Scotland for Christmas

by Cathryn Parry

  “Isabel,” he’d simply replied. Emily had come on the line to quiz him after that. What was Isabel like? What had Jacob told her about them? It made a sad kind of sense to Jacob that his young sister, not even out of high school, would be so concerned about who came into the house. He’d once given himself that job of concerned watchkeeper, too. Maybe she was the one in the generation who’d taken up the mantle.

  “She’s a friend,” Jacob had told her.

  “A friend from where?” Emily had asked.

  “She’s a student in New York City by way of Scotland,” he’d answered.

  “Jacob, you are so unbelievable,” Emily had said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to see Mom upset.”

  “There won’t be any arguing or discussion about Mom’s past in Scotland, I promise.”

  But he knew he had a problem. He had no idea how any of them were going to react to Isabel’s presence.

  “That’s a beautiful park,” Isabel said, breaking into his thoughts. Her musical voice both calmed him and further reminded him of the upcoming ordeal.

  “Sorry?”

  “That park.” She pointed to his left. It seemed she observed everything they passed with joy and interest. He could live with this, easily—a woman who brightened his day with just her presence. When he allowed himself to relax with her, she made him feel whole. “And is that the Hudson River?”

  “Yeah.” The river sparkled in the distance. “And not too far away is the spot where a jet landed on the water some years back. There’s a famous photograph of the passengers standing on both wings. It was a horrible situation, but a great pilot was able to turn it into a miracle.”

  “I remember that story,” she said. “What an uplifting ending.”

  The thought gave him hope. He glanced at the park beside the river, a strip of green lined with community gardens, now showing the gourds of the season. There were joggers and dog walkers and people pushing baby carriages while they enjoyed the sun, even on Thanksgiving Day.

  These signs of their bustling hive were the best parts of New York. Isabel was getting ready to leave the city, but before she did, he had a few more weeks of her company here.

  He drummed his fingers on the wheel, their conversation dying out. It often went like this with them at night, before they went to sleep, if one of them remembered that this...whatever they were doing...was for a practical purpose only and with an end in sight.

  “You’re nervous,” Isabel remarked, turning from the road to look at him.

  “I wish it were different.”

  “I told you, I’m okay with meeting new people.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t know these people.”

  She swiveled her head toward him. After a moment, she asked, “Will it help if I promise to stick by you whatever happens?”

  It would, but he wasn’t that naive. “That’s a big promise.”

  “I know.” She smiled. “But you did it for me at Malcolm’s wedding. There were parts of that day that were awkward for both of us.”

  He ran his finger around the steering wheel. “If I can show you the best of Thanksgiving, then our day will be a success. There’s a reason it’s a pretty good tradition that we keep going back to.”

  She was just looking at him, blinking, her head tilted.

  Wow. How much is she changing me? She actually had him almost believing this crap.

  Eddie had a theory, one of his half-baked philosophies, that women civilized men. Jacob had always scoffed at that. In his own life, women had usually served to rile him up or make him crazy or even just sadden him, like his mom. But Isabel...she calmed him. She centered him.

  She also made him want to tear her clothes off and make love to her, which was another thing driving him insane.

  “I’ve gotta be honest, Isabel. By bringing you home, they’re gonna think we’re dating or something. We both know...what this is we’re doing.” He glanced at her. But instead of being hurt or insulted, she was nodding, too.

  “You can tell them that you’re making me feel less lonely,” she said.

  “Am I?”

  “Aye.” She winked at him. “We’re a good team that way.”

  But there were other, more important things that made them a lousy team, and Isabel didn’t even know it.

  Jacob pulled the car into a parking spot on the street, on the hill below his mom and Daniel’s home. The driveway was lined three-deep with other vehicles from his visiting relatives. “Last chance. Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked as he shut off the engine. “There’s still time to back out.”

  “Get on with you, then.” She opened the door and stepped resolutely onto the lawn. “Escort me inside, Mr. Ross.”

  * * *

  CHOCOLATE CREAM PIE. Pecan pie. Apple pie. Pumpkin pie.

  Isabel jumped into the spirit of the event and tried a sliver of each. But her personal favorite was the apple pie, with a crispy butter crust and lots of cinnamon and nutmeg.

  Fourteen people in three generations—plus a small white dog named Lulu who begged by their feet—sat at a large oval dining table set with pretty china plates, glittering silverware, crystal glasses and a centerpiece of roses.

  Jacob’s mum loaded the table with course after course of food. A professional-level cook, in Isabel’s opinion, her grandest dish was a massive turkey that had been marched into the room by Jacob’s sister, Emily, a teen still dressed in her cheerleader skirt and school jumper from their earlier “football” outing—American football, and not the “soccer” Isabel had envisioned. The turkey was carved by Jacob’s stepfather.

  Then, as Jacob had described to her, they passed side dishes of mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce, gravy and buttered rolls. Isabel was given to understand that Jacob’s mum had prepared it all herself, refusing any help. She must have worked in the kitchen for days, Isabel decided. She hadn’t had the chance to talk much alone with Jacob’s mum, since Jacob had timed their arrival so precisely that as soon as they’d taken off their coats, they were hustled to their places for the meal.

