To Scotland With Love

by Patience Griffin

  The puppy nuzzled his arm.

  “Of course you do.” Graham scratched him behind his ears. “What I’m afraid of, little fellow, is that God doesn’t bargain with mere mortals.” He stretched out in front of the fire, and the dog cuddled into his chest.

  Cait felt limp, her anger now only a memory, drained away into nothingness. And in its place was pain. She ached for Graham and what he was going through. Quietly, she backed up and went down the bluff to Deydie’s. When she got there, she pulled out the trundle and fell into it. If she were lucky, she’d sleep through the New Year.

  But for a long time she lay awake, her brain unable to switch off. Over and over, she replayed making love to Graham, still able to feel his kisses and caresses on her frustrated body. She tried working up a little regret for what had happened, but it wouldn’t come.

  * * *

  The next morning, when Cait woke, Deydie was sitting at the dining room table with a pad and paper in front of her.

  Cait rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What are you up to?”

  “It’s for Duncan and Mattie. A schedule for everyone to follow. Ye better get yereself up and dressed. You’re off to put Duncan’s house in order.”

  Cait rolled out of bed and went to the list. The whole village, not just the quilting ladies, were scheduled for cleaning, cooking, and shopping. Plus Duncan’s boat duties were divvied up among the fishermen.

  “Have you ever thought about a career in logistics?” asked Cait.

  “Stop yere yabbering and get going. I’ll need you to post this at the store on yere way to Duncan’s,” Deydie said. “Graham’s off to Italy this afternoon.”

  Cait stopped short. “I thought he canceled his engagements.”

  “He did try. But if he doesn’t make this movie, he’ll be sued. The bastards,” Deydie muttered. “He said he won’t be gone long.”

  “Oh.” Cait plopped down at the table.

  Deydie got her coat. “I need to get going now. I have to make sure his things are washed and ready for his trip.”

  Irrationally, Cait wanted to be the one helping Graham instead of her grandmother. And how come Deydie knew what he was up to and Cait didn’t?

  Her rational brain answered that one. Because it’s none of your business. And in his eyes, you don’t count. Not a shilling.

  Unbidden, her womanly bits squeezed in delicious remembrance of what they’d done last night. She blocked the thought. She’d known at the time it didn’t mean anything. She had just better get over what little crush she had on him and stop thinking about his manly parts and how he wielded them.

  “Snap out of it,” Deydie barked. “Ye’ve work to do.”

  As nonchalantly as she could, Cait dared to ask, “How long will Graham be gone?”

  Deydie glared at her. “I’ve been crystal clear about Graham from the get-go. You’re not to get involved with him.”

  “I’m only asking for Duncan and Mattie’s sake.”

  “And I’m a bluidy movie star.” Deydie bent her head and added one more thing to the list. “Graham should be done in four weeks. At the latest, he’ll be back for the Valentine’s Day Céilidh. Now, stop asking questions and get cracking.”

  “Fine.” Cait pushed herself out of the chair, accepting she wouldn’t see Graham again until the village dance and celebration.

  “Wait,” Deydie said. “Do you know anything about a load of groceries delivered to Kenneth and Moira? It’s enough to feed them for a month or more.”

  Cait struck an innocent pose. “Not a clue. What good fortune for them, though.”

  Deydie eyed her closely. “Aye, good fortune, indeed.”

  Cait did as she was told—dressed, went to Duncan’s, and got busy cleaning the house. She hadn’t been there long when the phone rang. Duncan was in bed, so she answered it.

  The line was silent for a moment. Finally, Graham spoke. “Is that you, Caitie?”

  “Aye. And what’s it to you?”

  Another long silence. “I wanted to talk to Duncan about Mattie. Can you put him on?”

  Trying to ignore Graham’s smooth-as-butter voice, Cait became as professional as an executive secretary. “I’m sorry. Duncan’s not available right now.” Like he was in a meeting or something.

  “What do you mean, not available?” Graham demanded.

  Cait gave up and sat down in the chair by the phone. “He’s resting.”

