Doon

by Carey Corp

  “Okay, bye.” Click.

  I stood absolutely still and stared out at the swaying trees, every muscle in my body tensed against the emotion ballooning in my chest. Was it possible that anyone on this earth would ever love me enough to care about what I wanted, instead of plowing ahead with their plans and leaving me behind to pick up the pieces?

  “Vee, what is it?” Kenna asked.

  I glanced over my shoulder, realizing that Ally was still in the room. She didn’t need to see how pathetic my life was—if she hadn’t figured it out already. Trying to sound nonchalant, I answered, “Mom’s getting married and it looks like I’m homeless.”

  “Oh no! Not Bob the Slob?”

  “Yeah—the one and only.” I glanced at Kenna only to see my own hurt and betrayal reflected in her face. I attempted a smile but failed miserably. “I’ll be all right, but I’m really tired. Think I’ll lie down for a bit.”

  Allyson’s honey brows scrunched over her perfect nose as she clucked sympathetically from the doorway. “You poor thing. A good rest is exactly what you need. Tomorrow you’ll be right as rain. You’ll see.”

  With a nod at Kenna, she added in a lower voice, “I’ll just show m’self out.”

  We listened in silence as Ally’s retreating footsteps echoed down the stairs and out the front door. The cottage suddenly felt oppressive, tainted by Janet’s selfishness despite the ocean between us. Why had I thought coming to Scotland would change anything?

  When Kenna finally spoke, her voice trembled. “Vee … you know you can always come to Chicago with me.”

  I held up my hand to stop her words before we both ended up bawling like babies. “Can you give me a few minutes … please?”

  “Sure thing, sweetie.”

  Watching the sun’s retreat across the unfamiliar landscape, I waited until Kenna left before letting my head rest against the cool pane of the window.

  I felt like a beach ball tossed around by the whims of everyone around me. Eric decided when our relationship was over, Mom packed up my crap as if it’d been my choice to move out, Dad left without asking if I would’ve rather gone with him, and although Kenna asked me to go to Chicago, that was her dream, not mine. I was sick to death of other people dictating my future.

  When would it be time to find my destiny?

  The sun had nearly set, and I squinted to discern the view against the fading light. Past a clump of overgrown trees, the sapphire river flowed through the lush, green valley and disappeared under a sliver of arching gray stone.

  As I stared, the awareness of a presence in the room raised goose bumps on my arms. Icy cold shot down my spine, followed by a rush of hot blood to my face. Someone stood inches behind me. The boy who’d been haunting my every waking hour was with me—I could feel him.

  A shadowy reflection materialized above mine in the window—dark, intense eyes, golden brows, and strong, full lips. Fighting the urge to turn around, I stood petrified—afraid he would actually be there, and terrified he would not.

  “Verranica.”

  My eyes widened in shock as the deep timbre of his voice flowed through me. His mouth hadn’t moved.

  “Ye dinna need to be afraid of me.”

  Afraid? I wasn’t sure what I felt, but I didn’t fear him. “Who are you?” The words escaped my lips in a strangled whisper.

  “James Thomas Kellan MacCrae.” White teeth flashed in a cocky grin as his image became clearer. “Or ye can call me Jamie, if ye like.”

  “Are you … real?”

  “Aye.”

  Slowly, I lifted my trembling fingers to the cool glass. In our reflection, his large hand moved to cover mine. And I felt it—a whisper of energy against my flesh.

  “Verranica …” His soft brogue stretched my name into a caress laced with longing.

  Suddenly, his image began to recede toward the river, and he reached for me as we drifted farther apart. Swirls of mist enveloped the stone path beneath his feet, winding their way up his body. “Come to me …”

  I stumbled forward and pressed against the glass. I could no longer feel him. “Wait!”

  The door swung open behind me, breaking the spell. The boy vanished. I whirled to find Kenna walking into the room.

  “Are you searching for something?”

  My pulse fluttered like hummingbird wings, and I gripped the window ledge behind me as I swayed on my feet. What the heck had just happened? If I was losing my mind, it was a pleasant way to go. But a deep instinct told me I hadn’t invented Jamie MacCrae in my head. He might be a ghost, perhaps, but definitely not a psychotic delusion. Wait, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Did I?

