“Nae content to push me out as the blender, now you’re sendin’ us oot of the bottlin’ business.” Grant’s accent had been washed away by a stint at university in England, but his brogue became more pronounced whenever he became emotional.
“Don’t be daft,” I said impatiently. “MacEwen Glass has bottled Abbey Glen since its inception, and no one’s asking you to stop now. This would just be a small specialty run. Our handcrafted malt paired with a handcrafted bottle. Two expressions of art in one.”
Grant didn’t respond, but I could see his interest was piqued.
I held the bottle in my hand in front of Grant with the stag prominently displayed. “Imagine our finest whisky in a Rory Hendricks’ limited-edition bottle. It’s the right demographic—aging rock fans have the disposable income. I think it would be a huge seller.”
“Do you think he’d be interested in doing it?” Grant asked. I could see a faint flicker of enthusiasm behind the mask of pain and studied indifference.
“I don’t know, but I definitely think it’s worth asking. Why don’t you go talk to him?”
Grant poured himself another drink from the bottle at his side. I was tempted to take it away from him, but it would only make him more resentful than he already was.
“Should think he’d prefer to see you,” Grant growled. “He knows you better.”
“He likes you,” I pointed out, “and he loves Abbey Glen. I’ll give him a call and set up the meeting.”
“What should I tell him we want?”
“Take over a couple of your dad’s old bottles, tell him what we’re thinking, and then see where he takes it. He’s the artist and a fellow whisky lover. I’m sure he’ll have some inspiration. See how many he’s willing to make and how long it’ll take him,” I said, struggling to hide my growing impatience.
“Alright, alright. But I still think you’d be the better ambassador for the Glen.”
“As it happens I’m a bit busy at the moment and it’s time you stopped lounging about over here, feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Maybe I should bring Brenna,” Grant said thoughtfully.
“You don’t need Brenna,” I insisted. Talk about a Freudian slip. “You’re perfectly capable of taking care of your own business.” I lowered my voice slightly. “Unless she won’t let you go by yourself.”
“It’s not a matter of letting,” Grant snapped. He paused for a moment as if searching for the right words. “She’s worried about me. This has been a tough few weeks for her and she’s put her own life on hold to look after me. It’s not right to be ungrateful,” he said.
But you are feeling ungrateful, I thought happily, and it’s bothering you. Grant was a good man. Honorable and kind, but it looked like his current relationship with Brenna was built, at least in part, on guilt and gratitude. True love I couldn’t fight and, more to the point, wouldn’t fight, but guilt—I could work with guilt.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said aloud. “Brenna’s been a lifesaver these past few weeks. So attentive. At your side for every little thing.” I saw Grant wince slightly at the assessment. “But you can’t hide in this cozy cocoon forever. You need to get up and out. Get back over to the Glen. They miss you.”
“I’ll see.”
Grant was looking tired, but I felt I’d gained some ground in jarring him out of his pity party. If I could start to pull him away from Brenna’s suffocating presence, I might just make some real headway.
Chapter 3
After three solid hours of intensive information flow at the university in Edinburgh I was ready for a strong coffee and sustenance. I made my way from campus on foot and slipped into one of the numerous bookstores scattered around the perimeter. The Book Cellar had a stunning collection of new and used books, and that tantalizing scent of dust and magic, but most important at the moment, it had an Italian espresso machine that could work miracles of caffeination. Armed with a large cappuccino and an oatcake topped with plum jam, I settled into a vacant armchair and pulled up the address of Reverend Craig’s friend Amanda Forrester. Her shop, Woolies, was located about a couple of miles away on the other side of the Meadows. An easy walk, as long as the weather held. According to the website, Woolies sold handcrafted knitwear, along with all manner of knitting supplies, and also offered classes from beginner’s to advanced.
As I made my way south and westward from the university area loaded with takeaway restaurants, bars, and apartments, I watched as the neighborhood transitioned to an older residential area known as Morningside. It wasn’t a posh neighborhood by any means, but it was clean, safe, and well cared for.
Woolies had taken over the basement and ground floor of a terraced house near the park. I stood at street level considering the sign. Down was lessons and group sessions, up was the retail shop. I opted for up. A small bell tinkled as I entered. Two large bay windows on either side of the door filled the front of the shop with light. An abandoned ball of yarn and needles sat on the window seat of the bay to my right. As I made my way further into the shop, I was confronted with row upon row of gorgeous sweaters and shawls stacked on tables and in antique armoires that comprised the front third of the shop. I touched the delicate designs in awe.
Further back, the walls were covered with honeycomb like shelves displaying a mad array of wools. Mohairs, alpaca, merino, cotton, and silk in a dizzying array of colors. I was not a crafty person and had never so much as touched a knitting needle, but staring at the walls of color and texture, I was suddenly tempted.
“Can I help you find something?” a voice asked from behind me.
I turned and saw a ginger-haired young woman sitting in the corner working an old-fashioned spinning wheel twirling an undulating piece of fluff into a long strand of yarn. I watched, fascinated, as her fingers manipulated the cream-colored material in her hands.
“I was looking for Amanda Forrester.”
