Must Love Highlanders

by Patience Griffin Grace Burrowes

  So, what happens after the plane takes off?

  Will you call me?

  Will I see you again?

  Liam made endlessly tender, quiet love to her, then came at her with ferocious passion. Then it was Louise’s turn to be tender, to memorize the turn of his shoulders, the line of his flanks, the texture of his skin at the small of his back.

  She spent hours at the wheel and more hours online doing research—about glazes, collections, art schools, and the past. Hellenbore had retired amid some scandal involving an undergraduate “prone to depression.”

  “She should be furious, not depressed,” Louise informed the drinking cup on the wheel. “But if she forced him into retirement, maybe she should be proud.”

  The cup spun on the wheel, perfectly symmetric, but plain. No colors, no variations in texture or form to give it life.

  “You need to eat,” Liam said from the doorway. He watched her from time to time, but he neither answered questions nor asked them lately. The studio hardly had room for Louise’s heartache, Liam’s quiet presence, and that damned pink elephant.

  “I need to finish up,” Louise said, dragging the cutoff wire under her clay. “I’ll be an hour at least cleaning the knives, scrapers, and other tools. You don’t have to help.”

  Liam’s brows twitched. As an older man, he’d have bushy brows. That single twitch confirmed that Louise’s elephant was getting restless, putting a sharpness on her words she hadn’t intended.

  By this time tomorrow, Louise would have left Scotland, possibly forever.

  “I can make dinner,” Liam said. “I notice you haven’t started to pack.”

  Whatever the hell that meant.

  Louise mashed the clay back into a hard, compact ball. “I’m quick when it comes to throwing my things into a suitcase. If we’re making pizza, we’ll need ingredients. I’ll clean up, you make a grocery run, and we’ll meet in the kitchen.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Liam sauntered over to her, kissed the top of her head, and would have left, except Louise caught his clean hand in her muddy one.

  “I’ll miss you, Liam. I’ll miss you terribly.”

  Another kiss. “Likewise, Louise Mavis Cameron.”

  Then he was gone.

  Louise dealt with the tools of her trade—her art—and tidied up the studio until it was as clean and welcoming as she’d found it. She grabbed a shower for good measure and was toweling off when another question joined her already overflowing supply.

  How had Liam known her middle name? She’d never told him, not specifically, which middle name went with which Cameron sister, and yet he’d known her middle name was Mavis.

  Interesting.

  Words stuck in Liam’s throat all the way to the airport, while beside him, Louise held her peace. A woman who’d been cheated out of her future as an artist by a lot of stupid, arrogant men probably learned to keep her own counsel very well.

  “Are you nervous?” Liam asked as they tooled over the Forth Road Bridge.

  “I have it on good authority that flying to the States is easier than flying to Europe. What will you do with yourself today, Liam?”

  He’d get the cottage ready for Jeannie’s next rental, respond to the emails he’d neglected for the past two weeks, and get on with the business of hating himself for the rest of his life—again.

  “I’ll catch up on the housework, mostly.”

  They reached the southern bank of the firth, that much closer to the airport.

  “Liam, you have a beautiful house. I didn’t poke around inside, though when I took Helen back yesterday, I couldn’t help but admire it. Somebody went to a lot of trouble with that house, a lot of expensive trouble.”

  This was a question he could answer. “How do I afford that place on a college professor’s salary?”

  “You have art everywhere. Nice art.”

  “That’s not only art, that’s inventory, Louise. For years, when I saw something I liked, I bought it. Small things at first, then larger pieces. You’d be surprised what major corporations and even law firms are willing to pay for a bit of the pretty for their offices.”

  Louise left off pretending to be fascinated with the traffic around them. “You’re a dealer? That’s why you get phone calls from all over the world and jabber away in French and German?”

  “Not quite a dealer,” Liam said. “I don’t sell the pieces I own, I rent them out. When a client wants a different look, I find them something else, from what’s on hand, in storage, or in various galleries that know what I like. It’s rather profitable.”

