1 Off Kilter (3 page)

“Excuse me?” Was he calling me a biddy? And if so, did that mean the same thing in Scotland as it did at home?

He laughed when he noticed my expression. “Name of the jig, that’s all.”

I laughed, too, at the misunderstanding, one of many more to come, I was sure.

Leith pulled over next to a discreet hotel sign, hopped out, gathered my bags, and deposited them inside the entryway, again refusing my assistance when I tried to offer it. I thanked him, then turned to his companion.

“Good-bye, Kelly,” I said to the friendly canine through the open window. “Hope we run into each other again.”

Leith grinned. “Don’t worry there.” He opened the driver’s door, then turned back. “Ye should come to the pub tonight,” he said. “Everybody’s invited after the funeral, for a proper send-off.”

“Doesn’t sound like my kind of event,” I told him, thinking of the MacBrides and their personal problems. “Especially if the family is fighting like cats and dogs.”

Leith grinned. “Ye don’t strike me as a woman who tiptoes around. Ye certainly weren’t tiptoeing back when I found ye, now, were ye?”

“No, I guess I wasn’t.” More like trying to kick the car into a zillion pieces.

“If ye come, I’ll buy ye a pint,” he said, his smile its own form of enticement, “And give ye an update on yer car.”

“Another time, perhaps,” I heard my voice saying. What was wrong with me? Why was I making excuses instead of taking this handsome knight in shining armor up on his offer? Ami would be deeply disappointed in my behavior.

Leith seemed a bit disappointed. Or was that my imagination? “If ye change yer mind,” he said, “I’ll be there.” Those blue eyes met mine. “Ye better stay off the roads until ye learn how to operate that car properly,” he advised me. “Our roads can be treacherous if ye aren’t used to them.”

I didn’t say so, but I had absolutely zero interest in learning how to drive that particular one. I wanted an automatic car, one without all those gears and extra pedals and the need to multitask the entire time. Tomorrow, I vowed, I’d call the rental company and beg for a different car.

It was the safest thing for me, and for all of Scotland.

I watched his Land Rover pull away, Kelly’s nose pressed against the window, her border collie stare drilling into me. Had I lost my mind? One of these days, I’d have to work on the introverted side of my personality, beat it out of the forefront, where it seemed to always control my actions. Those pesky old habits were hard to overcome, though.

I paused at the entrance to the inn to take in the lively and colorful view up and down the street.

Here I was, standing on a cobblestone street in the heart of the Scottish Highlands, savoring the exciting possibility of romance and intrigue . . . even though I’d turned down my first opportunity a few minutes ago. Serenity, reflection, acceptance, creativity. It all could be mine.

I finally made it to Glenkillen. Thank you for giving me the push I needed, Ami.

If I’d only known what awaited me, I would have been on the next flight home.

The Whistling Inn was a family-run bed-and-breakfast, rather simply designed with cream-colored stone on the exterior and pastel colors within. The owners lived on the premises and cooked for their guests each morning. A warm and inviting breakfast room was off to the side of the registration desk. The inn met my needs nicely, with Internet access available and the single bedroom en suite. No way would I feel comfortable trotting down the hall to a shared bath. My own bathroom had been a requirement from the very beginning.

“Yer paid up two weeks in advance,” a young woman with a heavy Scottish accent said from the opposite side of the desk. “So yer all set. I’m Jeannie Morris, if ye be needin’ anything.”

Jeannie couldn’t be more than in her early to mid-twenties and though she had red hair, none of her brassy highlights had the natural beauty of Leith Cameron’s or some of the other heads of hair I’d seen. Hers were clumps of fiery copper, mixed with about six other man-made shades. Definitely from a box, or rather from several boxes. And she wore a nose ring. Not a discreet jeweled stub, but rather a large hoop that reminded me of a bull’s ring.

If Jeannie wasn’t exactly the best first impression, the room was everything I imagined it should be: cozy, with wonderful natural light from my second-floor window, a desk that would function perfectly for my writing, and a thick lush duvet on the bed.