  Remembering Kenna had asked me a question I grunted, “Huh?”

  “I thought you might’ve been searching for the bridge.”

  “What bridge?”

  “The Brig o’ Doon.” Kenna drew out the last word with a perfect Scottish brogue, sending tingles skittering over my shoulders. “It’s Alloway’s most famous landmark.”

  The gray arch I could see from my window was the Brig o’ Doon? I spun around and strained my eyes through the looming darkness … wondering if it resembled the stone pathway from my vision. “Can we walk down there?”

  “Sure, but not tonight. There’s a trail from the backyard, but the caretaker, Mrs. Dell, warned me before we arrived that it’s badly overgrown. No sense breaking a leg our first night here. Get it? Break a leg?”

  Kenna’s drama club pals back home would’ve appreciated the joke, but I couldn’t even muster a chuckle. I shoved my hands in my pockets to hide their shaking, and turned from the window to see Kenna analyzing me, her head cocked to one side. “Are you okay?”

  I stared at her for a moment, considering if I should tell her about the visions … or hauntings … or whatever. Instead, my brain circled back to the arch of ancient-looking stones I’d seen and the possible connection to the actual bridge outside my window. “So, why is the Brig o’ Doon famous?” I was pleased my voice only sounded a few octaves higher than normal.

  “Uh, Brigadoon!” At my lack of recognition, she added, “The musical by the immortal Lerner and Loewe?”

  She hummed a haunting melody as she ran her fingers along my stack of books, knocking them over like dominos, and then turned to me expectantly. “Surely you recognize ‘Almost Like Being in Love.’”

  “Nope.” She’d made me watch so many musicals over the years … I certainly couldn’t remember them all. I pressed my lips together and shook my head as I walked over to the dresser and righted my precious tomes, glancing at my copy of Oliver Twist. That musical I remembered, due to its grievous omission of the character Monks.

  Kenna rolled her eyes. “You researched Alloway, right? Robert Burn’s poem, The Tam o’ Shanter, is set on the Brig o’ Doon. That ring a bell?”

  “Of course. I just didn’t realized that the Brig o’ Doon was so close to the cottage.” It’s not like any of the roads we’d traveled had been straight. However, the more I thought about it, I did remember her telling me something a long time ago about a bridge near her aunt’s and a dark-haired boy with a brogue that used to call to her. “Didn’t your imaginary friend live under that bridge?”

  Kenna snorted. “Not under the bridge—he wasn’t the troll from The Three Billy Goats Gruff. Finn lived on it. I can’t believe you remembered that.”

  It was a random thing to remember … or was it? What were the odds that both she and I imagined Scottish boys standing on an ancient stone path and calling for us to come? One in a million?

  “Vee …” Kenna stalked toward me with narrowed eyes. “You’re doing that twisty thing with your hair. I can read you like a script, remember? What’s really going on?”

  Not realizing I’d been tying my hair into a knot, I lowered my hands and pushed out a loud breath. It had always been hard to keep secrets from the girl who knew me better than anyone on the planet. “Remember when I asked if you’d seen that hot blond guy in the kilt earlier?”
r />   “Yesss …”

  “Well, I … ah … keep seeing him … everywhere. The same gorgeous boy in a kilt. Even once in Bainbridge, right after I broke up with Eric.” I slumped back against the dresser and stared at my cuticles. It sounded even more insane when I said it aloud. But if I was going to tell her, I might as well tell her everything. “He was here just now. Before you came in, and he … ah … talked to me.”

  “Really? You know what my dad would say, don’t you?”

  I shook my head. Kenna’s dad taught undergraduate psychology. Growing up, he’d had a psychological reason for everything, even why my dad walked out on us. Kenna crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, staring up at me with grave eyes. “He’d say ‘Kilt Boy’ is your anti-Eric.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s your knight in shining armor. The perfect boy. Someone heroic who’d never choose their own interests ahead of yours.” Her fingers absently brushed the quilted fabric of the comforter as she continued. “Think about it. He conveniently shows up after Eric dumps you, then again after your mom chooses Bob the Slob. Doesn’t that seem a little bit convenient?”

