The Things We Said Today
Page 24
When Pascal returned from his chase with no hat, he put his arms around Merle. “I’ll hold you down, madame. No blowing off the mountaintop.” She buried her face in his chest, happy, taking in the scent of him. She couldn’t believe she had to go home tomorrow, back to grim, regimented city life. Back to life without Pascal.
Then her plan popped up, all shiny and enticing. “Pascal?” She craned her neck to look up at him. “I want to— ”
The bagpipe suddenly silenced. In its place a bell chimed. Everyone turned toward Hugh Logan who held a small silver bell and a tiny, round-ended hammer. He hit the bell slowly, with ceremony, until all were quiet. Then a few more for good measure.
The vibrations of sound died slowly, on the wind. Hugh lowered the bell and hammer to the ground then began to speak.
“Friends, clansmen, countrymen. We are gathered here to say farewell and cheerio the nou to our tribesman, our devoted friend, Hector MacRoberts Craigg.” A murmur of approval rose from the old gentlemen. “He was a native son, a Scot through and through, a soldier, a man of the land who loved it all from glen to ben, and walked the heather many miles with his trusty dogs and his wee pony, Annabelle, much beloved, who was with him to the end and then some.”
Callum appeared in front of Pascal and Merle with two small glasses of whisky. He hurried around the gathering, delivering drams to everyone as Hugh spoke of Mr. Craigg’s adventures in the war with their grandfather, his heroism in Italy, his care for the house and all who lived in it, of his abiding love of sheep that he had passed on to anyone who would listen, and especially to young Gunni.
The younger sheep man had found Mr. Craigg up here, lifeless, in the ruined sheepherder’s hut. Frightened, he returned later to wrap him reverently in a blanket. That much Merle had learned from Annie yesterday evening. Gunni didn’t feel it was anyone’s business but Craigg’s where he died and how he rejoined the earth. But modern practices prevailed, and Mr. Craigg would be cremated later in the week and his ashes strewn high in the beloved hills.
Gunni and Jinty stood behind the table, pouring drams of whisky and handing them to Callum. Gunni had removed his knit cap and combed his straw-like hair. He looked a bit lost. Jinty wore a solemn gray dress with a little tartan collar and had a deer-in-the-headlights look about her as well. She was obviously trying hard to be calm and efficient. Glynn and Davina whispered, standing in the back of the chairs.
“Mr. Craigg, whose full name was a mystery to most of us until today,” Hugh said, “was a second father to Callum and me. He was also a cousin to our grandfather, a MacRoberts. That was also news to me. Mr. Craigg didn’t flaunt his clan connections, only his ability to take charge of the Highlands he loved. He taught me and Callum how to ride, back when we had horses at Kincardie. How to drive a car too. He taught us how to train a dog although neither of us has owned one thus far. He taught us how to stalk deer, although we never got the hang of that either.” He smiled. “We could have been better students, eh, Callum? But we couldn’t have had a better teacher, a better friend, than our Mister Craigg.”
Callum handed his brother a dram of whisky and took his place next to him. Hugh said, “One thing he taught us well was how to appreciate a good whisky. So now, his favorite bevvy, a well-aged, or not, Speyburn— as he declared, ‘never a swally better’— we drink a wee dram in memory of our friend, our clansman, Hector MacRoberts Craigg.”
“Never a finer man be!” hollered one of the old gents.
Everyone kept their drams aloft, waiting. Callum cleared his throat.
“Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me die.
Glad did I live and gladly die. And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me: Here lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.”
The three old gentlemen stood then, pushing themselves awkwardly to their feet. Their whisky splashed, one wet another’s sleeve, and there was cursing, followed by laughter. They righted themselves then held their glasses high. The middle one in the tam o’shanter said in quavering voice: “If there’s another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.”
With a nod from Hugh the piper began to play ‘Amazing Grace.’ Callum looked at Hugh and they drank their whisky in a single gulp, as intended. The old men followed suit, and around the gathering whisky went down the gullet. Merle felt hers burn and thought of ol’ Craiggie in the kitchen, drenched to the skin, grinning toothlessly and eating toast. One of a kind, he was. The friends clapped each other on the shoulder. The bagpiper did his thing for quite awhile then the notes faded away.
Oliver in his full Scottish regalia, and his sister Willow in a pretty green dress and flowers in her hair, appeared at the front of the gathering. As the music ended Hugh took a bouquet of bluebells from Willow.
“We are also remembering another of our Kincardie family today. We mourn the loss of Vanora Petrie who kept us all fed and clean this past week while the house was full. She was a good lass. We shall miss her. Godspeed, Vanora.”
Murmurs of her name rippled through the older people. Oliver and Willow went through the crowd, handing each a bluebell solemnly. Merle whispered, “Godspeed, Vanora,” as Oliver handed her a limp stem of flowers. Pascal squeezed her shoulder.
Callum disappeared during this part of the ceremony but Hugh remained at the front of the gathering. When everyone held a bluebell he cleared his throat.
“Now, friends and clansmen, we have another occasion, a happier one. We are gathered here to witness the ceremony of commitment and hand-fasting for Callum and Annie!”
Francie stepped closer to Merle. “What is that?” she whispered.
The bagpiper began again before Merle could answer, a livelier tune with many high notes. Then, from behind a rock, Callum and Annie appeared, he still in his ceremonial kilt with the black jacket, and she in the cream wedding dress. Instead of heels she wore her leather boots, and Merle saw now that they matched Callum’s boots, lovingly worn, laced to mid-calf. She had a tartan ribbon in her hair. Behind them walked Stasia, carrying some lengths of fabric and another bouquet of bluebells.
Francie and Elise moved closer so they could see. They tried to pull Merle with them but she resisted, holding Pascal’s hand.