“You’ve found her,” the woman replied with a smile. She carefully placed her work in a basket at her feet and rose from the spindle, brushing bits of wool from her black tank top and faded jeans. “How can I help?”
She studied me with warm, earnest eyes of deep hazel, and I couldn’t help feeling the question was genuine and far-reaching.
“I’m a friend of Reverend Craig Andersen,” I began,
“You must be Abi, then.” Amanda smiled and extended a hand. “Craig called and said you’d be stopping by.” She gestured to a faded floral couch set amidst large baskets of sale wool and a wall of assorted-sized needles. She shooed away two cats to make space and we sat. “I understand you have some sheep.”
“For my sins I’m the responsible party for nineteen wayward sheep, all of whom are set to be sheared this week. I hate the thought of just throwing the wool away, but Reverend Craig thought you might have some use for it.”
“We always need wool. What kind of sheep do you have?” Amanda asked.
“Cheviot mainly,” I offered, “but that’s about all I know. I’m not a farmer by any means, just a city sap who can’t stand to see those sad little faces going off to the slaughterhouse. I took on the first lot about seven months ago when my neighbor passed away. The rest came as word of my ovine retirement home spread.”
Amanda shook her head and chuckled softly. “That’s brilliant, and I’d be happy to take the wool off your hands, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay you for it. Is that a problem? I’m not sure how much Reverend Craig told you about our operation here.”
“He told me a bit, but I’d like to hear more.”
Amanda pointed to the front of the shop. “All the knitwear in the front room is made right here in Scotland. Fifty percent of the profits from the sales in the shop go to help fund the Shepherd’s Rest, a retreat for woman that are facing abuse on the home front.”
“How many residents do you have?”
�
��It varies. At the moment we have six women and one child.”
“That’s wonderful. Reverend Craig speaks very highly of what you’re doing here.”
Amanda picked up a skein of wool from the arm of the sofa and began to roll it into a neat ball. “Craig was a close friend of Moureen Templeton, the woman that founded the shelter. Moureen came from a wealthy family, but still suffered for many years in an abusive marriage. After her husband passed away, she made it her personal mission to educate people. She wanted them to understand that abuse isn’t limited by age, or sex, or financial means. It can happen to anyone, anywhere.”
“How did you become involved with the shelter?”
Amanda smiled fondly. “About four years ago Moureen walked into Woolies and asked me if I’d be willing to teach some knitting classes as part of the care and counseling program at the Rest. She thought the knitting would be practical and calming. She was very persuasive. I came into the fold and I’m still there.”
“But how did you go from giving knitting lessons to being in charge?” I asked.
Amanda laughed. “I’m not really sure. It was all kind of a whirlwind. One minute I was proposing that we use part of the revenues from my wool shop to support the shelter and the next I was being groomed to take over. It all came to a head when Moureen learned that she had cancer and realized she wasn’t going to be around much longer. She offered me a seat on the board of directors and started training me.”
“Is the shelter close by?”
“Yes. Only three blocks away, but we try to keep a low profile. No signs on the door or flashy brochures. It’s all by referral.” Amanda glanced at her watch. “I was planning to run over during my tea break. Would you like to come and see?”
“If you’re sure I wouldn’t be a disturbance.” It would be nice to see what my fleeces would be supporting, and if Reverend Craig wanted me to try to help these ladies, I needed to see what I was getting into.
“Of course you won’t be a disturbance,” Amanda said. “I just need to go and make sure nothing is—” A shadow flitted across Amanda’s face and for a moment she looked as if she was having second thoughts about asking me to come, but she caught herself and finished with, “I need to make sure everything’s alright.”
* * *
—
As we left the shop, Amanda donned a gorgeous sweater in a dozen shades of green that brought to mind the dappled light in a forest on a summer day. It was spectacular and she confessed to having created it herself. There was no doubt. She was an artist.
I followed Amanda down the pavement as we skirted along one side of the park. Walking next to her, I felt self-conscious. Her hair was cut in a stylish bob that swung as she moved, enhancing the gold flecks that ran through the muted ginger. If there was any question that she was a natural redhead, it was silenced by her remarkable peaches-and-cream complexion. Her attire was casual, but the fabulous sweater paired with the trendy Ray-Bans that shielded her eyes from the sun made her look like a movie star trying and failing to go unnoticed.
Amanda made a right at the next corner and continued on to the last house on the street, which was lucky enough to share only one wall with its neighbors. It boasted a small square of grass in the front and plenty of windows. We went up the front stairs and into the sitting room. I noticed that all the windows facing onto the street had been tinted to prevent anyone outside from looking in. No doubt privacy was a critical issue for the Rest’s residents. Amanda dropped her tote bag on the sofa and led me back to the kitchen, a large open space with a communal table at one end. A petite woman with mousy brown hair caught up in a claw clip on the top of her head was deftly peeling potatoes at the sink.
“Sheila, this is Abi Logan,” Amanda said as she went to plug in the kettle. “Abi’s interested in what we are doing at the Rest.”
Sheila glanced my way. She looked me over and I felt I’d been given a quick but thorough assessment. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup and, although her eyes were guarded, she exuded a sense of compassion. She waved a paring knife in my general direction before looking back to her spuds. “Nice to meet ya,” she said.
