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Acknowledgments
It would have been impossible for me to write this book without my years-long obsession with British television. From the early days of watching Masterpiece Theater with my mom to Top Gear (and now the Grand Tour) with my husband and, of course, the Great British Bake-off. Honorary mention goes to International House Hunters which is always a fascinating peek into the homes of other countries. I hope I captured the flavor of the language difference between the UK and America even though we both speak English.
A special shout-out to Claire Scott, Scotswoman and avid reader, who provided feedback on the proposal for A Highlander Walks into a Bar to make sure Alasdair Blackmoor was authentic sounding.
Chapter One
“I brought home a surprise!” Rose Buchanan threw her arms out wide as if embracing the world. From the stories she told to the way she entered the room, Rose was exuberant and entertaining and enjoyed being the center of attention.
Isabel Buchanan, who was perfectly content on the fringes, pushed her wavy hair off her sticky forehead with hands that trembled from the nightmare drive through Atlanta to the airport to pick up her mom. Her mom’s trip to Scotland had doubled as both research and vacation. The jammed stop-and-go traffic had left Izzy flustered and already dreading their exit from the airport.
Rolling her stiff shoulders, Izzy stepped around the bumper of the car, popping the trunk open on the way. Her mom had a beautiful plaid scarf of greens and browns and blues tossed over her shoulder and what appeared to be new earrings. Either purchase might inspire her mother to gush, and she would expect reciprocal gushing from Izzy.
Making an educated guess, Izzy asked, “Are those earrings your surprise?”
Without waiting for an answer, she hauled one of her mom’s giant wheeled suitcases closer and prepared to heave it into the back. The sooner they got out of Atlanta, the sooner she could get back to work planning the Highland festival. Or she might pour an extra-large glass of wine and escape into a book. A guilty pleasure, considering how much she still had to get in order in three scant weeks.
“Allow me, please.” A bearded man who had been rolling cases to the curb stepped forward with a grin and an accent Izzy couldn’t place.
She checked her pockets and winced. No cash to tip the man, and no hope her mom had thought of something so inconsequential.
“Do you like them? They’re hammered silver.” Her mom flipped her bobbed matching silver hair to the side and displayed one earring with her fingers. “And as a matter of fact, I did buy them from a lovely shop in Edinburgh, but I brought something bigger home. Something more exciting.”
“Your scarf? It’s lovely.” Izzy gave her mom limited attention while she watched the man load suitcase after suitcase into her trunk, fitting them together like a puzzle. More luggage than her mom had left with. She waved to catch the man’s attention. “Hang on. That’s not all my mom’s stuff.”
For the first time, Izzy really looked at the man. He was close to her mom in age, and good-looking in a bearlike way with a gleaming white smile highlighted by a salt-and-pepper beard. His full head of hair was a shade darker, but graying heavily at the temples. The expression on the man’s face when he looked in her mom’s direction—a mix of adoration and amusement—cleared the fog of confusion.
Lord have mercy, her mother had brought back a six-foot, two-hundred-pound-plus souvenir from Scotland.
Izzy stumbled backward, her heels catching on the curb. She stumbled and was on her way to a bruised bottom—not to mention ego—when her mom’s Scottish souvenir grabbed her arm and steadied her.
“Alright there, lassie?” His eyes were dark gray, not black but close, except for sparks of amber around the centers. He wore good-natured amusement like a comfortable sweater, and Izzy could imagine gathering around a fire and listening to him tell jokes and stories.
Izzy pulled out of his grasp and sidestepped toward her car. “Thanks for the save.”
The man turned to her mom and held a hand out. She notched herself under his arm, the two of them facing Izzy as a united front. Instead of wilting from jet lag, her mom beamed at the man with all the energy of a college graduate on spring break. With his dark good looks and her mom being a certified silver vixen, they made a striking couple.
“Name’s Gareth Connors.” The man held out his free hand, and Izzy took it automatically in a shake. “Your mum has told me all about you, Isabel. I feel as if I already know you.”
The burr in his voice was charming and attractive and friendly, yet Izzy couldn’t get over the fact her mom had brought a man home. A man she’d known less than two weeks. It was impetuous and irresponsible and unreal.
Was Izzy dreaming? She swiped at her forehead again. Nope, not a dream unless the house had caught fire around her. The heat radiating off the concrete had hit inferno-like levels.
“I’ve invited Gareth to stay with us at Stonehaven. I’m going to show him around Highland. Everyone is going to adore you, darlin’.” Her mom was too occupied straightening Gareth’s collar to catch Izzy’s pointed, panicked look.
A whistle blew and all three shifted to stare down the sidewalk toward an airport security guard stalking toward them. They were taking too long in a loading zone.
Izzy froze. Was she actually going to bring a stranger home to Highland with them?
Gareth shut the trunk and nudged his chin toward the guard. “We’d best be going, Isabel, before the wee, angry man reaches us.”