After sending Ami a quick e-mail to let her know I’d arrived safely, and briefly mentioning the breakdown and the guy who’d picked me up, I put my things away and stretched out on the bed for a few minutes of downtime. As I lay there, I heard bagpipes on the street below. This time I recognized the piece: “Amazing Grace,” which always makes me cry. Being played on the bagpipes turned it into the most mournful, soul-wrenching rendition I’d ever heard. Sure enough, tears ran down my cheeks. I sang along softly: “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see
.
”

I got up and peered out my window to see some sort of procession passing through the village. A solitary piper was in the lead. Next came a horse and a cart adorned with strips of plaid ribbon, carrying a coffin. An actual horse and cart! This had to be the MacBride funeral. Mourners at the front of the advancement were dressed in kilts and colorful clan tartans, except one woman—off a bit from the others—who wore an ankle-length black dress. Sure enough, I recognized her as Vicki MacBride. The others must be her half siblings. They were followed by a bevy of folks I assumed to be locals, many also in kilts. If it weren’t such a sad occasion, I would have thought the sight very festive.

Despite my jet lag and bone weariness, why wasn’t I out there? I reminded myself that absorbing Scottish culture and observing local traditions firsthand was exactly why I’d traveled to the Scottish Highlands. And Vicki looked so sad and lonely as she passed by. She’d said she needed a friend, hadn’t she?

I made an impulsive decision. I splashed water on my face and rubbed my hands along my wrinkled shirt in another attempt to smooth my clothing. With a burst of energy induced by sheer willpower, I left the inn for my little adventure. I hurried out into the street, following the mourners to the village cemetery.

From my position at the back of the crowd, most of the ceremony was lost on me. I still hadn’t completely adjusted to the Highland dialect. The jumble of words that drifted over my head from the front might just as easily have been in Swahili. Even when I thought I caught some phrases, I was often confused—like with the concluding remark: “Deep peace o’ the running waves tae ye.”
What did that mean?

Toward the end, a woman directly in front of me glanced up into a nearby hawthorn tree, and pointed out something to the man beside her. “A corbie,” I overheard her say. “Nothin’ good aboot that.”

The man, an elderly gentleman with unruly salt-and-pepper gray hair and an enormous walrus mustache that covered his entire mouth, turned slightly to follow her gaze. “Aye,” he said. “Nothin’ at all good.”

Scanning the tree for this corbie creature, I spotted a large crow. Or maybe it was a raven. Either way, the bird cocked its head and turned a wary eye on me before taking flight and disappearing from view.

A corbie. Huh.

Frankly, I was starting to wonder if the travel guides I’d studied were going to be much use to me here.

*   *   *

After the graveside service, the mourners began assembling at the Kilt & Thistle, which turned out to be conveniently located right next door to my accommodations. And the whole village really was invited, judging by the number of people flowing through the outer doors.

The Kilt & Thistle had great atmosphere and welcomed me in from the moment the door opened. I glimpsed a warren of small, oddly shaped rooms tucked away here and there, with the main pub area sizeable enough for a gathering of this magnitude.

“Well, who do we have here!” I heard from behind me. “Come get a hug, Eden Elliott!”

I turned to see Vicki bearing down on me with a big, friendly smile and her arms spread in preparation for an embrace. Call me easy, but I let her. Although I wasn’t sure I had a choice. After a strong squeeze enhanced by the equally powerful musky aroma of roses and jasmine I remembered from the plane, she backed away, beaming at me.

“How was your drive from Inverness?” she asked. “It takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?”

I shuddered, remembering. “I doubt I’ll ever get used to it.” Then: “I’m so sorry about your father. Are you okay?”

“I barely knew him,” she reminded me. “Mostly, I’m in mourning for what could have been. But now . . . it’s the living I need to reconcile with, and that’s going to be the hardest part.”

“I have faith in you,” I told her. From what I’d seen, Vicki seemed like a warm and genuine woman. She’d manage just fine.

A lone man began to sing, his voice powerful and rich. Others joined in until the entire room resonated with raised voices.

“Scotland’s national anthem,” Vicki said quietly. “Flowers of Scotland.” I saw tears form in the eyes of those nearby just as mine had when listening to “Amazing Grace.”

“Well, new friend,” Vicki said when the song was finished, tucking her arm through mine, “thank you very much for coming. You’ve renewed my strength, which tends to ebb in times of turmoil and conflict. Now let’s get some nibbles, shall we?”

Whisky and ale flowed freely, and a band complete with bagpipe, fiddle, and accordion started playing Gaelic tunes.

