Where was Graham when she needed him? If he were here, she’d at least have somebody to talk to, a friend who’d listen while she griped, and a shoulder to lean on. And he could lean on hers, too.
She paced about, her emotions bouncing around like racquetballs, battering her insides. Each new thought of Graham caused another jolt. She needed sleep. Instead, she yanked her notebook from underneath the mattress, but found she’d filled it up. She dug out a new one.
Cait wrote down everything that had happened with Graham and Precious and Deydie. Cait was one of those journalists who had to put pen to paper before putting fingers to keyboard.
Her article about Graham had grown into a novella. She flipped through the pages, cringing, feeling awful about betraying him. But writing this story was her salvation, her way back to real journalism and her way out of her dead-end job of freelance editing. Wasn’t it more important that she recover her identity, her self, than for some bigwig actor to hide out? Yes. She’d submit the story to People magazine as promised, and then she’d be able to write her own ticket. Maybe get a regular feature in one of the big magazines.
She lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, the whole room accusing her of being a traitor and a weasel. The more she got to know Graham, the harder it became to separate her personal feelings for him from the business of selling his story. She rolled over and began sifting through her notes of what she’d learned about him so far.
She had a hard time reconciling the Graham she’d discovered here in Gandiegow with the one she’d seen on the big screen. He’d always stayed at arm’s length from the media, not a real person but a superstar living a charmed, glamorous life surrounded by a bevy of beauties—usually one on each arm and a few following behind. Here he was an everyday guy who loved his dog, cared for his neighbors, and hurt just like the rest of the world. Just like her.
Damn. It wasn’t as if she were one of those slimeballs who’d chased Princess Diana to her death. She’d just be letting the world in on where he hides out. Cait rammed the pages under her mattress and grabbed her coat. She had to get out of here and regain her journalistic perspective, take a walk and clear her head.
The late-afternoon wind barely registered as she tramped along, not getting perspective at all, but worrying about Graham’s grief. She found herself walking down the boardwalk, past the businesses, toward his home on the bluff. But outside Deydie’s house, her feet stopped.
No windows stood open this time, but there was a light on inside. Cait recalled Graham’s advice not to let Deydie be alone for too long. She looked out to the horizon for guidance.
It seemed more enticing to dunk herself in the wintery cold sea than to deal with her frosty grandmother right now.
She kicked a clump of snow. Graham was right. Deydie needed Cait whether the old woman knew it or not.
Cait knocked and waited, hearing slow shuffling steps on the other side of the door. When Deydie opened it, her gran had a crisp clean apron wrapped around her wide body, an irritated glower on her face, and a gleaming butcher knife in her hand.
Cait had seen this movie. It didn’t bode well for her, but she pressed her luck anyway. “Let me in. I’m not selling vacuum cleaners or encyclopedias.”
Her gran rolled her eyes and stood back, making room for Cait.
The first thing Cait noticed was a green-and-gold Christmas dish towel draped over her own sewing machine. For a moment, she felt her insides went marshmallowy, thinking her normally prickly gran had laid the towel there to protect her prized possession. When she turned to thank her gran, the frown inhabiting every nook and cranny of Deydie’s wrinkled face convinced Cait that first thoughts were deceiving.
Her grandmother laid down the knife and put her hands on her hips. “Are ye here to help or not?”
Silence ensued. Cait had no idea what Deydie wanted help with—doing away with one of the neighbors? Gingerly, Cait asked, “Are you feeling better this evening?”
Deydie’s jowls folded together, making a menacing grimace. “I don’t know what ye’re talking about.”
“This morning. Precious—”
Deydie grabbed the knife again and jabbed it into the butcher block. “Either help with the supper or go back to the pub.”
“Help,” Cait said. “I’m here to help.” She took her place at the table.
“Good. The chicken’s not going to cut itself up.” Deydie plopped a metal pan in front of Cait, a scrawny raw chicken lying inside.
Cait hadn’t touched a whole chicken since she’d last been in Scotland. Boneless, skinless breasts, perfectly carved and wrapped in plastic, had been the closest she’d gotten to poultry in close to two decades. She peeked at the bird in the pan. This one looked freshly dead, with a couple of feather shoots poking off the wings, the last remnants of life.
Cait stalled, going to the sink, desperately hoping to find a way to tell Deydie she didn’t know her way around a chicken. She’d have to be delicate about it or risk losing a wing herself.
“Hurry up. We need to eat before we go. The cookie exchange starts at seven.”
“Cookie exchange?” Cait asked.
“Aye. My quilting ladies have one every year at Christmastime.” Deydie went to the refrigerator and dug around.
“But I wasn’t invited.”
Deydie came out with a dozen leeks and a sack of onions, looking chagrined. “You were. I must’ve forgotten to tell ye. It’s at the twins’ house this year. Before you go arguing that ye have no cookies to bring, I’ve made yeres.” She straightened up her hunched shoulders. “No more talking. If that chicken isn’t in the pot in the next five minutes, ye’ll have to go on an empty stomach.” Her gran’s frown shifted upward for an instant, almost into a furtive smile.