With one last glance at the security guard, Izzy made a decision she feared she’d regret in the dead of night with a strange man roaming the house with sharp cutlery laying around. “You might as well call me Izzy.”
She slipped into the driver’s seat, feeling like her sane, ordered—slightly boring?—world had skidded through an Enter at Your Own Risk sign. Even worse, her mom and Gareth had slipped into the back seat together.
“You should have warned her, Rosie,” Gareth said. “We’ve shocked her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Izzy loves surprises, don’t you, darlin’?” Her mother’s singsong accent was Southern old-school genteel.
Rosie? Izzy shook her head to clear her shock. Even her daddy had never used a pet name for her mom. It was weird-sounding and spoke of an intimacy that seemed impossible after so short an acquaintance.
Izzy couldn’t spare the attention needed to parse the new information coming fast and furious. She had to navigate out of the airport and back onto the interstate. Almost absentmindedly, she said, “You’re the one who loves surprises, Mom. I hate them.”
“Pish-posh. This is a good surprise though.”
“Is it?”
Izzy glanced in the rearview mirror to catch an apologetic grimace reflected on Gareth’s face. Her mom leaned close to
whisper something in his ear, inspiring another of his merry-looking grins. If they started making out like teenagers, Izzy would pull over on the side of the road to separate them, life-endangering traffic be damned.
Cars and trucks weaved in and out of the lanes like in a video game. Her palms grew sticky on the steering wheel. The worst traffic jam in Highland, Georgia, had involved a standoff between old man Hicks and Mrs. Fortunato at the four-way stop in the middle of town.
As she exited the interstate for the two-lane road that weaved to Highland, her shoulders unscrunched and her fingers loosened on the steering wheel. The rolling green foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains worked their usual magic.
Now she could keep an eye on the couple in the back seat without the danger of rear-ending another car. Her mom and Gareth were close, but not on top of each other, thank goodness.
Her mom was busy playing tour guide. She pointed out such scintillating roadside attractions like the “big rock” that teenagers spray-painted as a rite of passage and the boiled peanut wagon set up next to the pickup truck selling produce in a gravel pull off.
“Do stop, darlin’. Gareth must try the peanuts.” Her mom touched Izzy’s shoulder.
Izzy didn’t say anything, but swung the car around on the two-lane road and pulled in next to the blue and white Ford truck with a bed piled high with summer produce. The farmer lounged on a metal foldout chair, fanning himself with a straw hat.
Izzy remained in the air-conditioning while Gareth and her mom took their time picking over what the farmer had to offer, coming back to the car with tomatoes, corn, and squash along with a steaming bag of peanuts.
“Izzy and I can whip up something delicious with the vegetables for dinner tonight, can’t we, darlin’?”
She was to be their cook along with their chauffeur? “Sure, why not.”
Her sullenness was a throwback to her awkward teenage years. Considering she still lived in the same town and in the same house—with her mother no less—the ghost of her doubt-riddled adolescent self took great pleasure in haunting her with regularity.
As the miles ticked down and while she had her mom and Gareth trapped in the car, she needed to ferret out what the heck was going on.
“Where are you from exactly, Gareth?”
“Cairndow. An estate in the Highlands. I’m the caretaker.”
“It’s simply gorgeous, Izzy. The views are to die for. Gareth lives in this quaint stone crofter’s cottage, but he snuck me into the castle when the owner was away and showed me all the fun parts.” Her giggle was shocking.
Shocking because her mom did not giggle. Or hadn’t since her daddy had passed away a decade earlier. Izzy gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“How did the two of you meet?” she asked.
“We bumped into each other my first day in Edinburgh. Literally.” Her mom tittered again, this time joined by Gareth’s deep, resonant laugh. They already shared inside jokes. “I had stepped into a church to escape the drizzle as Gareth was coming out. We shared tea and biscuits and that was it.”
“That was what?” Izzy asked.
“The beginning,” her mom said cryptically, her smile directed at Gareth. “We spent every day together.”
“When are you going home, Gareth?” Only after did her brusque tone register, and her face heated. Rudeness qualified as one of the deadly sins in her mom’s eyes, alongside boasting and double-dipping chips. Injecting a practiced, albeit fake, politeness, she added. “It’s a very busy time of year for us, and we need to be available to drive you back to the airport.”
Her mom whispered, “Isabel,” in the way she had when Izzy had disappointed her as a child. “We’re taking things day by day, so who knows. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”
Sweetie? Izzy stole another peek in the rearview mirror and tried to camouflage her dismay.
She slowed and pulled onto the narrow, winding drive that led to Stonehaven, their home. While Stonehaven might not be the biggest or grandest house in Highland anymore, it was certainly the most unusual. Built by her great-grandfather, who had emigrated with his parents from Scotland when he was a child, it payed homage to the castles of his homeland.
The stonework lent it a heavy, fortified feel from the outside with a turret in one corner, but it was only a façade. Inside, the house was warm and welcoming, and her parents had taken it upon themselves to modernize the electric, HVAC, and plumbing after they’d married.