Hugh, it appeared, was the officiant. Merle felt her heart swell. Pascal leaned into her ear, kissed it and whispered: “I knew they were too smart for marriage.”
Callum began with a simple poem that Merle remembered as he went along, lyrics to one of their favorite Beatles songs.
“To make you mine, Be the only one.” He pushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Love me all the time and we'll go on and on.”
Annie placed a hand on his shirt front. “Someday when we're dreaming, deep in love, not a lot to say.”
He finished the verse: “Then we will remember, Things we said today.”
Hugh said his lines then, reading from a card: “When you love someone, you do not love them all the time— despite the words of ancient wisdom from the Fab Four.” He grinned and the crowd tittered appreciatively. He sobered himself and continued: “You do not love in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It’s an impossibility. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity, when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in change, in freedom.
“The only security is not in owning or possessing the beloved, not in demanding or expecting. Happiness lies neither in looking back to what was, nor forward to what might be, but living in the present and accepting it as it is now. Love is flexible, love is kind. Love is everywhere. The promises you make today to love each other, and the ties that bind you together here, strengthen your union and will cross the years and lives of each soul’s growth.”
Then the business of hand-fasting began. Now Merle dragged Pascal a little closer so she could see what was happening. Stasia stepped f
orward and gave Annie and Callum each a few sprigs of bluebells. She draped the two long pieces of fabric, one of one tartan, a second in a different plaid, over her own forearm.
Annie and Callum joined hands. Stasia wound one tartan then the other around their clasped hands as Hugh murmured some kind of blessing. Stasia finished wrapping their hands in the fabric, tied a loose knot, and stepped back. Reaching awkwardly for the ends Annie and Callum tightened the knot of fabric, pulling as they laughed and literally tied the knot. A hushed pause fell over the mountaintop group.
Then there was kissing.
That was it. Short and sweet, just the way Annie wanted it. No big hoo-ha. Merle glanced at Jack who was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief and handing it to Bernie. Stasia was wiping her eyes, as was Rick. Francie and Elise hugged, smiling. Hugh and Davina linked arms, struggling not to break their faces with smiles. A few hoots rose up, the bagpiper launched into another ear-splitting tune, a smattering of applause was heard, cries from the old gents and the Bennett sisters. The beaming couple turned to face the gathering, bound hands raised, delirious grins on their faces.
Annie and Callum made their way around the crowd, hugging everyone, kissing everyone, doing a fling to the music with a few. Callum got his mother to her feet and made her move around in a circle. Then he and Oliver threw arms over each other’s shoulders and did something with their feet that might be called dancing.
When they came to Merle and Pascal there was a group hug, followed by a longer one where Annie slipped out of her hand-fasting bonds for a moment and held Merle to her tightly. They blubbered for a moment, expressing their love.
And then it was time for the party.
Epilogue
Cher Pascal,
It is our anniversary, chéri! On June 22, two years ago, you came to the stone house in the Dordogne (which we still must name) and began working your magic with pigeon guano. A fateful and smelly day. You persevered, even though it has become clear to me that you have a very sensitive nose.
But the roof is done and the pigeons are history. All that remains is for the two of us to be under the same roof again. I will be there very soon. And I have some news. I didn’t want to mention it, to promise anything that might not happen. (Do you do that? Protect the ones you love from disappointment? I think you might.) I wanted to be sure. So here’s the deal.
I started writing a novel in your kitchen. Did you see it, could you tell? I want to finish it in France. It is set there, in the Dordogne (I think) and there are too many locales and customs and language questions for me to do it long distance. It is historical, a gothic romance of the sort that is probably old-fashioned and passé. But whatever. I’m doing it for myself.
That means, voilà! I am taking a leave-of-absence from my job! Before that Tristan will come to France with me for the summer, for four weeks, starting in July. I will not go back to work until after the new year. Can you believe it? The workaholic is taking time off.
I will need to go back in the fall to get Tristan settled in school. Believe it or not he has been studying so hard that he has enough credits to start college in September. And he got a very good scholarship! What a little smartie! It will be hard for me (he’s so tall and responsible and grownup, I could just cry!) If I’m off in la belle France it might not be quite so hard. It’s time for us both to start new lives, n’est-ce pas?
I would say all three of us, including you, but I don’t want to presume. You have your work. I will have mine, this “project” of writing a novel. I am petrified. Will you hold my hand— when I’m not holding a pen? Will you explain the enigmatic ways of the French for me? I will also need a steady supply of espresso, rosé, baby goats, and full body massages. Can you arrange?
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À bientôt, mon cœur,
bisous,
your blackbird
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The next book in the series is
The Frenchman.
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About the Author
Lise McClendon is the author of fifteen novels of crime and suspense. Her bestselling Bennett Sisters Mysteries is now in its fifth installment. When not writing about foreign lands and delicious food and dastardly criminals, Lise lives in Montana with her husband. She enjoys fly fishing, hiking, picking raspberries in the summer, and cross-country skiing in the winter. She has served on the national boards of directors of Mystery Writers of America and the International Association of Crime Writers/North America, as well as the faculty of the Jackson Hole Writers Conference. She loves to hear from readers.
For more information visit
lisemcclendon.com
Also by Lise McClendon
Bennett Sisters Mysteries
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Blackbird Fly
The Girl in the Empty Dress
Give Him the Ooh-la-la
The Things We Said Today
The Frenchman
Odette and the Great Fear
À Vol de Merle: Blackbird Fly, Èdition française
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The Bluejay Shaman
Painted Truth
Nordic Nights
Blue Wolf
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One O’clock Jump
Sweet and Lowdown
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All Your Pretty Dreams
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as Rory Tate
Jump Cut
PLAN X
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as Thalia Filbert
Beat Slay Love
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