Cait washed her hands and dried them. “About the chicken,” she hesitated. “I don’t exactly remember how, uh, to dismember one.”
With Deydie’s half smile gone, her frown reached new heights of scary. “Do ye not have birds in America?”
“Our chicken is prepackaged at the grocery store. Already cut up.”
Gracefully, Deydie grabbed the chicken by the back leg. In one smooth motion, she reached for the butcher knife, pulled it from the block, and sliced where the thigh met the body. With a snap, she cracked the thigh bone out of the socket and cut it off the carcass. With another precise placement of the blade, the thigh and leg fell away like friends who’d parted forever. She did the same with the other leg and went to work on the rest of the bird. Part butcher and part Iron Chef, Deydie had that chicken begging for mercy and in the pot within minutes.
Her gran looked up at her. “Chop the vegetables. Surely, they don’t have those prepackaged, now, do they?”
No way would Cait admit to buying precut vegetables back in the States. She picked up the paring knife and grabbed the leeks off the counter, settling herself at the table, near her gran. But not too near.
They both filled the cast-iron pot with their fare and then sat by the fire while it cooked. Cait wanted to ask her grandmother what she’d done today, how she’d passed the time, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. They sat for a long time with the only conversation between them bubbling in the cooking pot.
There was a knock at the door. Cait got up and answered it, expecting one of the quilting ladies. It was Graham.
He gave her a sad sort of smile. “Hallo,” he said.
Deydie shouted from her rocking chair, “I’m not heating the entire coast, Graham. Get yere arse in here.”
Cait waited for him to obey before asking, “How are you doing?”
He only nodded, as if the jury were still out on that one. He turned to Deydie. “I came to tell you I’m off to London for a few days. Can you watch things at the house?”
“Of course. I always do,” Deydie barked. She pushed out of her chair and shuffled to the refrige
rator, retrieving one of the baker’s boxes from the top. She gave it to Graham. “Some Christmas shortbread for the trip.”
“Thanks. I do love your shortbread.” Graham gave her a peck on the cheek.
She batted him away. “Off with ye.”
Cait couldn’t believe the things Graham got away with. Deydie would’ve taken the butcher knife after her if she’d tried to give her a kiss.
As Deydie made her way back to her rocking chair, Graham and Cait had a scrap of privacy.
“Did you stay busy today?” she asked.
“I put up Duncan’s tree. Then, Mattie and I went to the store and bought candy canes.” Instead of Graham looking like he’d had some early Christmas cheer, he seemed bone weary. He might as well have been grave digging all day.
She wanted to reach out and take his hand but couldn’t with Deydie only a few feet away. “Will you stay for dinner? I’m sure there’s plenty, and Deydie won’t mind.”
“Can’t. The helicopter’s on its way. I’ve already said goodbye to Duncan and Mattie.” Graham directed his next comment to Deydie. “Can you check in on Duncan while I’m gone?”
Cait piped in first. “I can do it.”
Deydie growled at her. “Do ye believe me not capable?”
Cait cowed. “What I mean is that I’ll help. You do so much already.” Why did her gran always think the worst of her?
“I really appreciate it.” Graham surprised Cait by taking her hand and squeezing it. He gave her a killer smile, looking as genuine as the Rolex on his wrist.
A rush of gooey warmth flooded her, melting her, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d dissolved into a squidgy puddle on Deydie’s clean floor. Cait had the urge to recite poetry. Cuddle by a romantic fire. Walk hand in hand forever.
Ridiculous drivel. Those thoughts were completely nonsensical. She didn’t trust men. Didn’t believe that the whole lot of them could be depended upon for anything. Especially to be loyal and faithful. It was stupid to get caught up in Graham’s spell. He didn’t mean anything by squeezing her hand or GQ-smiling at her, except maybe a little gratitude for her offer of help. She couldn’t afford to be dumb enough to put her heart in danger again, chance getting it sliced up into pieces, just like Deydie’s scrawny chicken.
Cait dislodged her hand from his. “Don’t mention it.”
He ran his hand through his hair, hesitated for a moment, then slipped a key into her hand. “It’s to my house,” he murmured. “The electric at the pub is atrocious. You probably have a laptop or cell phone that needs charging. Come and go as you please.”
She frowned at him. Did he always go around giving his key to someone he just met? She could be with the paparazzi for all he knew, could take advantage of this situation.
She peered at the floor, the thought hitting her like a story hitting the presses. Two days alone at his mansion. At liberty to ransack his place, dig up all sorts of dirt.
Excitement pumped through her veins. She could investigate the things readers really wanted to know—skeletons in the closet, hinky old tax returns, and of course, the answer to the age-old question: Boxers or briefs?
He tipped her chin up and looked her straight in the eye. “Stay there. The pub is loud and cold. The alarm code for the house is seven one one. No one here would ever try to break in, but I worry about the press finding me.” He did it again, that troubled expression crossing his face. “It’s the least I can do for you. For all you’ve done for me and Precious and for offering to help my family.” It sounded more like, I’d better not regret trusting you.
Guilt washed over her, but she tried to keep it from engulfing her face. She took the key. The way he stared at her lips made her wonder if, or worry that, he might kiss her there and then. But he snapped out of it quick enough when Deydie unceremoniously cleared her throat.