From her first memories, her daddy had been the heart and energy behind the Highland festival hosted on the grounds of Stonehaven every summer. No one had expected him to die a week before his fiftieth birthday when she was only eighteen. Izzy had expected to have years—decades—before the weight of upholding the family traditions fell to her and her mom.
Instead, when she’d left Highland for college in Athens, Georgia, she’d carried with her the expectation of returning every summer to help and then moved home permanently upon graduation. She’d even given up the opportunity to study abroad one summer in order to come home, but had never laid her disappointment on her mom to bear.
The festival mimicked the traditional Highland games of Scotland. People from all over the southeast flocked to Highland to compete or watch men in kilts throw hammers and toss cabers. The traditional Scottish dancing, music, and foods were an even bigger draw.
This year’s festival was on track to be the biggest yet and kicked off in less than three weeks. Izzy’s job as a tax accountant slowed during the summer months, and she burned all of her vacation in order to plan and orchestrate the festival with her mom. It wasn’t by luck. She’d put aside her dream of majoring in creative writing to pursue something practical. She hardly even thought about the might-have-beens anymore. The festival was her birthright, her burden, and her joy.
“What about the festival? You won’t have time to take Gareth sightseeing, Mom.” Izzy forced her voice to remain steady and adultlike when it began to dip into a childish whine. Pea gravel crunched under her tires as she pulled up to the front door of Stonehaven.
Her mom clapped once then linked her hands under her chin. “That’s what makes this so perfect. Gareth can help with the festival.”
“What?” Izzy performed an unintentional brake check.
“He’ll bring a real authenticity to the games.” Her mom was fairly batting her lashes at Gareth. It was like she’d been possessed by a debutante on the prowl.
“Wonderful. Excellent. Just peachy,” Izzy muttered to hide her sarcasm. While not as egregious as rudeness, sarcasm and irony would earn her one of her mom’s looks. The kind that still had the power to make her feel gauche.
“Your home is lovely, Rosie.” Gareth’s rumbly brogue was charming and warm, and fired mistrust in Izzy.
What was his angle? Izzy considered herself more worldly than her mother, whose last first date had been thirty-five-odd years earlier. As far as Izzy knew, her mom hadn’t so much as looked at another man romantically since her daddy’s death. Men like Gareth didn’t leave their lives behind unless they wanted to … or had to.
Izzy glanced up to catch the reflection of him kissing the back of her mom’s hand like a knight of yore. A blush pinkened her mom’s cheeks, making her look younger and almost innocent. Izzy’s insides performed a blue ribbon–winning jig, and her throat closed to nothing. Was this more than an extended vacation fling?
* * *
Darth Vader’s theme song rang out from Alasdair Blackmoor’s mobile. He whispered a prayer and gathered his strength before answering his mother’s call.
“Hi, Mum.” He kept his voice artificially chipper even though he was exhausted from a jam-packed workweek in New York City along with a banging case of jetlag.
“Don’t ‘Hi, Mum’ me. Have you arrived at your destination yet?” The formality in her voice was nothing new. When he was four and home from his first day at preschool, his mum hadn’t asked him if he’d made friends or had fun. She’d asked him whether his day had
been “satisfactory.” He’d answered yes, even though he hadn’t spoken to anyone except the teacher, and the conversation had been over.
“Not yet.” He checked the navigation screen in his rental car. “Looks like another thirty miles.”
“What could Gareth be thinking?” His mum’s disappointment made him clutch the steering wheel tighter even though she was an ocean away and her disappointment wasn’t directed at him. “Why isn’t he answering his mobile?”
Gareth was probably thinking he was relieved to have escaped his sister-in-law’s wrath by mere hours. Alasdair didn’t say that aloud, of course. He’d learned from an early age not to actually express his anger or frustration or hurt. An Englishman’s stiff upper lip dammed his Scotsman’s passion.
“His mobile probably doesn’t work on this side of the pond.” Or he’d turned it off, which is what Alasdair had done more than once to escape his mum’s well-intentioned meddling. He loved her dearly, but to label her as “high-maintanence” was an understatement.
“But why would he run off with an American tart?” His mum’s derision gave the impression the American War for Independence had taken place in her lifetime. “What if she manipulates him into marriage, and she bears him a son?”
“Then we offer our sincere congratulations.”
“Men can do that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Father a child in their dotage. Then, he would become the next Earl of Cairndow. When you see him, I want you to tell him that—”
“You’re breaking up, Mum. I’ll be in touch when I can.” He hit the End button before she could get another word in and tossed his mobile onto the passenger seat.
He shifted and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. Driving on the wrong side of the road took concentration he was having trouble mustering.
His uncle’s disappearing act worried Alasdair for different reasons than his mum. He didn’t care if Gareth fathered a dozen sons as long as he was happy, but Alasdair refused to stand by and watch his uncle being taken advantage of. Despite the falling out they’d had a decade ago, Alasdair cared about Gareth more than he could put into thoughts, much less words.
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 1