No promise in the world could give Kit the sense of security he so desperately needed . . . but what if Kit felt he had a say in his own destiny?
Nathan was right. Kit was old enough to make his
wishes clear, with or without a DNA test. They didn’t need proof to be a family, and it occurred to Kincaid that perhaps he was the one who had required a stamp of approval. Did he honestly think he would love Kit any more if he knew their genetic codes were a match? Or was it that he thought Kit would love him more? Was he still trying to prove something to Ian McClellan, with Kit as the means?
The idea made him grimace. If that was the case, perhaps it was not Kit who needed to grow up and be sensible. He looked at his son and saw all the things that made him who he was, and he knew that there was nothing a bit of saliva could change. “Kit,” he said, “we need to talk.”
At Tomintoul, Hazel went into the village shop and bought the best two flower bunches on offer. They were a bit past their prime, but they would suit her purpose.
She drove on, up into the Braes, then down into the hollow of Chapeltown, beside the Crombie burn. The small churchyard of Our Lady of Perpetual Succor was deserted, but Hazel found the markers easily enough.
Will Urquhart lay beside his mother, in the shade of a rowan. After laying a bouquet beneath each headstone, she sat on a stone bench in the sun, her eyes closed, until she felt as if she were bleached down to her bones.
Then she left the car in the car park beyond the church and, taking only her bag from the boot, began to climb the track. The sun rose higher, stripping away the shadows, melting the last lingering patches of snow. By the time she reached Carnmore, she was sweating.
Taking the keys Heather had given her from her pocket, she unlocked the door to the house. Slowly, she walked through the place, assessing the damage and the assets. The structure seemed sound, other than a few
warped floorboards beneath the broken windows. Her parents had left some of the old furniture—pieces she now realized might have belonged to Livvy Urquhart.
She found that the memories of her childhood in the house had become entwined with her dreams of Livvy, and that she didn’t really mind.
Eventually, she came back out into the sun and sat on a boulder by the distillery gate, weighing her choices.
Curlews called in the distance, and once, as she looked up, she thought she saw the outline of a falcon skimming high above.
Donald would have wanted her to keep Benvulin as it was; he had seen her as an anchor against the tide of the future. But Donald was gone, and she could no more bring him back than she could resurrect the woman she had pretended to be in the years of her marriage. Who was she now, and where did she belong?
It seemed almost certain her marriage was damaged beyond repair, and she—how could she go back to counseling others, when she had been unable to help herself?
She looked around her, at the house and the weathered but still-solid buildings of the distillery. It was a hard life in the Braes, an isolated life, one that left its mark for good or ill. But it was her heritage, and her daughter’s.
Could she bring Holly here? Could she subject them both to the unknown?
There was a way, if she had the courage. She could sell her shares in Benvulin to Pascal’s company. She could let Benvulin go, let Donald go, and by doing so she could give her cousin Heather the control of Benvulin that she had earned. It might not be what Donald would have chosen, but it was the living that mattered now.
And then, it was just possible that with the money from the sale, she could bring life back to Carnmore. It would
mean starting the distillery on a shoestring, but she reminded herself, many Highland distilleries had begun as single stills run by farmers’ wives. She was resourceful, and what she didn’t know, Heather could teach her.
She saw the kitchen painted red, filled with the aroma of baking. She saw the copper stills gleaming in the still-house, and the casks stacked in the warehouse, stamped once again with Carnmore’s name.
Opening her bag, she took out the bottle of Carnmore whisky, her gift from Donald, and a tooth glass she had brought from Innesfree. The whisky felt warm from the heat of the sun, like a living thing, and when she pulled the cork the smell tickled her nose, sweet and sharp.
Carefully, she poured half an inch in the glass and sipped it, holding the buttery liquid in her mouth until it melted away. Then she raised the bottle and let a few golden drops trickle out onto the bare earth, a libation for the past, and for the future.
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due to all the good people at William Morrow for their support and enthusiasm, and especially to my editor, Carrie Feron. Nancy Yost has once again proved herself an agent beyond compare, and Laura Hartman Maestro has provided the charming map.
To those who have read the manuscript, Steve Copling, Dale Denton, Jim Evans, Diane Sullivan Hale, Gigi Sher-rell Norwood, and Viqui Litman, I’m sure I couldn’t have done it without you. A final thanks to Jan Hull for being a great friend in a pinch, and to my family for putting up with me in the throes of a book.
About the Author
DEBORAH CROMBIE was born and educated in Texas and has lived in both England and Scotland. Her Kincaid and James novels have received Edgar®, Agatha, and Macavity Award nominations, and her fifth novel, Dreaming of the Bones, was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and was selected as one of the Best Crime Novels of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers of America. Her novels have been published in Japan, Germany, Italy, Norway, the Netherlands, France, the Czech Republic, and the United Kingdom. Crombie travels to England several times a year and has been a featured speaker at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford. She lives in a small North Texas town, sharing a turn-of-the-century house with her husband, three cats, and a German shepherd. You can visit her website at www.deborahcrombie.com.
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Now May You Weep
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Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep dk&gj-9 Page 34