“I’ll be off.” He turned and was gone.
When Cait returned to her rocking chair, Deydie was eyeing her like an ace detective. “What was all that? My ears might be old, but I’m not deaf.”
“It was nothing.” But it was. Cait would stay at Graham’s. She’d get her story, guilt be damned. After a time, the townsfolk would forgive her for exposing their favorite son to the world. They’d see that one little story wouldn’t change anything. It’d be a big deal for all of two days; then Gandiegow would be back to normal.
Wouldn’t it?
* * *
Holding the box of shortbread close to him, Graham walked toward the beach as the helicopter drew nearer. He almost hadn’t given Caitie his house key, feeling a twinge of guilt about the surveillance cameras he had up and running. But he had to know. He’d find out once and for all if he could trust Caitie Macleod.
Trust was key. If he could trust her, everything would fall into place. Caitie would make a good wife—for Duncan, of course.
The helicopter blades beat the wind into a fury, the latest snow flying all around him. He did know one thing for sure about Caitie. Most people didn’t see him for him. His fans saw him only as a cutout from a movie poster. The London and Hollywood crowds saw his fame and fortune. Gandiegow saw him as their favorite son.
But not Caitie.
Caitie saw him.
He wouldn’t let himself go there. He didn’t need a relationship. His chest hurt just considering it. Besides, Duncan needs someone more than I do. But something niggled at him just the same.
Ah, hell. He just might want to keep Caitie Macleod for himself.
Chapter Seven
Cait adjusted the large box holding all of the cookie exchange containers and tromped behind Deydie in the snow. “You really should hold on to my arm for support,” she hollered.
Deydie kept right on walking. “Mind yere own business, city girl. I’m doing just fine up here.”
As if her gran had willed it, Cait slipped and shuffled. Deydie harrumphed, and for a second Cait wondered if her gran wouldn’t stand there and watch as she dropped everything. But then Deydie helped her get the big box settled.
Cait glanced over at her as they continued on. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with eight dozen cookies.”
“You have friends, don’t ye? Send them back to the States.”
Cait wouldn’t tell her the truth. She had nobody. Under the weight of Tom’s demands, she had let her friendships slide away into nothingness. How stupid that had been. What the hell had she been thinking?
They stopped in front of a two-story stone house, one of the larger ones in town.
Deydie held up a gnarly hand. “A word of warning about the twins. They’re a mite strange, but good quilters.”
They didn’t have to knock. The door flew open, and Christmas music floated into the air. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
“Glory be, the newcomer is here,” said one of the two women at the door. She was wearing a goofy smile, a green plaid wool dress, and an elf hat on top of her 1960s bouffant. “Come in.”
“Come in,” the other one parroted, looking identical in features and wearing a matching red plaid dress and a red elf hat.
They ushered Cait in, one taking the big box, the other peeling off her coat. The twins were a bit overwhelming for Cait. She looked to Deydie for buoyancy, but her gran just ignored her.
“I’m Ailsa and this is my sister, Aileen.” The first twin extended her hand to Cait. “We’re Harry Elliot’s nieces. He left us the—”
“House, when he passed ten years ago,” Aileen finished.
Cait imprinted their names and their dress color to memory. Ailsa green. Aileen red.
The two matronly twins pressed close to Cait while a third woman hung back in the hallway.
Ailsa green grabbed Cait’s arm and pulled her forward, more toward the heart of the house. “This is Moira. She said you might remember her.” Ailsa green turned back to the shy, mou
sy woman. “You said you were, what, two years younger than Caitie Macleod?”
“Aye.” Moira looked down at her boots.
Cait recalled her from school—a tall, plain girl who was so shy she would never meet anyone’s gaze. Cait didn’t know if small talk would make Moira more comfortable or if ignoring her altogether would be better. “It’s good to see you,” she tried.
No response, as if her shyness had powers of its own, weighing her eyes down, keeping them glued to the floor.
Cait tried again. “It’s been a long time. What have you been up to?”
“Up to?” Deydie snarled as she took off her coat, her pitch rising with each word. “She’s been a dutiful daughter, taking care of her sick da. That’s what she’s been up to.”
Moira’s cheeks turned a deep red, darker than the Turkey Red quilt on the wall.
Cait’s gut took the punch of Deydie’s message. Cait—not devoted like Moira. Cait—neglectful of her family, just like her da.
Bethia made her way into the hallway and took Deydie’s coat. Her kind eyes met Cait’s. “Moira’s mama had an accident and left us three years ago. Last May, Moira’s da got his leg caught in the fishing lines. They had to take it off. He fights infection to this day.”
The Christmas music was now playing in the background. “Silent Night” might have been soothing, but to Cait it felt like she’d climbed into a fricking nightmare. Gandiegowans led a hard life of death, illness, and obligation.
“Da is better today,” Moira offered, fumbling with a length of garland.
“You’re a good girl, Moira.” Deydie patted her. “God be with ye and yeres.” She gave her a wink. “Now, help me find the whiskey.” She toddled off with Moira leading the way.
To Scotland With Love Page 7