by Sarah Morgan
‘The Dawsons.’
‘Right. Also the ice caves. Anything else?’
‘Brodie McKintyre called again.’
Samantha didn’t recognise the name. ‘New client?’
‘He owns that estate in the Scottish Highlands. Amazing lodge, complete with fairytale turrets. You read about it in that magazine and then asked me to contact him after we had that enquiry from the family in Seattle. We talked about it last month and I called him.’
‘Of course. House parties in a remote Scottish glen… don’t they have an actual reindeer herd?’ Samantha leaned back in her chair. ‘I know it’s not something we’ve offered before, but I feel in my gut it would work. Everyone is wild about Scotland—particularly for the holidays—and the place is by a loch, on the edge of a forest. Guests could cut their own Christmas tree. A fresh one that actually smells of the forest, and not of chemicals. The possibilities are endless. Whisky in front of a roaring log fire… Maybe we could add a couple of nights in Edinburgh for Hogmanay.’ She saw Charlotte’s expression. ‘New Year’s Eve.’
‘Ooh.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘I want to book that vacation myself. It sounds dreamy.’
‘And that’s what we do. We give people their dream. The Christmas they’ll never forget.’ Samantha tapped her pen on the desk. ‘What did he say? Did you tell him that the demand for properties in the Scottish Highlands is going through the roof?’
‘Yes. Also that you speak to all your clients personally, and that you’re wickedly good at what you do so he can expect to be busy.’
‘And…?’
‘He said that he’s interested in principle, but he’d want to discuss it further. Because the lodge is a family home and before he accepts guests he’ll need to know he’s entrusted the task of renting it out to the right person.’
‘Get him on the phone and I’ll convince him I’m the right person.’
‘He wants to meet you.’
‘Why?’ Samantha tried not to think of her packed schedule. ‘Never mind. Whatever it takes. When is he in Boston?’
‘He’s not. He wants you fly to Scotland.’
Samantha shot up in her chair. ‘Scotland? You mean Scotland, Connecticut?’
‘No.’ Charlotte frowned. ‘Is there a Scotland in Connecticut?’
‘Yes. It’s a town. There are others.’
‘I mean the actual Scotland. The country. Land of hill and heather. And those cute cows with horns.’
‘Highland cattle. Are you serious? He wants me to fly to Scotland?’
Charlotte held up her hands in surrender. ‘I’m just the messenger. He’s emotionally attached to the place. He cares about it. It’s his home. He was actually born there. Imagine being born in a Scottish Glen instead of a sterile white hospital room…’
‘He told you all this?’
‘Yes. We’ve chatted a few times. He says it won’t suit everyone and that you’ll need to know what you’re selling.’
‘He’s right, of course. And I usually do visit before we start recommending. But I’m snowed under.’
Samantha loosened another button on her shirt and paced to the window. The view always calmed her. From her office in Back Bay she could see Boston Harbor, the water glittering pale under the winter sun. It was barely December, but the first flurries of snow had fallen the week before—a reminder that winter had arrived.
Samantha was one of those few people who loved snow. No amount of cold weather could damage her love affair with this city. There were no memories here. No ghosts haunted the brick sidewalks and historic architecture. Moving from Manhattan was the best thing she’d ever done. Boston was her city. She loved everything about it—from the art galleries and upmarket boutiques of Newbury Street to Beacon Street with its vintage gas lamps. Even at this time of year, with a bitter wind blowing off the Charles River, she loved it.
‘Boss?’
‘Yes.’ She turned to Charlotte. ‘Scotland. Fine. We’ll take the risk and have someone visit because I think the place sounds perfect. Send Rick. He’s been known to wear a kilt to fancy dress parties.’
‘The Laird insisted it was you.’
‘The Laird?’
‘Just my little joke. I’ve been reading too many of those historical romances you gave me. I dream of being swept onto a horse by a man wearing a kilt.’