The MacBride family had to be well-off to offer up such a smorgasbord of meat pies, sausages, fish and chips, and cheese-and-fruit platters to such a large gathering. With my new friend’s encouragement, I helped myself to a small plate of assorted food items. I tried to sample a little of everything, not realizing until that moment how hungry I was.

When one of the servers called Vicki away to make some small decision regarding the menu items, leaving me alone, I moved to the bar. I really enjoy a good beer, but decided to wait and indulge another time—considering how little sleep or food I’d had over the last day or so, I worried it would go straight to my head and I’d make a public fool of myself. What I wanted more than anything was to be accepted by the locals, to blend in. To assimilate. Not to become a laughingstock.

I’d read that Irn-Bru was the national nonalcoholic drink of Scotland, at least according to the travel guide. I figured now was a good time to try it.

“Aye,” the bartender said in the local lilting accent when I asked if they carried it. He was blond and goateed, and when he brought my drink, he gave me a friendly, conspiratorial wink as though he knew I didn’t really belong here.

Eden Elliott, funeral crasher. That’s me. Vicki had been welcoming, but maybe the other family members would consider me an intruder.

I took a cautious sip of the beverage. It was overpoweringly sweet, metallic, and bitter all at once. Just as my face scrunched at its fizziness, I heard a familiar voice by my side.

“What’re ye havin’, Irn-Bru?” Leith Cameron said. “Either ye like it or ye don’t. There’s no in-between.”

“I suppose it takes some getting used to,” I replied, although it was definitely not to my taste.

“I’m glad ye changed yer mind about coming.”

“Me, too.”

“Now, let me get ye something drinkable.” He slipped onto the stool beside me. “Ye strike me as an ale woman.”

“Good guess.” I laughed, impulsively throwing caution to the wind. One drink couldn’t hurt, right? “Sure, why not?”

We bellied up to the bar like old friends. Leith put me at ease right away. He came across as trustworthy and transparent, and my mind wandered into his personal life. If he was so great, he must be taken, or spoken for. The good ones always are.

Whatever his real-life availability, however, I decided that Leith would make the perfect Scottish model for the romantic interest in my novel. I delved into my research by keeping him chatting.

“I ran into Vicki MacBride a minute ago,” I told him. “Turns out we were on the same flight up here. Which ones are her family members?”

He took a swallow of the whisky he’d ordered before shifting his eyes across the room. I followed his gaze. “Over there,” he said. “See the large, bearded man in the kilt? That’d be Vicki’s brother-in-law, John Derry. He manages the farm and tends the sheep. Beside him is her half brother, Alec. He’s the only one of the lot that isn’t involved in the business. Beside Alec is his sister, Kirstine, who manages the wool shop and handles the accounts. She’s married tae John.”

All three wore kilts—the men’s were more ornamental and traditional, but all three had the same blue-and-yellow plaid pattern. Kirstine, who I pegged to be in her mid-thirties, wore hers several inches above the knee, paired with stylish knee-high black boots.

“Vicki’s the oldest,” he went on, “by at least four or five years. Alec is the youngest. We were in the same year at school. Vicki would sometimes watch over us when she’d visit in summer. Seems not that long ago, but it was.”

“So you knew her well in those days?”

“We all played together. Then Vicki and her mum moved away, and that was the last we saw of her. Until recently. Sometimes it takes death tae bring a family back together. I hope this one works things out.”

“Me, too,” I agreed.

Leith clinked his whisky glass against my pint of ale, and said, “Time tae cock the wee finger.”

“Whaaaat?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard that right.

“Cock the wee finger. That means drink up.”

Oh. I caught him playfully rolling his eyes at me.

“So tell me a bit more about yerself, Eden Elliott,” he said next. “What brings ye tae Glenkillen? I blathered on so much about the MacBrides on the way down, we never discussed yer plans.”

I paused. What to say? What would this man think of me and my purpose if he knew I was writing a romance? “I’ve always wanted to write a novel,” I told him, dodging the specifics. “I’m here to do that. Something adventurous and Scottish.”

“Ah, everybody thinks about writing a book, but few follow through. Although, ye don’t look like a quitter. Good for ye.”

I took another sip of my ale before responding. “Aye,” I said, trying out a Scottish lilt of my own. “That I’m not, sir.” We grinned at each other.

Was I really flirting with a Scottish man? And was he flirting with me?

It felt good. A bit silly, but good.

We would have continued our banter, except right then we heard loud, angry voices rising above the din.

And suddenly, the music died.