A Love for Rebecca (13 page)

INVERNESS

In the morning, Berta had to wake Rebecca, who was slow in getting under way. Rebecca lingered in the shower and let the water clear her mind. She remembered dreaming about Mario, Enric, and a gypsy woman who foretold her future by reading her palm.

They ate breakfast in silence. Berta studied her friend, trying to measure the effects on her of their talk the previous night.

“You didn’t sleep well?”

“No, not at all. I had some really weird dreams. But I don’t remember them clearly.”

“No harm in that,” Berta said. “Let’s go get dressed and have an awesome day in the city. I don’t think it’s going to rain today.”

They met Sophie at the train station and bought their tickets for Inverness. Green fields alternated with yellowish ones as the train rumbled through the countryside. The trip didn’t take long, and Sophie alerted them as they neared the Inverness station.

They had mapped out an itinerary. They would visit the castle and then St. Andrew’s Cathedral, then head to Fort George and Cawdor Castle a few miles away. On the way back they would buy their sleeping bags.

At the castle, Sophie played tour guide. “This building is actually a reconstruction of an earlier castle that was destroyed during the Jacobite risings of 1746. It now houses the city courts.”

Rebecca took a picture of it. In front of the impressive structure, they saw a statue dedicated to Flora MacDonald. According to Sophie, she was a national heroine who saved Prince Charles Edward’s life after the disaster at Culloden. She disguised him as her servant, and they managed to pass through the English checkpoints.

“The prince had the nickname Bonnie Prince Charlie,” explained Sophie, “and in Scottish English, ‘bonnie’ means ‘beautiful.’ The prince was known for his delicate features.”

They wandered around the castle for a while and then crossed the River Ness to visit St. Andrew’s Cathedral, which was close by.

With its neo-Gothic style, the cathedral reminded them of Notre Dame in Paris. Evidently, the original plan also included two great towers, but they were never built, for lack of funds.

The cathedral was constructed of sandstone with a pinkish hue, and the roof was made of green slab tiles. Rebecca urged her friends to go inside with her so she’d have something interesting to tell her mother. They got a visitors’ guide, in Spanish, and entered the church.

From the central nave, they could see the large window on the west end. The guide informed them that it was one of the largest stained-glass windows in Scotland, with a magnificent array of colors that made the scene depicted stand out beautifully even without direct sunlight. The stained glass told the story of Jesus’s childhood and youth, from the Annunciation until his work as a carpenter in Nazareth.

In front of the south aisle was the chapel dedicated to Saint Andrew. Rebecca was enjoying the silence as they toured the church. She immersed herself in the characteristic smell of the sacred place and the soft lighting that encouraged prayer and retreat. She felt like a little girl again. When the friends spoke among themselves, they did so in low voices so as not to disturb the faithful who were praying.

In front of the baptismal font was a painting of an incident that occurred in the dark days after the battle of Culloden. At that time, the Episcopal Church was prohibited and its clergy imprisoned for conducting public mass or carrying out their duties. The scene showed a priest baptizing a child through the bars of his prison cell.

They deposited money in the offering box on the way out of the church. Their eyes closed instinctively when they were struck by the bright light of midday. They hadn’t realized how quickly the morning had passed; it was almost lunchtime. Sophie led them to the Old Boys School, located next to the cathedral, where in the summer a teahouse was set up to serve visitors and locals. They had a quick bite and bought some souvenirs.

Having completed their sightseeing in Inverness, the girls strolled a ways along the river path, then hired a taxi for the afternoon, starting with a drive to Fort George, built at the end of the Jacobite wars. It was an expansive site with a large courtyard in front. A rampart nearly a mile long, with cannons and watchtowers, encircled it. They took photos, then got back in their taxi to continue on to Cawdor Castle.

The castle was a breathtaking sight, the girls agreed, as if something from a storybook had sprung to life. The main section, built of reddish stone, was a short, square medieval tower, complete with drawbridge.

“It’s one of the best-preserved castles in the Highlands,” Sophie noted. “And one of the prettiest. It’s known for its literary connection to
Macbeth
, even though the castle is thought to have been built in 1454, a long time after the events narrated in the play.”

They paid the entrance fee and toured the castle and its grounds. The interior exuded a welcoming ambiance complete with furnishings, family portraits, and tapestries hanging on the painted walls. Outside again, they toured the gardens, created to imitate the Labyrinth of Crete. Delighted, they walked through the multitude of rhododendrons, azaleas, narcissi, primroses, willows, and bamboo scattered among centuries-old trees.

Back in Inverness, they had their taxi driver drop them off at a sporting-goods store, where they bought sleeping bags and mats. Sophie also was able to find the special salmon lures that her brother had requested.

