain in bed that morning until she’d been half-starved, and not for the day’s serving of porridge.
“Funerals are the worst,” she said, “because the funeral homes have already gotten their hands into the bereaved family’s pocket in a big way—cash and carry, that’s the grief business. And yet, the family wants something pretty, something not somber and sad, to get them through the service. Dixie likes the funerals, likes the simplicity of the bouquets, and the—why am I going on about this?”
Funerals. God. The memory of Declan, leaning on his shovel in all his Highland finery and murmuring a few words of Gaelic for old Hughey burned a lump in Megan’s throat.
“You never talk about business, Megs. I’m happy to hear you go on.”
“You don’t talk about document restoration,” Megan countered. “I thought it was a hobby, a way to hang out with Dad, to earn extra money.”
That was all the opening Julie needed to tear off on a spiel about Scotland’s heritage, and the climatic conditions that wrecked old paper, and the MacPherson will she’d decoded for Niall and Declan, and happily blah, blah, ever blah.
They arrived in St. Andrews, a college town on the coast, and admired the beach made famous by the opening scenes of “Chariots of Fire.” They walked along the Old Course, and through the ruins of what had once been the largest house of worship in Britain, until the good, Christian rage of the Reformation had laid waste to the cathedral’s beauty.
“The sense of history here is so different,” Megan said, as they munched sandwiches on a bench overlooking the sea. They’d picked up their food from a student-friendly café where Wills and Kate were said to have frequently met for coffee. “The history of Scotland is much bigger than what I’m used to. America has the geographic size, but this place has much deeper, more tangled roots.”
“Is that why you won’t ask Declan to leave Scotland and go to Maryland? You don’t think you could enjoy living here?”
Megan studied a fry, which would have benefited from some hot sauce, though hot sauce was hardly a deal breaker.
“He loves that farm, Julie. He was born loving that farm. His family is buried there, his cat is buried there. It’s not a piece of property to him. That land is a sacred trust, a part of his soul. He told me as much the day we met, and I can’t see that changing.” Wouldn’t want it to change, because the farm was part of what made Declan the man he was.
“You and I buried Mom and Dad in Maryland,” Julie said, folding
up the lunch trash and stuffing it into a paper bag. “I’d hate to bury you there too.”
Julie’s comment had nothing to do with funeral arrangements, and everything to do with being a sister.
“I’ve done research, Jules,” Megan said, passing over the remains of another delicious grilled cheese sandwich and the butcher paper it had been wrapped in. “The growing season here is short, the population of the entire country not even as much as what Maryland has. Any retail establishment has to fight tooth and nail to stay afloat, if you’re thinking I could do flowers here. I don’t know the first thing about being a farmer’s wife, if you’re thinking I could do something else.”
Julie got up and lobbed the trash into a garbage can. “Here’s what you need to know. Aberdeen usually wins the all-Europe competitions for best municipal flowers. We have greenhouses in Scotland, same as you have in Maryland. Declan MacPherson doesn’t date, Megs. As far as Niall knows, Declan has never had a steady girlfriend even. You’re the first woman to get his hand off the plow, so to speak, long enough to smell the roses. He needs you.”
“He needed a fling, and so did I. Let’s head back, unless you want to hit another golf shop?”
Julie wanted to hit three more golf shops, getting ideas for the pro shop at Niall’s course, which would have to expand as his nine holes became eighteen, in part thanks to a lease arrangement with Declan.
The afternoon was well advanced when Megan said good-bye to her sister, who’d be leaving the next day for her honeymoon on the Isle of Skye.
“We’re coming to see you at Christmas,” Julie said. “Niall has family in Damson County, and you’ll always be welcome in our home, Megs. Always.”
The hug went on forever, until Megan was nearly in tears, and Julie was wiping at her own cheeks. She got herself under control just as Declan came marching up from the greenhouse.
“Enjoy Skye,” Declan said as Julie climbed back into her car. “If Niall lets you see any of it besides the golf courses.”
“Maybe it’s time you saw something besides this farm, Declan MacPherson,” Julie said. “And Niall would agree with me.”
She drove off, and then Declan’s arms were around Megan, secure, welcoming, and desperately dear.
“You’ll see her again,” he said. “Niall has traveled extensively in the US chasing golf balls, and he’ll make the effort frequently to keep his lady happy. Trust me.”
Oh, Megan did. “It’s almost time to milk, isn’t it?” Megan asked, stepping back.
Declan’s smile was crooked. “It’s always ‘almost time to milk.’ For a while there was fashion for milking three times a day, every eight hours, on the factory farms, because that increased yield by ten percent per cow. Filthy business, pestering the heifers that often.”
“Your cows are lucky to have you,” Megan said, though how pathetic was it that she envied a bunch of bovines? “What time shall we go to the Hare?”
As it turned out, they didn’t get to the Hare. Dundas’s back was worse, Declan had to manage the evening milking all on his own, the heifers were feeling fractious, and a storm rolled in, meaning he had to throw extra hay, and dinner became a late omelet eaten in the kitchen.
“So how did you spend your afternoon?” Megan asked. She’d spent hers missing him, already, awfully.
Declan took a sip of Megan’s ale. “I’d meant to play with the numbers so I could run a few things past Niall before he leaves tomorrow. Don’t want to bother a man on his honeymoon. Are you packed?”
Megan managed a nod. “Are the spreadsheets calling to you? I like playing with mine, like playing ‘what if’ and ‘let’s pretend’ with the numbers. That’s what led to the realization that I could manage a loan, and with a loan, a second shop, and with a second shop…”
“Your dreams come true,” Declan said, sitting back. “You looked knackered, Meggie. Shall I take you up to bed?”