  Still, it was quite apparent to Isabel that Jacob was protective of his mum. He sat next to her, with Isabel on the other side of him. She sensed an undercurrent of tension in the room. Not a lot of the conversation was directed his way, but Isabel easily fielded questions and brought him into the fold where she could. It seemed sad to her, really. His family were lovely people, and she hadn’t quite figured out the dynamics at play.

  “Did your team win their match?” Isabel asked Emily, who’d alternated between helping her mother ferry serving dishes to the table and ignoring the conversation in favor of silently watching the interplay between her and Jacob.

  “Match,” chortled Zach, the youngest brother. He was a skinny lad who’d had to be told to turn off his mobile phone at the table. Still, he kept it between his thigh and the chair, glancing down at it every now and then.

  Emily elbowed him. “Don’t be rude.”

  “It’s all right.” Isabel laughed at herself. “Sorry, I meant game.”

  “Emily doesn’t know the difference between offense and defense,” Danny, the older brother, teased.

  “They lost. That’s all that counts.” Emily stopped pouting and gazed at Isabel. “You don’t have Thanksgiving in your country, do you?”

  There was a slight silence at the table. Emily seemed mortified. She put her hand over her mouth and went pale, glancing quickly at her mum.

  Isabel felt sorry for Emily. She supposed that Jacob’s family were aware that she was Scottish, but it seemed nobody wanted to pick at that scab. Jacob had put his fork down and was observing his mum, who said nothing. There was a sort of tug-of-war at work, but Isabel was just getting bits and pieces of what it all meant.
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  Isabel smiled at Emily. She had seen the frowns around the table. She could go with it, do what they wanted and brush off the question. But she looked at Emily and decided to be kind to her.

  It was very odd. Emily reminded her of herself at that age. Indulged by her father. Watching him watching her.

  “We have harvest festivals near Edinburgh in October and November, but not a formal holiday. Right about now, the Christmas decorations are going up. It’s my favorite time of year. The New Year’s holiday is big, too. We call it Hogmanay.”

  “Hogmanay.” Zach laughed.

  Isabel could feel eyes boring into her head, but she kept her gaze on Emily. “Which holiday do you like best?”

  “Christmas is my favorite, too,” Emily said. She glanced to her father. “Can we get a Christmas tree on Saturday?”

  “Sure,” he said. “We can do that.”

  Emily seemed to relax. “I’ll take the plates out to the kitchen.” She nudged Zach. “Come help me.”

  “I’ll help you.” Jacob scraped back his chair. He gave Isabel a grateful smile on his way out to the kitchen.

  * * *

  ISABEL WAS DOING what she did best, smoothing the way for everybody else. Jacob saw it. It made him ache for her. It made him ashamed of himself. It made him want to stop the pretense and tell her the truth.

  “I like her,” Emily said to Jacob as she came into the empty kitchen carrying piles of dirty plates.

  He’d turned on the faucet and was rinsing the plates over the running garbage disposal. Back in the family room, he’d made sure Zach was showing Isabel how to play some computer game, and she was enthusiastically occupied.

  She was curious about the world, he thought. Everything she touched turned golden and successful.

  Him? He was usually reserved. Concerned about protecting other people from pain. Maybe he was tired of it.

  “Jacob, did you hear me?” Emily waved her hand in front of his face.

  “I like her, too,” he said, putting the stopper in the sink and squeezing some dishwashing liquid under the running water. His mom didn’t like to put her fine china into the dishwasher. She insisted that it be washed by hand so as not to dull the gold detail in the pattern. Idly, he flicked a finger over a flaw on the top plate.

  Emily tied her frizzy blond hair into a ponytail. “I like Isabel better than Rachel, that’s for sure.”

  He thought about keeping silent but decided he didn’t want to any longer. “Ah...how much do you know about what happened?”

  “I was a junior bridesmaid, remember? I was there. I saw it.”

  Ouch. He’d forgotten that. “Yeah, well, I was kind of in shock, so I probably didn’t react in the best way.”

  “Don’t worry. I thought Rachel was the one who was the jerk.”

  He’d been thinking about that lately. At the time, he’d pretty obviously blamed everything on Rachel. But these past few weeks with Isabel...

  All the talking they did on the phone—initiated more on Isabel’s end, but he was participating, too—had opened his eyes. “Nah, she probably had her reasons for calling it off,” he said.

  “She shouldn’t have left you. She should have stayed and fixed it.”

  “She didn’t like that I work so much,” he said.

  “I don’t think so. It’s that you never smile or have any fun.”

  “That’s what you think?” With a flick of his fingers, he playfully splashed some water at her.

  She giggled and jumped away from the sink. “Did you bring your gun with you?”

  “My service weapon? No, I did not.”

  “Good.” She thought for a moment. “Does Isabel know about it?”

  “She does.”

  “Does she know that Mom was born in Scotland?”

  “Yes.” He was proud to say it.

  “And does she know that we’re half siblings?”

  He sighed, but nodded. “She sure does.”