  The smile Louise aimed at him was both admiring and knowing. “That’s why you don’t bring it up with your family? You’re embarrassed to make money at something you enjoy?”

  Liam would miss Louise for the rest of his life, miss her quickness, her understanding, her passion for cheese, and the way she held entire conversations with a lump of wet clay.

  “I simply don’t know how to tell them,” Liam said. “I make money, the world has a little more good art to enjoy, the businesses are happy, the artists have a paying client and the occasional commission. It doesn’t seem fair that I’d also enjoy the work.”

  The airport was only a few minutes ahead, and yet, what more could Liam say?

  I ruined your career years ago, but don’t mind that, because sometime in the past two weeks, I fell in love with you.

  “You’ll let Jeannie know when you’re home?” he asked.

  “Sure. Or I can text you.”

  “Please do. I’ll worry.” And probably kick hard objects, yell at the cat, and ignore messages from family. Familiar territory.

  After more pained silence, Liam drew up to the departures curb. “I can park if you like.”

  “No need,” Louise said, opening her door. “I’ve got this, Cromarty, and I want you to know something.”

  Liam wrestled Louise’s colorful suitcase onto the curb and prepared to die right there in the Scottish spring sunshine that had so captivated her two weeks ago.

  “I’ll miss you, Louise Cameron. I’ll miss you sorely.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. Terribly, horribly, awfully, very badly, but here’s something to think about, Professor. I spent some time online last night. If I wanted to earn a master of fine arts, some of the best programs in the world are in your backyard. Some of the most interesting and respected programs, right down the lane in Glasgow.”

  What is she saying?

  Louise wrapped Liam in a fierce embrace.

  “You’d come back here, to Scotland, Louise?”

  “I can throw pots wherever there’s a wheel and mud. I can hand-build. I can sketch. I can teach. I can wait tables, muck stalls, or impersonate a lawyer. What I cannot do anymore, ever again, is let my life go by while I wait for happiness to find me. You’re right: I need to do what makes me happy, even if I have to fight for it.”

  Louise kissed his cheek, then stepped back and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. “Thank you, Liam Cromarty. For everything, thank you.”

  Liam stood staring long after Louise had disappeared into the crowd, until the blare of an insistent horn reminded him that he was holding up traffic. He didn’t recall driving back to Perthshire, but he was still pondering Louise’s words when he got home and found Uncle Donald dozing in a chair on his front terrace.

  “You’re an idiot,” Donald said, not even opening his eyes.

  Liam took a place beside him, sitting right on the hard stones of the terrace. “Aye, and you’re where I get it from.”

  “Lad, you cannot let that one go. Move to America, commute across the ocean, or kidnap her, but don’t waste any more time wallowing in your guilt and grief. You’ll end up singing to the fish and wondering how seventy-five years can pass in a summer.”

  Dougie joined the discussion, hopping onto Donald’s lap.

  “Donald, I’ve wronged that woman, and I didn’t admit it to her. Isn’t it better that she recall me as a Highl
and fling than learn that I played a significant part in her worst betrayals?”

  No, it was not. Having put Louise on the plane, Liam hated the thought of letting his lies and silence be the last chapter in their story. Could he make it right?

  Could he ever make it right?

  Helen came panting around the side of the house, wet from the shoulders down and reeking of the river. She shook—of course—baptizing Liam and annoying Dougie too.

  “You were a right mess for a bit,” Donald said, not uncharitably. “Graduate school and all that whatnot with Karen. That’s behind you now. A cat, a smelly dog, and a tipsy old man aren’t very good company compared to the lass.”

  They were good company. Louise was better company.

  “Louise makes the most beautiful ceramics you’ve ever seen, Donald. You did see some of it when I first moved into the house. The perfect blend of shapes, colors, textures… She has magic in her heart.”

  She still had the magic, maybe more than ever. Liam had felt it vibrating through her when she’d been at her wheel, had gloried in its reflection when they’d made love.

  “Louise made all those vases and pots and dishes? The blue and the green, and peacocky stuff?”