  She had a point. He had a knack for appearing just as my life was turning upside down. “So I’m crazy? That’s the explanation?”

  She stood and bridged the gap between us in a couple strides. “Actually, you’re one of the sanest people I know. You’re probably just hungry, sweetie. And tired.”

  As if on cue, my tummy growled like a ferocious animal.

  “See?” Kenna patted me on the arm. “I’m sure you’ll feel better with a full belly and a good night’s sleep.”

  Maybe … but that place deep inside of me that insisted I wasn’t delusional didn’t buy into the imaginary hero theory either. But to convince Kenna that I wasn’t cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, I needed some kind of irrefutable proof.

  As I followed Kenna down the back stairs to the kitchen, my inner Nancy Drew went on full alert. I’d noticed tons of books in the library downstairs on Scots folklore and history. It seemed like the perfect place to start researching the mystery of the Vanishing Golden Boy. Besides, with the image of Jamie’s pleading eyes as he faded away burned in my brain, getting any sleep was highly doubtful.

  CHAPTER 3

  Mackenna

  Every truly happy memory from my childhood involved an old woman who dressed like a rainbow and the house she adored. I’d come to stay at Dunbrae Cottage the first time when I was six, right after my mom died. I remember living in a world enshrouded with grief, all drawn curtains and mourning clothes. Then Dad put me on a plane—alone—which was terrifying, except I did get as much soda as I could drink. After landing, I emerged from the breezeway to find an old lady wearing an emerald green dress and a fuchsia turban. Clutched in her hands was a sign that said “Welcome Mackenna” in pink glitter.

  She hugged me tight, smelling like lavender and arthritis cream, and whispered, “I’m so glad you’re here, sweetie.” Then she took me to the airport gift shop and bought me a pink plaid dress. Mostly, I remember laughing with her as we left my black clothes in the airport bathroom trash. That was the first of many joyous summers, filled with wonder and sparkles … Special Scottish seasons of love.

  As I walked through my aunt’s beloved cottage with my morning coffee, I indulged in my cherished memories—mornings spent journaling at the kitchen table, our afternoon sing-alongs in the dining room, and high tea in the living room, which Aunt Gracie always called “the parlor.”

  The wildly overgrown English-style garden, complete with croquet lawn and a bronze wall fountain in the shape of a lion’s head, held a particularly special place in my heart. After breakfast, my aunt would sketch while I picked armloads of fresh lavender for her special green vase. The one she kept in the library and claimed came from another world.

  As Gracie arranged the fragrant, purple flowers, she would tell the most amazing stories. My favorite was about an enchanted kingdom hidden away from evil witches in the mists of Scotland. Now as I admired the chaotic garden from the library windows, I questioned the wisdom of sharing Gracie’s stories with my best friend. My aunt always indulged my imagination, going as far as setting a place at the table for my imaginary guests. But what Vee needed was less fiction in her life, not more.

  I’d seen the haunted look in her eyes as she talked about Kilt Boy. Which made my decision as easy as an Andrew Lloyd Webber melody. My duty was to keep her from traveling farther down the yellow brick path of delusion … one that I knew from experience would inevitably end in misery and heartbreak. So I would not share any family tales of noble knights or fantastical kingdoms. I’d stick to practical traditions. Filling Gracie’s vase with lavender, minus the story of its origins, would still be a fitting tribute to the woman whose love had shaped the direction of my life and a perfect start to our epic summer.

  “Jamie—”

  Holy Hammerstein! I spun toward the noise, ready to scream as my vision focused on Vee fidgeting in her sleep in the oversized chair in the corner. She was surrounded by books—legends and histories of Scotland, and biographies on the local poet Robert Burns. Apparently Sleeping Beauty had a restless night. Whereas I’d slept like the dead.

  “Brig—Jamie. Stay.”

  Okay … that was random, and a little weird.