‘With Amy attached to your breast? This does not sound comfortable.’ Maybe it had been a mistake to share her reading habits with Charlotte, who wasn’t known for her discretion. ‘Please don’t tell Brodie McKintyre that we read historical romance.’
‘Why not? Read what you want, I always say.’
‘I agree, but I prefer to keep all personal elements out of my professional discussions. I’m running a business, and it would be hard to keep my credibility with clients and these Scottish folk if they knew we spent our free time fantasising about being swept into the heather by a sexy guy in a kilt.’
‘Exactly. It’s a fantasy. It’s not as if we want to do it in real life. I bet heather is prickly. And possibly full of insects. Also, I checked his photo on the internet and the Laird is in his late sixties—although still very handsome in a craggy, weather-beaten sort of way.’
Samantha decided it was time to change the subject. ‘Did he say exactly what he wants me to do on this visit?’
‘No. I didn’t spend that long on the phone with him because I was worried Amy was going to bawl.’ Charlotte adjusted her bra strap. ‘He said you should spend a few nights there this month, that’s all. And, honestly, he did have an incredibly sexy voice.’
‘You think a selling point would be the owner’s voice? It’s twenty-four days until Christmas. There’s no way I can fit it in a visit.’
‘Why don’t you talk to him and try and arrange something? He even suggested Christmas itself, but I said you always spend the holiday with your sister. So then he said maybe she would like to come too, and you could test the whole family holiday thing. Which would be cool, don’t you think?’
‘I do not think.’
‘Are you sure? What better way to evaluate the commercial appeal of spending Christmas in Scotland than by spending Christmas in Scotland?’
‘It would be work—and I am not working at Christmas unless there’s a client emergency. I am going to travel to my sister’s and then stay in my pyjamas for the entire time. I’ll speak to him and arrange another time.’
‘Hmm… You could be missing out. Laid by the Laird would be a good title for a book, don’t you think?’
‘I do not. And please hold back from suggesting book titles if you ever meet him.’
‘Got it.’ Charlotte glanced out of the window. ‘It’s snowing again.’
Samantha wasn’t listening. Instead she was thinking about the hunting lodge in the Highlands. Maybe a few days in Scotland wouldn’t be so bad. The lodge looked perfect, and she could think of at least a dozen clients who would love it—and love her for finding it.
‘Get him on the phone. I’ll try and fix a date between now and Christmas. I guess I can fly in one day and out the next. Is that it?’
‘Kyle rang. Four times. He sounded irritated. Said he waited for two hours in the restaurant last night.’
‘Oh…’
She’d been tied up with one of her favourite clients—an elderly widow who lived in Arizona and had decided to bravely embrace her new single life. So far Samantha had arranged three trips for her, and they’d spent an hour the previous evening discussing a fourth. She’d forgotten her dinner arrangement with Kyle. What did it say about her that she’d forgotten? What did it say about them?
‘That was rude of me. I’ll call and apologise.’
Charlotte shifted. ‘He said to tell you not to bother to call unless you’re ready to take your relationship to the next level.’
Oh, for goodness’ sake!
‘The next level? It’s a relationship—not an elevator.’ And as far as she was concerned they hadn’t made it out of the ba
sement.
‘That was kind of his point. He said you need to decide where you want to go with this. I got the impression he wanted to go right to the top floor.’ Charlotte gave an apologetic smile. ‘I think he’s in love with you.’
‘He— What? That’s not true. He isn’t any more in love with me than I am with him.’
What she had with Kyle was a relationship of mutual convenience. They were theatre partners. Opera partners. Occasional bedroom partners. Only more often than not Kyle fell asleep the moment he was horizontal. Like so many people in this area, he ran a tech start-up and was busier than she was. And the most disturbing part of that…? She didn’t even care.
She should care, shouldn’t she?
She should care that they would both rather work than spend time together.
She should care that there was no passion.
She knew that real life wasn’t like the romantic fiction she read, but surely it should come a little closer?
‘Get him on the phone,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to him.’