  “When she was only a student. I’ve rented most of her pieces to a New York law firm that won’t send them back to me willingly. That firm represents obscenely successful artists, and her work is exactly what they wanted to grace their common areas. I hadn’t connected L. Mavis Cameron with my Louise Cameron.”

  “Well, then,” Donald said, passing Liam the cat and rising. “You have matters to see to, Liam. You’d best get on with them.”

  Dougie bopped Liam’s chin, seconding the motion, apparently.

  “Classes start back up in a week, Donald, and Louise wasn’t exactly reluctant to get on that plane.” Because she was off in search of happiness, and what woman wouldn’t relish such a quest?

  Donald stopped halfway across the terrace to pet Helen’s shaggy head. “Sooner begun is sooner done, Liam Donald Cromarty. That woman made you happy, and I’d about given up on you.”

  Liam had about given up on himself. “You think I should fight for her.” So did Liam.

  “You’re not the brightest of my nephews, but you usually come to the right answer eventually. Am I wrong, Liam?”

  Liam rose, the cat in his arms. For two weeks, he’d had somebody to share his meals with, also his bed, and his heart. Those two weeks had been the best he could recall.

  “I’m saying you’re right, Uncle, but this is a battle I must win, and putting together my strategy will take some time.”

  “I’ll be at the river,” Donald said, disappearing down the steps. “If you should take a notion to travel, I’ll look in on your beasts.”

  “You heard him,” Liam informed the dog and cat. “I’d best get busy. In New York the day’s already half over.”

  Liam didn’t call, he didn’t e-mail. He’d replied to the text Louise had sent two weeks ago confirming her safe return to the United States.

  “Rejoicing in your safe arrival there, missing you here. Will be in touch. Throw splendid pots until then. Liam Cromarty.”

  Not, “Love, Liam.”

  Not, “Yours, Liam.”

  Not fondly, sincerely, truly yours…

  Louise smashed her clay flat again.

  “Are you angry at that clay?” Jane set down the carry out Eritrean on the studio’s work table. The space was rented, the light entirely artificial, and the wheel grouchy.

  “I did better work in Scotland,” Louise said. “I can’t focus here. What is wrong with me that I’m attracted to men who—”

  Louise’s phone rang, blaring “Scotland the Brave,” about which Jane apparently knew better than to comment.

  “My hands are muddy,” Louise said. “Would you get that?”

  Though in Scotland, it would be barely seven a.m. Would Liam call that early?

  “I’m not getting this,” Jane said. “You’re letting it ring through. It’s Robert.”

  “And I had no appetite before the phone rang.” Robert and his latest scholarly piece of tripe could abuse semicolons on somebody else’s watch. Let his Sweet Young Thing help him get published. “I have pots to throw.”

  “Wash your hands,” Jane said, arranging carry-out containers on the work table. “I brought you a heather ale to try. Dunstan likes it for a change of pace.”

  Louise turned on the tap at the sink and scrubbed at her hands. Did Liam enjoy heather ale? Was he back at his classes? Had he gone fishing with Donald lest his uncle get too lonely?

  “Earth to Louise.”

  “How is Dunstan?” Louise asked, shutting off the tap and taking a whiff of vegetable sambusas Liam would have delighted in. She should have made them for him, with a nice peppery—

  “Dunstan is worried about his cousin Liam.” Jane said.

  Louise slammed the lid of the container shut. If she’d had clay in her hands, she would have thrown it against the wall.

  “Do not mess with me, Jane DeLuca Cromarty. I’m PMSing and nursing a broken heart, my muse is playing hard to get, and I’m about to give notice that I won’t be teaching in the fall. Is Liam okay?”

  Jane set down her unopened bottle of ale, slowly. “You already quit the lawyer day job, Louise. Are you quitting the artist day job, too?”

  “Is. Liam. All. Right?”

  “Dunstan can’t tell. Liam’s preoccupied, according to the family grapevine, but not like he was after his wife died. They’re not sure what’s up, but Uncle Donald’s keeping a close eye on him.”