  “What are you doing there, then?”

  “Scullery maid,” she explained. “Deydie’s orders.”

  “Maybe it’s good I got you instead of Duncan.” He had the nerve to speak to her like she was his confidante. “I’m worried about leaving him. And dammit, I don’t know what to do.” Graham breathed heavily. “I’m going to call Sid to see if the shoot can be postponed.”

  “Don’t do that,” Cait said, trying to calm him down. “Deydie has it all worked out. A master list. Everyone’s going to pitch in.”

  Graham gave an exasperated sigh. “What about the nights, though? What if Duncan gets ill with only Mattie there with him?”

  “I can stay with them,” she offered. For Duncan and Mattie’s sake.

  “There’s not enough room at Duncan’s house. You know that. If only he’d listen to reason and stay up here on the bluff. There’s plenty of room for several people to be here at all times. But when I suggested it, he went a little crazy.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Cait said, even though it would once again put her in the middle of the Buchanan feud.

  “Would you?” Graham sounded anxious.

  “If I can’t convince him, I’m sure he’ll listen to Deydie and her broom.”

  He sighed in relief. “Thank you. You’ve taken a great weight off my shoulders.”

  “Yeah, I’m a regular Atlas,” she said dryly.

  He chuckled. “Caitie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to miss that sharp tongue of yours.”

  “You sure know how to sweet-talk a gal,” she shot back before hanging up the phone.

  Damn. She shook her head in disgust. A few well-placed words from him and he had her wanting him again.

  * * *

  That afternoon, without too much of a fight, they got Duncan moved up into the big house. It didn’t take as much persuading as Cait had thought. He seemed to have reasoned it out for himself.

  Deydie had Dougal move Cait’s things up to the big house as well.

  “One of us has to stay up here,” her gran said. “And it can’t be me. That damn mattress in the guest bedroom was stitched together by the devil himself. You go and be my eyes and ears when I’m not there.”

  To Cait’s surprise, Graham hadn’t left yet. As she put her things away, Graham was across the hall packing for his Italy trip. When she finished, she peeked in on him. His inner glow, that special quality that made Graham the man that he was, seemed to have dimmed at the prospect of leaving Gandiegow and his son.

  Cait leaned against the doorjamb. “I promise we’ll take good care of them both.”

  He didn’t look up. “I’m counting on it.”

  “One of us will call if anything changes,” she added.

  He did look up then, pinning her to where she stood. “It’ll be you. I know you’ll cut through the bullshit and tell me the truth.”

  She saluted him. “Always at your service.”

  Her quip didn’t stop the sizzle he’d sent through her.

  He’d made it clear he didn’t want a relationship. She didn’t want one either. Unfortunately, she was weak. So weak. She wanted him. Just one more time. One more walk in the orchard before he left. Let him pick her peaches until she was bare.

  Her face went warm and she turned away.

  He came up behind her. “Are you all right, Caitie?”

  His
breath on her neck made her tingle even more.

  “Absolutely,” she said and walked quickly from the room.

  Within the hour, Graham was gone. And the house, though crawling with helpful Gandiegowans, felt desolate.

  * * *

  The next morning, a large helicopter landed on the beach. Three doctors and two nurses disembarked, toting various medical equipment. Duncan called Graham and gave his da an earful. Cait overheard, as did the rest of village, no doubt. In the end, Duncan acquiesced, letting the medical entourage stick him with needles, prod him with instruments, and bugger the hell out of him with questions. By early evening, the doctors and nurses had left the village the way they’d come.

  “Deydie,” Duncan said from Graham’s recliner in the media room. “Harpoon the next helicopter that tries to land.”

  “What if it’s yere da returning?” Deydie asked.

  “Then definitely shoot it down.” Duncan laid his head back and closed his eyes.

  Mattie climbed up on his lap and laid his head against Duncan’s chest.

  Cait’s cell phone rang. It was Graham.

  “Is Duncan resting?” he asked.

  “Who is it?” Duncan called out with his eyes still shut.

