I had walked miles this morning, but the return trip in Bryce’s luxury sedan was all too quick. Outside the hostel, he shut off the engine and rested his forearm on the steering wheel as he turned to face me. “I’d like to see you again, Willow. Will you have dinner with me one evening?”
The invitation caught me off guard. This was no adolescent teenager shyly asking for a date. Bryce was a man stating his interest. Plainly. Unequivocally.
Though he had done little more than talk to me and look at me and touch me in only the most conventional of ways, I received his message loud and clear.
I fumbled with my seatbelt, not sure what to say. Not sure what I wanted to say. “The hostel provides a meal in the evenings.”
My companion chuckled, his eyes bright and mesmerizing. “I think we can do better than that. Say yes, Willow. Make me a happy Scotsman.”
“Is that all it takes to make you happy?”
The air inside the car was suddenly charged. I saw a flush ride its way from Bryce’s throat up his cheekbones. “It’s a start.”
Oh, Lordy. I was toast. It was all I could do not to climb across the console, curl into his lap, and see where the moment took us.
Fortunately, I was saved from doing anything rash by the arrival of a dozen hikers coming in after a long day of walking. Their loud conversation and tromping feet surrounded our car and ruined the mood.
Bryce winced and glanced at his watch. “I should go. But you haven’t given me an answer.”
The smart thing would be to politely decline and to make my own plans for the remainder of the month. I rationalized my decision by the fact I had promised my two friends I would be on the lookout for romance. I’d metaphorically crossed my fingers behind my back when I’d made that promise, but still…
“That would be fun,” I said.
“Tomorrow night, then? I’ll make reservations at one of my favorite restaurants in Inverness.”
“I hope it isn’t too fancy. All I have with me are variations of what I’m wearing.”
His gaze warmed, almost a tangible caress. “You’re perfect the way you are. I’ll pick you up at six if that works.”
“Yes. I’ll be ready.” I made myself get out of the car. I was drawn to Bryce MacBrae in ways I couldn’t explain. Perhaps it was his perfect manners or his posh, Scots-flavored accent or the fact that he was so darn hot in that kilt.
I lived a very ordinary life back in Georgia. Was it any wonder that the extraordinary beckoned so enticingly?
I exited the car and stood in front of the hostel, watching as Bryce drove away. I wondered if he would really follow through on his invitation. I wondered if today had really happened. Maybe like Claire in Outlander I had been thrust into another dimension.
Shrugging at my own foolishness, I went inside.
I was taken aback to see Mrs. Garrett, the cook and part-time hostel manager, waiting for me. “I saw ye out the window,” she said. “We need to talk.” The harried expression on her round face worried me. I couldn’t imagine why the two of us had any need to chat.
Following in her wake, I made my way back to the kitchen. The appliances were ancient, but the room was clean. I perched on a stool and set my bag on the stainless steel counter. “What’s going on?”
The cook didn’t seem able to alight anywhere. She bustled from one side of the kitchen to the other, straightening things that were already straight and wiping up invisible spots. “My sister in Glasgow has taken a fall. She’s a widow and going to be bedridden for some time. I’m moving back to take care of her. She’s all the family I’ve got, and I’m of an age to retire anyway.”
I was sympathetic, but I couldn’t see why this involved me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope she’ll recover well.”
Her teeth worried her bottom lip. Her hands plucked restlessly at her apron. “Here’s the thing, lass. Since I’m going away, the owners have decided to shut down the hostel for a while.”
I gaped at her. No. This wasn’t fair. “I have a reservation,” I said. “For the entire month.”
“Aye. That’s true.” She grimaced. “But you’re the only one. Everyone else on the books is here for only a night or two. And much of our business is drop-ins. It won’t be hard to book them into other places.”
“If it’s the meals,” I said desperately, “I could do breakfast. Maybe in exchange for my room and board. And they could hire another person to do the dinner. Or drop dinner entirely.”
There I was again, trying to get a job I didn’t even want. I was supposed to be learning how to relax. Preparing breakfast every day for a revolving clientele was not exactly a dream vacation.
Luckily for me, Mrs. Garrett didn’t take me seriously. “Och, lassie, it’s not only that. The owners have decided they need to remodel. Our occupancy is way down. The young people want to stay in places with Internet and the like. We’re losing business. Spring and summer are our busiest times, so it makes sense to do this now that autumn is on the way.”
“I see.”
“No need for the long face, love. For your inconvenience, they’re going to give you a generous voucher that will be good at any one of a dozen other locations. You’ll be getting far nicer accommodations at no additional charge.”
I was relieved by this news but instantly thought of a new worry. “Do you think anyone will be able to take me for an entire month on such short notice?” I didn’t fancy moving from one spot to the next to the next. I’d wanted to plant myself within a community. And what about Bryce? Here at Glenmurr, I was in walking distance of the laird and his fascinating castle. Who knew how far away these other hostels were?
Mrs. Garrett nodded. “’Twill not be a problem, I promise.”
I hid my dismay as best I could. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to make do.” It wasn’t the cook’s fault. No need to take my disappointment out on her. I made some excuse and headed up toward my room, but not before she delivered the final blow.