  “Uncle Donald isn’t exactly a good influence.” But he was a cagey old guy who knew a thing or two about loneliness. Louise opened her ale and passed Jane the bottle opener. “I’m tempted to delete Robert’s message.”

  Louise took a sip of fermented grain and Scotland.

  “You deleted Robert from your bedroom that’s a start,” Jane said around a mouthful of spongy, vinegary injera bread.

  Did Liam even like Eritrean cuisine?

  “Robert was never there much to begin with,” Louise said. “For the last six months, nobody was asking and nobody was telling. He claimed he was on writing deadlines. Leave me some bread.”

  Jane divided the remaining bread in half. “Robert’s in New York. If you move up there for the privilege of reminding him to put the seat down until he finds some other female to sponge off of, I will smack you.”

  Liam had made sure Louise was never at risk for that kind of behavior again.

  “I like this ale,” Louise said, peering at the label. “Fraoch is the Gaelic word for heather.”

  “And Liam is the Gaelic word for heartache,” Jane retorted. “Dunstan says Liam has left town, and Donald isn’t saying where he went.”

  Maybe to a cottage near a loch in the Highlands, maybe to purchase more art.

  “He’s not headed here that I know of,” Louise said. “He said he’d be in touch, but that might be Scottish for ‘don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.’”

  “You can take the woman out of Georgia…” Jane said. “You going back to Scotland?”

  The damned phone rang again. “Robert,” Louise said, putting the phone in silent mode. “He must have already run off his Sweet Young Thing.”

  Jane tore off another strip of bread. “Revenge is mine, sayeth the former girlfriend, but you honestly couldn’t be bothered, could you?”

  “With Robert? I knew better, Jane. Before law school, when Hellenbore took such an interest in my glazes and was so encouraging, I was an innocent. Robert was… a distraction.”

  A lousy distraction.

  Jane closed one eye and peered down inside her bottle of ale, managing to look both elegant and silly.

  “So if Liam called you in the next fifteen minutes and asked you to join him for a Roman holiday, you’d tell him he’s had his shot, one and done?”

  “If Liam called, we’d talk about where we go
from here,” Louise said, assuming her little heart didn’t go pitty-patting away with her brain at the sight of even his phone number. “I’d take time to think about any decisions, and he’d understand why.”

  If Liam could fly to Rome, he could fly to DC. If he could call Singapore, he could call Louise.

  “You’re not eating much, Louise.”

  Dunstan would inhale any leftovers Jane took back to the office. Louise used the bread to scoop up another mouthful of spicy potatoes.

  “I miss him, Jane. I really, really miss him. He’s dear, lovely, an adult, hot, thoughtful….”

  “And not calling you,” Jane said. “Give it time. Dunstan sometimes takes a while to figure things out. We sort through legal cases together in nothing flat, but family stuff always takes longer.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  The phone buzzed, knocking against the table.

  “Answer the idiot,” Jane said, taking a sip of ale.

  Louise glanced at the phone, intending to let Robert’s pestering go to voice mail for the third time.

  Her stomach gave a funny little hop at the digits crowding her screen. “It’s Liam.”

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  Jane saluted Louise with her bottle of ale. “Give cousin Liam my love, and then read his beads for not calling. Sooner.”

  “This is Louise.” Steady voice, always a good way to start off.

  “Liam here.”

  Two beautiful, Scottish words, and not quite steady. Was that good? “How are you, Liam?” Where are you? When can I see you again?

  “Exhausted, but I thought I owed you a bit of warning in case you’re entertaining.”

  “Warning about what? And I am entertaining.”

  A pause, and not because the call was international. “Shall I call back, Louise?”

  She glanced at the wall clock. “Give me fifteen minutes, Liam, and Jane says hello.”

  “Jane? Dunstan’s Jane?” The relief in his voice was sweet.

  “The very one. We’re having lunch, and she sends her love. When I’ve run her off and charged up my battery for a few minutes, you can call me back.”