  “Now’s not a good time,” Cait whispered into the phone. “The weather’s still a little testy.”

  “Then go into the other room. I need to talk to you,” Graham said.

  Cait strolled out of the room, putting her hand over the phone. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Duncan.

  “Tell Da I said to sod off,” Duncan called.

  “I heard that,” Graham replied.

  “Oh, good grief.” She leaned against the wall just outside the room. “Why are you calling me?”

  “I don’t want to disturb Duncan while he’s resting,” he said.

  “And it’s okay to disturb me with this bickering back and forth? You two are like a couple of old women,” she carped.

  “You can expect a lot of calls from me. Now, tell me, how did it go with the doctors?”

  “I don’t know. They wanted to talk to Duncan alone, so Deydie and I took Mattie for a walk.”

  Duncan hollered from the other room, “Tell him to mind his own business.”

  “Did you get that?” she asked Graham.

  “Tell him it’ll never happen,” Graham said.

  “I’m not your mediator. Do you want to talk to Duncan yourself?” she challenged.

  Graham’s voice softened. “No. I want to talk to you.”

  If she didn’t know better, she might’ve sworn she heard a hidden meaning in Graham’s words: I need you. Hearing your voice makes me feel better. She shook her head, erasing that ridiculous thought from her addled brain.

  “Why did you do it?” she asked, trying to change the subject. “Why did you send those physicians here? You were with Duncan in Aberdeen. You knew the diagnosis was correct.”

  “I needed the top experts to take a look at him. And because Mohammed wouldn’t go to the mountain, I brought the mountain to Mohammed.”

  “The only thing you succeeded in doing is pissing Mohammed off. He’s worn-out,” she added.

  Graham cut her off. “I’m sorry for that. Hey, I’ve got to go. I’m getting a call. It’s probably the doctors.”

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead.” But he’d already hung up.

  That night, Mattie and Dingus went to bed with Duncan, but soon afterward, Cait found Dingus asleep in the middle of Graham’s bed again. She lay down next to him and scratched his ears.

  “Are you missing your master?” she asked the puppy.

  He sleepily licked her nose and shut his eyes. She wanted to say, Me too, but she wouldn’t allow herself. And to counteract her longing for the master of the house, she tried to focus on her mission—finishing the story on Graham Buchanan, movie star.

  But of course she couldn’t ransack Graham’s house with Duncan ill in the next room. It wasn’t the right thing to do. When Duncan felt better, she’d seize her chance.

  As if a chilling breeze swept over her, she felt the cold grip of Death come into the room. Down in her bones, the truth clutched her like ghostly icicles. Duncan will not get better.

  “No,” she whispered. And fled the room for her own salvation.

  * * *

  The next day, Deydie organized a sewing bee in Graham’s formal dining room. Instead of turkey and stuffing, the table groaned with the new sewing machines.

  “Ladies,” Bethia said, getting all of their attention, “it’s now or never. It’s time to complete our round robin for the raffle. I’ve finished all the shoreline blocks. Caitie, how are you coming on the bluff blocks?”

  Crap. She’d forgotten. She’d wanted to be included in the quilting group. But then she’d let them down by not doing her part.

  “I’ll get right on it,” Cait said.

  Deydie stopped sewing. “Moira, get my basket from the other room and give it to Caitie. I picked out some fabrics she might want to use.”

  Was this Gran being thoughtful and nice? Cait waited for the other shoe to drop—a snide remark was sure to follow. She looked around at the quilting ladies to see if they’d noticed, but they seemed to take it in stride.

  “Eight-inch blocks,” Rhona instructed Cait in her schoolteacher voice. “You’ll need to make nine for the row.”

  Deydie smacked the table. “Caitie’s been busy. Hasn’t had a moment to work on the quilt.”

  The other women’s jaws dropped open. A jet could’ve crash-landed on the long table and their eyes wouldn’t have shifted from Deydie.

  Bethia regained her composure first. “Rhona wasn’t lecturing.”