Yes, yes, yes, please. “Let me jump in the shower, and then by all means, come upstairs and join me.”
She had four condoms left and intended to use every one before she got on the plane tomorrow. There’d be no rotating this inventory, no buying fresh provisions in anticipation of the next floral convention, either.
Megan lingered in the shower, then climbed into bed, appropriating Declan’s side. She hadn’t slept well the previous night, had been up early hoping for Declan to return from the milking, and needed a good night’s rest before traveling.
And thus she was fast asleep when Declan saved his last spreadsheet and came up to bed less than ninety minutes later.
Chapter Five
* * *
For the first time, Declan MacPherson resented his heifers. He’d fallen asleep beside Megan, when his intention had been to wake her with gentle kisses of tender parting, to love her unforgettably, to entrust to his body all the arguments and pleas he hadn’t been able to make with words.
“You’ll be late for milking,” Megan said, sitting up and brushing her hair out of her eyes in the early morning gloom. “I fell asleep.”
“So did I, damn it all,” Declan said, seeing by the clock that he was already fifteen minutes behind, and that meant cranky cows, at best. “Meggie, I’m so sorry. I want—”
They came together with desperate passion, no words, no pausing to savor or tease, no finesse.
No fiction that they’d have another two weeks, or even two hours, to enjoy each other’s company.
“I’ll miss you,” Declan said as he joined their bodies. “When I go out to milk, when I’m in the fields, when I’m getting blind, stinking drunk at the Hare, I’ll miss you.”
Megan met him with her hips and tried to increase the tempo. “Don’t get drunk, Declan. There’s nobody to drive you home, and I’ll worry about you.”
When her loan closed, he’d get drunk right here in his own home. “Don’t worry, Meggie. Everybody around here knows me, and they’ve seen me through bad patches before. Let me know when you’ve arrived safely home.”
He was home, inside her, in her arms.
“I’ll text, Declan, and you’ll let me know…”
Megan just started crying, and loving the hell out of him, and it was the best, saddest, most loving and heartbreaking sex Declan had ever had. He got to the milking parlor thirty minutes late, hungry, tired, and ready to curse in two languages at any cow or dairyman who gave him trouble.
An hour later, Megan appeared at the door of the milking parlor as the last shift of cows was ambling into their stanchions.
“You’re leaving,” Declan said, hitting the button that would deposit feed before each heifer.
She nodded and went back out into the morning, Declan at her heels. He wrapped her in a ferocious hug, and she held him with equal ferocity. Around him, the hills and fields were clothed in morning joy, sunlight turning the damp valley sparkling. The cows and sheep in their pasture grazed contentedly, and Hector sat on a fence post having a wash.
Morag stood by her car, which was already facing down the drive. Declan had put Megan’s suitcase on the porch before he’d left for milking, and the ladies had apparently wrestled it into the car.
“Morning, More,” Declan said. He got a disgusted huff in return, which was what he deserved.
“Get this over with,” Morag said, “or I’ll change my mind and leave the two of you to find somebody else to indulge your stupidity.”
Declan draped an arm across Megan’s shoulders and walked with her toward the barn. “Morag’s cross when she hasn’t eaten. She’ll be civil enough with you.”
“Morag means well.” Megan said nothing more, the time for I’ll miss you’s clearly having passed.
Declan held her in a long, tight hug, kissed her one last time, and stepped back. “Safe journey, luaidh mo chèile.” He’d spoken in Gaelic, the better to protect his dignity, because Morag was right: Letting Megan leave was the stupidest thing he could possibly do.
So he kissed Megan one more time.
And the
n he let her go.
***
“Declan wouldn’t want you to cry,” Morag said miles later. They were speeding south, Edinburgh airport getting closer by the minute.
“Declan wouldn’t tell me what to do,” Megan countered. “Not ever.”
“And you weren’t clever enough to ask him what to do,” Morag said, “so here I am, watching two hearts break when they ought to be planning a wedding. That’s all right, then.”
“Like you would ever ask anybody else what to do, Morag Cromarty?”
A smile bloomed, such as Megan hadn’t seen from Morag previously—a little sad, a lot sweet.
“Spot-on, there, Megan Leonard. And look at me now. I have all the independence I could ever want. I can throw pots twenty hours a day, if I prefer, and sometimes I do. But sometimes, I’d rather not have quite so much independence.”
“Sometimes, I hate my flowers,” Megan said, though she’d never admitted such a thing before—not even to herself. “Sometimes, I want to throw them all over the altar, like my mother once did.”
Morag shot her a puzzled look. “Was your mum a florist?”
“Flowers were her hobby, her sustenance and comfort. My dad was passionate about his work, Mom was passionate about her flowers. I get my love of flowers from her.”
The connection felt different now, though, not so much a bond, but more of a blind allegiance? A path of least resistance against a maternal love that had encouraged blossoming and growth in all manner of flowers, but not as much in an oldest daughter.
“I get my love of pots from the pleasure I took in smashing one when I was eight,” Morag said. “The pot was as plain and ugly as I felt I was. My Uncle Donald loved that little pot, though, and told me if I broke his favorite, I had to make him a pretty new one. That was it. From the first time I sat down at a wheel, my little hands glorying in the feel of wet mud, I was gone.”
The villages were coming closer together, and on the horizon, a silver airplane climbed into the sky.
“We’ve plenty of time,” Morag said, “but you’re thinking: Declan has finished the milking, he’s thrown the hay, he’s in his kitchen, eating his porridge standing up, nobody but a cat for company.”
Must Love Scotland (Highland Holidays) Page 17