Thistle Down
Page 7
Chapter 7
Wednesday dawned as fair as a bonnie lassie. When Ian awakened to sunshine, he decided to take the insurance agent’s recommendation to heart and spend a bit of time in the garden. He’d start by trimming the bushes and weeding the areas along the steps and walkways where the grass and thistles were overtaking the path.
He was caught up on his paperwork and had not only finished phoning each member of the Kirk Session, he’d notified the insurance company that the dreaded deductible could be raised to 10,000 pounds to help defray the amount that was in arrears as well as next years premiums.
He put on his heaviest pair of protective gloves and gingerly grasped the base of a thistle. The thorns were already well developed despite the plant’s young age, and he could feel the points pricking through the gloves the second he started to apply pressure and tug.
A few seconds later, a long, intricate root system emerged from the ground, spraying soil over his boots and the cobblestone walkway. One down, dozens to go. It appeared that the thistle was a symbol of Scotland’s tenacity for good reason.
The worst thing was the way the tendrils insinuated themselves in and around the stone, crumbling and heaving and buckling everything in their path.
He could feel his neck shining with the sheen of perspiration, the sun beating down on his back, and fine particles of dirt clinging to his face. He had pulled no more than a dozen of the little buggers. There were hundreds to go.
He was wishing he had reason to take a break when he heard a voice. “Ian?”
He straightened and simultaneously rose from his crouched position and turned to see who it was. “Emily?”
“I hope you don’t mind me dropping by again.”
She smiled, at the same time looking relaxed yet prim in her pink and lavender plaid skirt and matching scarf, her cheeks a rosy hue, he assumed from the sunshine and the nippy spring air.
“No, no. Of course not,” he stammered.
“I was in Oban doing a presentation for the ferry company – they’re trying to update and enhance their image after the recent fiasco with the collision.”
“That’s right. A man was killed.”
“And everyone on board stranded for hours, many with scrapes and bruises.”
“It must have been horrifying.”
“It was.”
“I’m sure that leaves you with a challenging task.”
“It’s what I’m trained to do. Put a positive spin on things. Make the worst scenario seem no cause for concern.”
“It went well then?”
“I have a stack of press releases and a new ad campaign ready to go as soon as I get back to Glasgow.”
“Congratulations then.”
“Let’s wait on that until we see if it works. Everything always looks good on paper – that doesn’t mean things will work out the way we hope they will in reality.”
He nodded, suddenly, inexplicably aware that she was talking about a picture much bigger than ferries running into fishing boats.
“You’re right,” she said, with the same intent gaze he’d come to expect from her. “I don’t love Benjamin. He’s wonderful – he really is. He’s everything I want in a husband. He’ll make a wonderful father one day. I admire him greatly, and respect him. I even like him. I love everything about him, but I don’t love him.”
Ian sighed and rocked back on his heels. “You said that he loves you. Is that really the case, or is this a marriage of convenience for both of you?”
She looked so vulnerable, so shattered, so scared.
“No. I believe he truly loves me with all his heart and soul and mind. I think that’s what terrifies me the most. If we were of like mind, it wouldn’t matter, would it?”
“As in honor among thieves?”
“You’re right. This is absolutely unfair to Benjamin. I’ve mislead him and withheld the best parts of myself from him.” She started to weep and went to the stone wall overlooking the loch.
He went to her side and stood with her, looking out at waters so still, calm, and unruffled that a perfect reflection of everything hovering over them could be seen in the glassy surface.
“Don’t give up quite yet,” Ian said, wondering which was worse, a sister who loved and was determined to marry an absolute deadbeat, or a sister who couldn’t quite let herself love a man who sounded as though he was an ideal candidate for a husband. “Let’s talk, the three of us, and see what comes out of it. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes.” She leaned down, found a flat pebble, and skipped it over the surface of the loch. She turned and looked at him then, her longing deep and palpable.
He knew he needed to be careful not to lead her on, but he wanted to help. What he could say that would soothe her without crossing that line? “You know as well as I do that half of the problem is realizing there is a problem.”
“You can’t fix a problem until you’ve identified what the problem is,” she repeated. “I learned that in my first Public Relations class.”
“Then your task is clear. Try to make things right.”
“But how?”
“Let me think on it a bit. I’m going to pray that Benjamin will be able to accompany you on Saturday.”
Her face was full of uncertainty. She was used to being in control.
“Trust me,” he said.
“I do.”
“Between now and then, I want you to make a list of all the things you love about Benjamin and all the things you love about yourself and your life.”
“Okay,” she said. “I can do that.”
“And put as positive a spin on things as you like.”
“Okay. I will.” Her face lit up and she smiled.
“And I want you to prepare two statements – the official company position – the one that goes out to the public.”
“Yes.”
“And another, a ‘for your eyes only’ version of events. No one will see it but you, so I want you to be totally honest – your true feelings, your innermost thoughts and deepest fears. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” Her eyes were shining. She actually looked excited.
“Go then. Get started now while it’s clear in your mind what you need to do.”
“I will.” She looked up, and he watched as the long curve of her neck arched back. Maybe she was invoking help from above, perhaps she was counting her lucky stars. He didn’t venture a guess. And then she said, “Pastor Ian, isn’t that where the copper rabbit drain spout used to be?”
She pointed to the expanse of roof just to the left of the flying buttresses. “Has he been taken down for repairs?”
“No.” Ian looked up, and a siren started clanging in his head. “Where on earth?” He looked around to reassess their whereabouts. They were exactly where he’d thought they were. The rabbit was gone.
He rushed to the spot directly beneath the drain spout and combed the tall grasses. Had a bracket rusted, allowing the precious rabbit to fall? Nothing. His eyes flew from one turret to another. When was the last time he’d looked up? Was anything else missing? How could this be? To quote the insurance agent, who would steal from a church?
“Let’s go inside.” In his rush, he very nearly tripped over the same clump of thistles and grasses he’d been trying to unearth. He hadn’t checked the donation box since Monday morning, and hadn’t emptied it then. How long had it been? A week? A fortnight was probably more like it. It wasn’t high tourist season, but one never knew when someone with a generous gift might stumble by. He sped through the cloistered abbey with Emily in hot pursuit. Gone. He twirled around on the smooth stone flooring so fast that it made his head spin. The baptismal font – gone. How could he not have noticed? It had been there on Monday, that was certain. Where had he been since then that he hadn’t noticed something so blatantly wrong?
He’d worked from his kitchen table most of Tuesday, gone to visit some elderly shut-ins, taken them communion, done some errands in Inveraray, pi
cked up a few groceries. This morning, he’d gone directly to the gardens.
How could this have happened? Why had this happened? So much for a hedge of protection surrounding the kirk. They’d been stripped bare of their most valuable assets.