What was she going to say? She had no idea, but she’d find a way to smooth it over and keep things the way they were.
‘Before you speak to him, you should know a huge bouquet of flowers arrived an hour ago from the Talbots, who are now back from their honeymoon in Vienna and wanted you to know it was everything they dreamed it would be.’
‘Which is exactly how they should feel about a honeymoon.’ Samantha was pleased.
‘That’s it! We’re done. I’ll make those calls and—’ She broke off as Amanda, one of the junior account managers, came flying into the room.
‘Samantha! Sorry, but it’s urgent.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s your mother.’
Samantha almost said, I don’t have a mother, but then she remembered that wasn’t strictly true. Biologically speaking, she had a mother. Not a cuddly, rosy-cheeked loving mother, as portrayed by the movies, but still a mother in the most literal sense of the word.
Instinctively she kept her expression blank. She had her mother to thank for that skill—if the ability to hide the way she was feeling could be considered a ‘skill’. She had no problem with other people’s emotions—just her own.
She felt Charlotte touch her arm. ‘Samantha? Are you okay?’
No, she wasn’t okay. Mention of her mother was enough to ensure that.
‘She called?’
‘Not personally.’
Of course not personally. When had her mother ever done anything personal? And Samantha hadn’t heard from her in five years. Not since that last frustrating and disastrous ‘family gathering’. She could still feel her sister’s tears soaking through her shirt and remember the way her whole body had shuddered with sobs as Samantha had held her.
‘Why is she like this? Why? What did we do wrong?’
Samantha felt suddenly tired. ‘Who called? And why?’
Her mother would never make contact without a good reason.
‘Someone called Cole. He says he’s her assistant. I had no idea your mother was Gayle Mitchell. I mean, I probably should have guessed…Samantha Mitchell, right? But I just didn’t—I mean, wow.’ The girl was looking at Samantha with awe and a new respect. ‘What a woman. She’s a total legend.’
Of all the words Samantha could have used to describe her mother, that wouldn’t have been on her list. But she was aware of how many people—women especially—admired her.
Gayle Mitchell had a way of inspiring and reaching people. The only people she seemed unable to connect with were her daughters.
Samantha felt a pressure in her chest. How could she feel hurt? After all these years, why didn’t she have that under control?
‘Did her assistant say why she was calling?’
‘Well, kind of… I don’t know an easy way to say this. It’s going to be a shock…’ Amanda sent Charlotte a desperate look. ‘Your mother is in hospital.’
Samantha stared at her. ‘What?’
‘Hospital. She’s in hospital.’
‘That’s not possible. My mother hasn’t had a single sick day in her life. No virus would dare get that close to her.’
‘Not a virus. Her assistant said something about an accident. He said you need to get to the hospital because she’s asking for you.’
Her mother was asking for her? Why? Gayle Mitchell was nothing if not practical. If she was injured she’d be asking for a doctor—not her daughter. Especially as they hadn’t seen each other since that last disastrous occasion.
She glanced round as Sandra, the intern, ran into the room.
Samantha wondered if her relaxed open door policy needed rethinking.
‘Your mother is on TV!’
Before Samantha could stop her, Sandra had grabbed the remote control and switched on the large screen on the wall. And there was her mother, tumbling from a chair, her normal poise deserting her as she flailed. What was that thing in her hand? It looked like a lump of granite.
Samantha winced as her mother crash-landed. She’d forgotten her mother was mortal. Capable of bleeding.
Anxiety washed over her. She found her mother aggravating, frustrating, and many other things—but she didn’t want her to actually die.
She shifted on the spot to try and ease the discomfort of guilt. She should have reached out. Tried to open a dialogue. Explained how hurt she and Ellie were. But they’d both been waiting for their mother to apologise, and then time had passed, and…
What if she’d left it too late?
Numb, she stared at the screen, watching as staff scurried round, as EMTs arrived. Lying there, still and bleeding, her mother looked vulnerable. Samantha couldn’t think of a single time in her life when her mother had looked vulnerable. Gayle Mitchell didn’t do vulnerable.