  “Just saying, that’s all.” Deydie caught Cait’s smile. “Don’t glean nothing from it, lassie.”

  Cait shook her head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But it felt good that Deydie might be warming up to her a bit. A little bit.

  “Let’s get on to the quilting,” Deydie ordered.

  Amy sat behind her machine. “Have you heard about the Lynches? Little Mary had to be taken to the hospital. I don’t know how they’re going to pay for it with Mr. Lynch dying like he did over the summer. Mrs. Lynch hardly has enough to feed those six sweet bairns. And now this.”

  Bethia sighed. “If only we could make more money on the quilt raffle.”

  “It’s hard times for everyone,” Moira said as she set the fabric basket on the table.

  A glimmer of an idea came to Cait. She’d seen the movie Calendar Girls and wondered if something like that would work for Gandiegow. Not naked quilters, but something. “It would have to be longer-term, though,” she said to herself.

  “What are you rattling about?” Deydie said.

  “Just an idea.” Cait picked up the basket and held it to her chest.

  “Get to working on those blocks,” Deydie huffed.

  “What idea, child?” Rhona asked.

  “A way to make more money for the Lost Fishermen’s Families Fund,” Cait said.

  Bethia came to stand by Rhona. “Speak up, then.”

  “Why don’t we try to auction the quilt on the Internet? It would certainly bring in more than the projected one hundred pounds. I could use my contacts to get some press. We could use eBay or sell it on Etsy.com.”

  Of course, Cait knew they could get a hell of a lot more press if the world knew the quilt came from Graham Buchanan’s hometown. She could start by informing his fan club about the quilt, then do a full press release to all the major publications. The quilt could bring in thousands, maybe tens of thousands. A good reason if she’d ever heard one for writing the People magazine article about him. She’d be helping the town. They’d thank her. Hell, they’ll probably throw me a parade.

  “You check into it, Caitie,” Ailsa said.

 
“See what you can find out,” Aileen added.

  “Yes,” said Amy excitedly.

  “Right now ye better get yere head out of the clouds and get those damn bluff blocks done,” Deydie said.

  “I’m on it.” Cait pulled out five shades of brown and several gray pieces of fabric, her mind buzzing.

  More could be done, besides auctioning the Our Town Gandiegow quilt. She just didn’t know what it would be yet. She could—and would—make a difference to this community.

  For one brief wonderful moment, Cait felt Death stepping back into the shadows and Life stepping forward toward her.

  * * *

  Deydie left the dining room and headed to the back of the house to the bedroom off the kitchen. The Valentine’s Céilidh would still need a quilt to raffle and she had a Pinwheel quilt started that would be just the ticket.

  Caitie’s idea to sell the quilt on the Internet was a good one. Deydie had heard tell of how high some of those auctions could go. Her granddaughter was a smart one, just like her Nora. Had a way with numbers.

  Deydie pulled the quilt top from her sewing bag. The only thing left to do was to add a border and do the quilting. The ladies could work on this while Caitie finished her blocks. Pride swelled in Deydie’s chest. Her granddaughter had turned out to be a hell of a quilter.

  A ringing sound came from Caitie’s coat, which lay across the bed.

  “Probably Graham again.” Deydie dug around until she found the phone. She hadn’t used one of these contraptions but had watched how Caitie had done it. Deydie slid an arthritic finger over the green line.

  “Hallo,” Deydie shouted into the phone.

  “Yes, it’s Margery Pinchot with People magazine. Is this Cait Macleod?”

  “No. I’m her gran.” You ninny.

  “Please give her a message for me. If I don’t get the Graham Buchanan story soon, the deal is off.”

  Deydie’s old breath stopped and then rage filled her. Red, boiling-hot rage.

  “Hello? Are you there?” said Margery.

  “Aye,” Deydie spat into the phone, seething. She did her best to hold back the obscenities that threatened to jump off the end of her tongue. “Let me make sure I have this right, missy. My granddaughter, Caitriona Macleod, has promised to write an article for your magazine about Graham Buchanan.”