  Emily sighed, too. “Good. I think it’s important you tell her the truth. That’s what I would want if I were her.” She cocked her head. “Will we see her again, do you think?”

  He knew better than to get her hopes up. “No, unfortunately, she’s going back home at the end of her classes.”

  Emily stopped stacking plates in the sudsy dishwater and crossed her arms. “You don’t know that for sure yet.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well, if you don’t tell her that you like her then you’re lying to her by omission, right? And if you lie to her for too long, you’ll definitely lose her. She’ll run away screaming, trust me. And you don’t want that, right, Jacob?”

  Isabel came into the room still laughing from the game in the den. Her face was lit, her eyes bright.

  “What are you two talking about?” Isabel asked, looking from Emily to Jacob.

  Jacob sat on the stool his mother used to stir her sauces over the stove. It had just hit him upside the head, but the sixteen-year-old was right.

  He needed to tell Isabel the truth. If he didn’t, he was an even bigger jerk to her than he thought Alex had been.

  So what was he going to do about it?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JACOB RUBBED THE heels of his hands against his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Isabel asked, leaning over the kitchen island. “You look a little green.”

  He opened his eyes to see Emily standing beside Isabel, making faces at him that Isabel couldn’t see.

  Jacob slowly straightened from the stool. “No, I’m not okay. I have to tell you something. My father...my real father...was killed in action when I was young. That’s what I want you to know. I don’t want you to hear it from anyone else.”

  “Oh,” Isabel said. Her eyes softened as if she was saddened by what he was saying.

  “His name was Donald Ross.” He waited for her to make the connection between that name and her family history, but she just looked at him with kind eyes as if she felt empathy for him.

  “I’m sorry. My father died unexpectedly, too,” she said, her voice gentle. “I can only imagine how that would have affected you as a young boy.”

  “Yeah, it ripples through everything,” he agreed. “Even when you don’t think it should.”

  He glanced at Emily, and realized he was saying this as much to her as he was to Isabel. Emily just bit her lip and stared at him.

  “So, if your father was killed in action...then he was in the military?” Isabel asked.

  “No, he was in law enforcement. He was a police officer.”

  “Oh,” Isabel said. Her eyes grew huge. “Oh.” Maybe now she would understand. Jacob welcomed more questions—he was tired of silence. He looked to both her and Emily, but neither said a word.

  For Emily’s part, though, her crushed expression said it all. As she gazed at him with her big eyes, Jacob doubted she’d known these details. He had to fight not to turn away. Other than that one blowup about it he’d caused years ago, there had been nothing but silence on the subject since then. Too many adults flinching from questions asked. From Emily’s perspective, likely all she’d known was that their mother didn’t want Jacob working with guns.

  Isabel glanced at Jacob’s waist, where he usually kept his service weapon, his radio and his handcuffs. He was pretty sure that she still didn’t entirely understand what was going on, either. She really had no idea of the scope of the secret he’d been keeping from her.

  One step at a time. Isabel needed to know how he felt about her, first and foremost. He cared too much about her to “lie by omission” anymore, as Emily had put it.

  “Em, I’m gonna take a walk with Isabel now. You and I will talk later. Is that okay with you?”

  His sister nodded vigorously at him, still g
ripping a plate she’d been in the process of settling into the dishwater.

  Make her stay, she mouthed, pointing to Isabel again, behind her back. Maybe she was anxious for happy endings. When he was her age, he’d wanted to make the world right, too, whatever that took.

  Jacob’s way had been to let his mom go to her new family, while he focused on becoming a cop. Emily seemed to hover, sensitively observing and directing what was going on. He understood, because at one time, he’d been similarly affected. His brothers didn’t seem to be as sensitive.

  Maybe they coped with their mom’s sadness and refusal to talk in other ways. Or maybe they took it as normal.

  Jacob smiled at Emily. He would call her later. Daniel and Mom might be angry at him for talking to her about it, but Jacob was simply tired. Tired of the lies. Tired of the omissions. He wasn’t protecting anyone by staying away. Not any longer.

  He went to the closet and handed Isabel her coat, and he put on his own, too. He’d been wearing the Black Watch scarf she’d bought him everywhere, even to work. The name—Black Watch—and the history made him feel like a professional protector. That Isabel had been inspired to give it to him made him feel a little bit loved.

  He led her out the sliding-glass door and down the stairs of the wooden deck, then past the backyard pool area. The aboveground pool was covered with a black tarp. A puddle of stagnant rainwater had settled on top. In just a few weeks it would be frozen solid.

  He took Isabel’s hand—cold, so he rubbed it in his—and they walked toward an old snowmobile path he’d found one Thanksgiving, years ago, when he’d felt alienated and had wanted some time to himself.

  The faintly trod path wound about a hundred yards through a meadow, and then veered to a stand of trees. Both he and Isabel were silent, the sound of their footsteps kicking up dried leaves and crunching the occasional fallen twigs.

  She squeezed his hand and veered closer to him, smiling in question, clearly not sure what this walk was about. He knew he needed to start talking because it was time she heard the truth.