“And one last thing,” she said. “Everyone has to be out of the building by Monday morning.”
That was four days from now. Suddenly, my wonderful vacation was imploding. I wanted to call Hayley and McKenzie to tell them what had happened, but my situation hardly warranted a 911 head’s up to my friends. Besides, I didn’t want them to worry about me.
I gave myself an hour to sulk, and then I shook it off. I’d built a business from scratch. A little thing like changing from one hostel to another wasn’t going to trip me up.
For the moment, the other five beds in my room were empty. Mrs. Garrett was right. As I knew all too well, you couldn’t run a business indefinitely without a full clientele.
After dinner, I took a shower and climbed into bed. I had a fat novel with me I’d been wanting to read for ages. Hopefully, the storyline would take my mind off the upheaval in my carefully laid plans.
It was after eight when I heard a small knock at the door and a young woman came in. She looked exhausted, and she had been crying. I’m not exactly the nurturing type, but as a decent human being I had to say something.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Willow Ryman. From the United States. Welcome. It looks like it’s only going to be you and me tonight.”
Her eyes widened, her bottom lip trembled, and she broke into tears, interspersed with high decibel outbursts in what sounded like Spanish. She dropped her backpack, sat down on the floor cross-legged, and wailed.
Good grief.
Chapter 10
Clearly, I wasn’t going to be able to broker a deal for peace and quiet from a distance. Sighing inwardly, I climbed down the ladder and crouched beside the golden-skinned, curvy girl. She had her face buried in her hands. The all-out tears had dwindled to the occasional sob.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong? Do you speak English?”
She looked up at me with a tragic air. “Si. I speak the English. Un poquito.”
“Are you ill? Sick? Injured?”
“Si and si and si! My hear
t is broken.” The tears started up again in earnest.
I let her cry it out for a few more minutes. Given that she looked perfectly healthy, I supposed her dramatic explanation was more emotional than physical. In my experience, hearts didn’t really break.
Finally, I decided she’d wallowed in her misery long enough. “Tell me what’s wrong,” I said firmly.
Wet brown eyes looked up at me tragically. “I didn’t know,” she said. “About the rooms. I’m not so good at the English. I made, um, how you say it? The reservaciones?”
“Yes…”
“We’re on our honeymoon,” she cried. “And my husband, they sent him to un otro habitación.”
Ah. Now I understood. The young lovers were being separated overnight. It wasn’t exactly a crisis on the level of having all your money stolen or being forced to sleep on a park bench, but I could see how the snafu could put a damper on a young couple’s honeymoon week.
Other than our room, the hostel was fuller than usual tonight. A high school study-abroad group had taken up the entire first and second floors. This was their last night before flying home to the States. Any guests not part of that bunch had been relegated to the third and fourth floors.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Carlotta.” She sniffed, her perfect dewy complexion not a bit damaged by the bout of weeping. If I had done what she did, I’d have puffy eyes and blotchy skin.
“I have an idea, Carlotta. It’s pretty late. So it looks like you and I are going to be the only ones in this room. What if I go sleep in the lobby? You can sneak your husband up here and lock the door so you can have some privacy.”
Her eyes widened. “You would do that for me? A stranger? Dios mío. You are an angel.” She threw herself at me and hugged me so tightly I got a little breathless and woozy.
Finally, I managed to extricate myself from her enthusiasm. I had already taken a shower, so I put my clothes back on. Grabbing my tote and backpack, plus a pillow and blanket, I made my way downstairs.
Rip Van Winkle opened one eye when he spotted me.
“Too much snoring in my room,” I said.
He nodded and went back to sleep.
Fortunately, the furniture in the common areas was relatively new. I chose a sofa in the most private corner and turned it to face the wall. By now it was almost ten o’clock. The clerk had already dimmed the lights.
In the distance, I could hear the high school group partying in their rooms, but the muted noise didn’t bother me. In the neighborhood where I had spent a good chunk of my life, the streets at night were full of loud sounds. Ambulances, police sirens…even the occasional gunshot.
This gloomy lobby was peaceful in comparison.
I fluffed my pillow and blanket and settled in. Nothing about this experience so far was what I imagined before coming to Scotland. Tonight I felt like a sojourner…a stranger in a strange land.
Inevitably, my thoughts drifted to Outlander. There were often points in the story where Claire and Jamie had slept outside under the stars, either during travel or while on the run from the British. In many ways, I identified with Claire. Not the part about having two men in my life. I didn’t even have one.
But Claire was strong. In the midst of a frightening, surreal situation, when she had no place to turn and no one to trust, she kept her chin up and soldiered on. She knew she had to rely on herself.
I had been twelve, close to thirteen, when my mother and I left the neighborhood where I grew up. Relatives had been initially kind and then exasperated when my mother took a temporary situation and showed every sign of making it permanent. We moved from house to house to house until we had exhausted our welcome with both family and friends.
It was a time I didn’t like to remember.
Drowsily, I closed my eyes and courted sleep. I wondered what it would be like to want someone with the kind of passion Carlotta had for her new husband. Even when I was her age, I had never been that open…certainly not with the opposite sex. I’d lost my virginity at eighteen, but that was more of a rite of passage than any grand love affair.