  Vee made a tiny mewling sound, like an anxious kitten. Concerned, I crept closer. Other than the noises, she looked fine. More than fine—she was flawless, even asleep. Dark, sleek hair framed her heart-shaped face. Black, fluttery lashes—the kind you only see in mascara ads—daintily rested against the curve of her cheeks. Vee was petite, too, with porcelain skin. Stuff all that into a size-too-small cheer skirt and she was a teen dream. She practically screamed popularity, while I was an ex-Goth, theater-geek Amazon voted most likely to have ketchup on my boobs. But I guess that’s what made the friendship unbreakable—counterbalance, not ketchup.

  As if she could sense me staring like some kind of deranged stalker, Vee’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal her confused, yet still brilliantly dazzling, turquoise eyes.

  She bolted to her feet, brushing silken strands of dark hair away from her face. How did she get it to look so shiny? Even in the midst of night terrors, she still looked like she’d stepped off the cover of Teen Vogue. I, on the other hand, was in jeopardy of being mistaken for an iconic hamburger clown.

  Vee turned in a disoriented half circle, blinking at the pile of books around her chair. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

  “Ya think?” She stilled and regarded me with a narrow gaze that dared me to continue cracking smart remarks. Geez, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Taking a more serious approach, I said, “You must’ve been having some dream. You were talking in your sleep and everything.”

  “I was?”

  “Yep. So who’s Jamie?”

  Her face paled as she sagged against the back of the chair for support. “Have you ever had a dream so real you weren’t sure if you were asleep or awake?”

  Vee’s voice sounded hollow, and I wondered what kind of crazy messed-up nightmares plagued her. “You mean good real … like when I’m playing Glinda in the Broadway revival of Wicked? ’Cause I dream about that at least once a week. Or bad real, like that time I got caught in the zombie apocalypse in my underwear?”

  Vee’s already pale face blanched ghostly proportions as she answered, “I don’t mean a dream exactly … More like a vision you see during the day—so rich and colorful, the person so real that you feel like they’ve been there all your life, only you just couldn’t see them before.”

  “Wait. Are we talking about Kilt Boy again?” When she nodded, I shoved my coffee into her trembling hands. She obviously needed it more than I did. What I needed was to tread carefully. Vee had the same haunted look from the previous evening. It was eerily similar to the phase where she saw her MIA dad around every corner and driving every passing car. “I think some people have more vivid imagi
nations than others. Aunt Gracie was like that. She used to capture all her dreams in a journal. Then in the margins, she would scribble all kinds of crazy notes.”

  “Journal? What did it look like?” She drained the coffee in one long gulp, set the mug on a nearby table, and crouched down to dig through the mound of books.

  “You expect me to describe it? I was eleven the last time I was here.”

  “Like this?” She stood, holding up a thick book of worn, dark brown leather. In the center, a Celtic knot-like heart bore the letters G. L. for Gracie Lockhart. Vee flipped it over, regarding the rawhide tie that fastened the flaps. “Wow, it looks really old.”

  “It might be.”

  Vee stood and walked over to the bay window, cradling the book like a wounded bird. “I could go through it … if you want. See if it contains anything important … give you the CliffsNotes … like when we were in school. I know how much you hate to read … unless it’s for a role. Which this isn’t.”

  I didn’t have to read her face to see through her act. She’d been a terrible liar when she’d tried the dog-ate-my-homework excuse on Mrs. Trimble in the third grade, and age hadn’t improved her performance skills. The babbling was a dead giveaway.

  She thought the journal had something to do with Kilt Boy. If I didn’t find some way to distract her from her new obsession, she’d spend the whole summer with her nose buried in my aunt’s journal and we’d never meet any actual boys in kilts. Feigning indifference, I held out my hand until she surrendered her treasure and made a show of flipping through the pages. “I’ll look through it. But I doubt it will make any sense—Gracie cornered the market on cryptic. I used to think she was wonderfully mysterious, like Norma Desmond.”

  “Who?”

  “Norma Desmond. From Sunset Boulevard?” My bestie shook her head blankly as I readied a smart remark. But the reply died on my lips when I realized she wasn’t paying attention to our conversation. Instead, she stared at the seven-by-five-inch volume of leather and paper like it contained the cure for cancer.