“And this is Jenny Woodyard,” Sheila added, pointing back over her shoulder to a woman who had come along the hall after us, “one of our guests.”
“You alright, Jenny?” Amanda asked. “Thought you were working this week.”
“Aye, but my client’s just round the corner so I popped in for a cuppa tea and a warmer cardie.”
Sheila dried her hands on a towel and brought two more mugs to the table. “Jenny’s a home healthcare worker,” she explained. “Works for the council’s health clinic round the corner. They assign her to patients who need help with the day-to-day doin’s. I tell you she’s a saint for all she does for these folks, and some of ’em can be right buggers.”
Jenny was rail thin, and probably no more than in her late twenties. I couldn’t fathom how she managed to haul elderly patients around that were ill or potentially even immobile, but her smile was warm and her enthusiasm genuine.
“I can be a bugger right back if I have to,” Jenny chimed in.
“You still enjoying the job?” Amanda asked.
“You know, I really am,” Jenny admitted. “I keep telling the others, it’s so easy to get bogged down in your own problems, but if you just get yourself out there and do something for someone else, it’s amazing how much better you feel.” Jenny glanced at the clock on the wall and waved the blue cardigan in her hand in our general direction. “Ouch, gotta run. I’m due with my next client in ten minutes. See ya tonight.”
Jenny dashed out the front of the house, slamming the door in her wake.
“There she goes,” Amanda said with a chuckle. “Always a mad whirl with that one.”
“She certainly seems to be doing—well,” I said for want of a better word.
“Not all of our guests are the miserable, pathetic creatures people imagine them to be,” Amanda said.
I could feel a flush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. “I didn’t mean it that way.” I hadn’t intended to sound judgmental. “I guess I was just a bit surprised that she was so upbeat.” I took the mug of tea I was offered and sat at the table with Amanda and Sheila.
“Our girls have been victimized,” Sheila explained, “but they aren’t necessarily still victims, if you get my drift. By the time they’ve made the decision to make a change, to walk away from their abuser and the power that person has in their lives, they’re often much more at peace with themselves and more optimistic about their futures. Jenny’s a prime example.”
I nodded. Sheila seemed to have an astute grasp of the emotional state of the residents that made me suspect she’d personally experienced the pain that they were going through.
“Everything else okay ’round here?” Amanda asked, looking to Sheila.
“I just tried to call you at the shop,” Sheila replied, her lips forming a grim line. “Urquhart’s on the way over. Said he wanted to have a word.”
From the look of distaste on Amanda’s face, this wasn’t welcome news. “Oh, dear.” She sighed. “We know what that’ll be about.”
I was tempted to ask but didn’t want to seem too nosy.
“Come on Abi, if Richard’s coming, I’d best give you the tuppence tour right away.” Amanda made a sweeping gesture around the kitchen. “This is Sheila’s domain. She feeds us all and takes care of ordering food and managing the household expenses. Don’t know what I’d do without her.” Sheila grinned and made a quick bow before returning to a pile of carrots by the sink.
I followed Amanda through a door and down into the cellar. The stairs were rickety and the air below smelled of earth and spice. Someone had tied bunches of herbs from the ceiling beams where they hung to dry, filling the air with a richly fragrant aroma. Stacked on the ground below were wooden crates of
potatoes and onions and green beans, all with SR painted on the ends.
“This is where we store provisions. We’re so lucky to get masses of fresh produce from Templeton Farms.” Amanda gestured to the crates along the wall. “The farm is run by Moureen’s kids, Colin and Greer Templeton. They inherited their father’s estate and they’ve made a real go of it, farming organic produce virtually year-round using adaptable greenhouses. Whatever they’re flush with comes our way two or three times a week free of charge.”
Amanda pushed a stack of crates back against the wall to open a path through the stores. “When she died, Moureen established a fund to help support the operations of the shelter, but it grows more expensive to run every year. Now we often have to rely on donors to keep us afloat. The free food is a real boon.”
“Looks like a lot of veg,” I noted, counting at least twenty-five white plastic containers labeled POTATOES, GREENS, and CARROTS.
“The wooden crates on top are ours. The sealed plastic bins underneath are produce committed to restaurant clients. Colin and Greer sometimes store stuff in our cellar where it’s cool and easily accessible. We’re centralized here and it helps them out. It’s the absolute least we can do with all they give us for free.”
I followed Amanda back up the stairs and into the common area once more. The furniture was a bit shabby and the walls needed a coat of paint, but overall the building was sound and the ambience was cozy and relaxed. As I looked around I suddenly had an odd sense of déjà vu, mixed with a quick flash of visual memory from my childhood. I saw myself following my mother to a house she sometimes visited as a social worker. In my mind I saw her moving around a very similar room squeezing a hand, giving a hug, talking in a low, soothing voice. These misty memories came rushing back, tumbling one over the other. Mum would’ve loved what the Rest stood for. Thinking of her brought tears to my eyes. “I imagine that this place is a great comfort to the women who find their way here,” I said softly.
Died in the Wool Page 3