Now that I was a full-fledged adult, I spent my days mostly with women. We welcomed the occasional male customer at the shop, but those men were usually retired guys who came in with their wives. Even if I wanted a relationship, passionate or otherwise, I didn’t know where I would meet someone.
I wasn’t a drinker, so bars were out. My church attendance could best be described as High Holy days. Most of the guys I had gone to high school with were either married or happily single. And a few already divorced.
Love had always seemed like a made-up fairytale to me. Like the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of marriage in general, but I had never pictured myself in that scenario. Honestly, I didn’t know much about men except what I learned early on. Even when you loved them, they could walk away.
I was almost asleep when the memory of Bryce MacBrae floated into my consciousness. Everything about meeting him had been exhilarating. His smile. The way he walked. That wonderful man-scent of warm skin and the outdoors and a hint of aftershave.
He appeared to be kind, patient, and loving with his sister and his great-uncle. And he’d been friendly to me. I thought he was one of the good guys. But unfortunately, we had nothing in common.
* * *
The following morning, I was woken at seven by a whisper and a hand on my shoulder. When I opened one bleary eye, Carlotta beamed at me. Beside her with his arm around her waist was a handsome guy who had to be her husband.
“We’re leaving,” she said. “We take a cruise on Loch Ness today. Have to catch bus. Thank you, Señorita Willow. Thank you for the room.”
Her husband nodded, his hot-eyed gaze lingering on his bride before he managed to look at me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. “For you, Miss Willow. Is from our country, España. A charm for good health and fertility and long life.”
I sat up and rubbed my face. The small silver medallion was pressed with the image of a dove and a rabbit on one side and a mountain on the other. I wasn’t sure I wanted an explanation for the trifecta. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad I could help.”
The newlyweds beamed at me. Apparently when you were barely twenty, you could have sex all night long and still be up at seven in the morning raring to go. They tiptoed out the front door, leaving me to drag my aching body up the stairs and into bed. The sofa in the lobby was a torture device.
I missed breakfast. Nothing short of Eggs Benedict on the White House lawn could have coaxed me out of my snug nest. The high school group was loud on their way out, but they were three floors below. With my pillow over my head, I barely noticed.
Finally, I admitted defeat. The sun was shining for the second day in a row, which might be some kind of a record. I would hate myself if I spent one of my precious days in Scotland lounging on the top bunk of a shared room in a second-rate hostel. Not only that, but even though I dreaded the task, I needed to think about finding new accommodations.
Half an hour later, I stepped out the front door, covering a yawn with my hand. According to a brochure I’d found in the vintage wooden phone booth in the lobby, there was a pottery studio nearby. Just the thing I needed. Culture. Local color. And a way to get some exercise and clear my head.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that I had the evening to look forward to…dinner with Bryce. I hummed as I walked, feeling unusually mellow despite my uncomfortable night. I may have even blushed as I thought about the Spanish couple frolicking in my room while I lay downstairs dreaming about a sexy laird. Whew…
Fortunately for my vivid imagination, the potter’s was less than two miles away. I stumbled upon it in no time. The building was a converted cottage, a one-level, whitewashed building with a thatched roof. A tiny circle of smoke curled overhead, telling me that the artist was in residence.
Over the door was a hand-lettered sign that read Thistle and Thorn. In
the window, a similar placard said Open. Charmed and curious, I lifted the latch and stepped inside.
There was something elemental about working with your hands. In my job I touched people everyday: I washed their hair, massaged their scalp. When I was finished, I could see the results of my work.
It was a stretch, perhaps, to call what I did creative, though I did take pleasure in improving a client’s appearance and thus increasing his or her confidence. I didn’t spend my days finding solutions to world peace. But I did provide a needed service.
Still, I envied artists of any kind. The power to create something of beauty from raw materials was magical to me.
The potter, a man about my age or possibly a bit younger, lifted his head when I walked in. “Hello,” he said, his smile friendly. “Feel free to look around. And to ask questions.”
I nodded, eyeing the layout of his shop. One half was where he worked at his wheel. He was surrounded by shelves of unfired pieces. The other side of the room was arranged artfully with displays of his work.
Wandering slowly, I went from spot to spot, studying the various designs. The prices were steep but not unreasonable for the quality of the work. I coveted an entire set of dinnerware edged in delicate thistle, the background gray-blue. I rarely entertained, so it would be impossible to justify a purchase like that even if I had unlimited funds.
I decided, though, that I did want something to take home as a souvenir. If I picked an item that was small enough, I would be able to transport it on the plane in my carry-on. The pottery was sturdy.
Faced with too many choices, I took my time. The potter worked away at his wheel, almost as if he had forgotten I was there. I envied him the peace and quiet of the place. For a moment, I could barely remember my life back in Atlanta.
I’m not sure I could have put it into words, even with Hayley and McKenzie, but Scotland felt like home. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, but it wasn’t so farfetched to think that one of my long-ago ancestors might have emigrated from here to the mountains of north Georgia.
Scot of My Dreams Page 5