‘Oh, my—that had to hurt,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘Why would they film this stuff? It’s so intrusive. Can you sue someone? Wow, that’s a lot of blood. Is that normal?’
Samantha pointed the remote at the screen and switched it off.
Her heart was punching her ribs, her pulse galloping.
Had her sister seen it? Ellie would be upset. Despite everything that had happened, she still yearned to be a warm, close-knit family. She’d talked about making contact with their mother, but in the end she’d been too afraid of rejection to take the plunge.
Samantha had forgotten the other people in the room until she felt Charlotte’s hand on her arm.
‘You’re in shock—and that’s not surprising. Come and sit down.’
Samantha extracted herself. ‘I’m fine.’
Charlotte exchanged looks with Amanda. ‘We know you’re not fine, boss. You don’t have to pretend with us. We’re like a family here. And this is your mom we’re talking about. I mean, if it was my mother I’d be in pieces.’
If it had been Charlotte’s mother Samantha would have been in pieces too. Charlotte’s mother dropped by the office frequently with Amy, bringing with her home-made baked goods and a level of maternal warmth that Samantha had never before encountered.
But this wasn’t Charlotte’s mother. It was her mother.
‘The phone call…’ Her voice didn’t sound like her own. ‘Did he say how bad she is?’
If she was dead they would have said so on TV, wouldn’t they?
Not dead. But seriously injured, if the film footage was accurate.
And Samantha was going to have to go to the hospital.
Her conscience wouldn’t let her do otherwise.
This was her mother, and Samantha wasn’t a monster.
She had to ignore the fact that her mother hadn’t been present for any of the emotional highs and lows of her life. And the fact that if it had been Samantha in hospital her mother probably wouldn’t have come. She didn’t want to model herself on her mother. When faced with a situation that required judgement, she often thought What would my mother do? and was then careful to do the opposite.
Which answered her own
question.
She turned to Charlotte. ‘Call the assistant back and tell him I’m on my way. Clear my schedule. I’ll go to New York tonight.’
Charlotte nodded. ‘No worries. Totally understood. I mean, it’s your mother, right?’
‘Right.’
Samantha ran her hand over the back of her neck.
Was she doing the right thing?
What was she going to say when she arrived at the hospital? Were they just going to ignore what had happened the last time they’d met?
Her mother probably didn’t even know she’d moved to Boston.
Charlotte was making notes. ‘I’ll book you a flight, and a car to the airport, and I’ll call everyone on our list and explain that you’ve had a family emergency and—’
‘No.’ Samantha rubbed her fingers across her forehead. ‘Some of those calls can’t wait. The car needs to go via my apartment, so I can pack an overnight bag. Get Kyle on the phone, because I need to apologise, and also the guy from Scotland—because we have clients who would just love his place and I need to get that visit arranged. Tell the others I’ll call them back as soon as I can.’
‘Are you sure? Kyle will understand if you—’
‘Just get him on the phone, Charlotte. Thank you.’
She knew that if there was to be any chance of saving their relationship she needed to speak to him right now. But what exactly was she saving? And did she want to save it? Kyle was interesting, moderately good-looking, solvent, and he had no unfortunate habits as far as she could see. On paper they were well suited. She should want to save it.
Except her feelings weren’t engaged.
Why not?
What exactly was holding her back?
Could she really blame her mother?
She sat up a little straighter.
She was thirty—not three. There came a point where you had to take responsibility.
If something had to change, then she was the one who had to change it.
And she would.
She wasn’t waiting until the New Year to make a resolution. She was making it right now—starting with Kyle. She wasn’t saving the relationship, she was breaking up with him. Not only had she forgotten their date, she hadn’t even realised she’d forgotten it. She wasn’t an expert on relationships, but even she knew that wasn’t good. What she had with Kyle wasn’t what she wanted.