They walked from the store to the train station, passing quite a few men dressed in a combination of kilt and sport coat.

“More and more men are wearing kilts as part of their everyday clothing,” Sophie explained. “And more schools are teaching Scottish Gaelic. We’re returning to our roots.”

“Is it true they don’t wear anything under their kilts?” asked Berta.

“Most likely. I know when Kenzie was little, our grandfather on Skye would dress him in an old kilt that used to be our father’s. When we were playing, his bare cheeks would often be on display.”

Berta let out a loud laugh, and Rebecca turned red.

WATER OF LIFE

That evening, back at their cottage, Berta lounged on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. She declined Rebecca’s invitation to join her for a walk.

It was lovely walking along the banks of the River Beauly. The pleasantly cool air and lush vegetation of the countryside gave Rebecca a sense of well-being that she hadn’t felt in a long time. She walked slowly, absorbed in thought, reviewing the events of the past few weeks.

She hoped to find her mother more relaxed when she got home. But thinking about her mother made her anxious. Part of Rebecca wanted to go back home, back to her life, away from the intense feelings Kenzie aroused in her. She told herself it was just a physical attraction, yet she’d never felt anything like it: butterflies in her stomach, trembling when he brushed her skin. His look alone was enough to awaken desire in her most intimate parts; it embarrassed her to think about it. He was so different from her and everyone she’d ever known. Maybe, she surmised, that was why she found him so attractive. Kenzie gave the impression of living his life on a grand scale that dwarfed hers. Still
 . . .

Over the last month she’d been thinking a lot about her lack of enthusiasm for her upcoming wedding. Did she love Mario enough to spend the rest of her life with him? If she loved him, why was she allowing herself to be distracted by a summer crush? She should be excited about her future, about gaining independence from her parents. Soon she would marry Mario and have children and a teaching job
 . . .
And still she lacked the passion that was supposed to characterize those in love. Moreover, a sense of dread arose in her when she thought about her immediate future.

Engrossed in thought, she walked off the main trail and down a path that led to the riverbed. Past a line of slender trees, a wide channel appeared in front of her. She saw a man on a grouping of flat rocks, holding a fishing rod.

She observed the man a moment, for the simple pleasure of watching him enjoy his activity. Then her heart skipped a beat. It was Kenzie!

She got so nervous that as she turned to leave, she slipped on the path and fell on her behind. Despite the sound of the river, Kenzie detected the movement behind him and turned in her direction.

“Rebecca?”

She scrambled up and brushed the dirt off her clothes, lamenting his seeing her at that very moment. “Yes, it’s me,” she called, embarrassed by her clumsiness.

“Come on over,” he urged, motioning with his head. His hands were full, one holding the fishing rod and the other on the reel.

Rebecca’s conscience whispered to her:
leave
; but her heart countered with:
stay
. She hesitated a few seconds, not knowing what to do. The desire to be near him was the strongest. But she told herself she shouldn’t stay.

“I have to go. Berta’s waiting for me to have supper,” she said.

Kenzie looked disappointed. “All right.”

“I’ll see you Friday.”

“Sure.”

Rebecca turned up the path, careful not to fall again. But a sudden splash made her stop and turn. The fishing rod was taut and curved. Kenzie held tightly to it and reeled in the line with skillful movements. He paused and then reeled in some more. Rebecca was fascinated. He repeated the process over several minutes, until the splashing of the captured fish was visible near the rocks where he stood.

He bent down and grabbed his fishing net. But the captive fish struggled furiously, forcing Kenzie to let go of the net and concentrate on his tenacious catch.

“Do you need help?” she heard herself ask.

He turned, surprised to see that she was still there.

“Can you hold the net? I think I’ve got one enormous salmon.”

Rebecca ventured out onto the platform of rocks and picked up the net. “What do I do?”

“When the salmon gets close, put the net in the water, under it, and lift it. But do it gently; we don’t want to injure it more than necessary. This river is catch and release.”

Rebecca knelt on the rock and got ready to dip the net in the water. When the fish was within reach, she stretched out her arm and carefully placed the net under it.

“Now raise it a bit.”

She did so, and the salmon, still thrashing, was trapped in the netting.

“It’s a beauty,” she said.

“That it is.”

“Aren’t you ever tempted to take one home? You know, the hunter-gatherer instinct.”

“I would be happy to take this one,” he said, bending down to examine it. “But catch and release is a way to preserve our rivers and their resources.”

The salmon shook with powerful spasms and spattered water in their faces. Rebecca let out a little shriek of surprise and then burst out laughing, causing Kenzie to laugh too.

Seated on the rock, she watched him carefully extract the hook. As he concentrated on the task, she studied him closely. Fine copper-colored hair covered his forearms. Her heart raced when she focused on his mouth. His lips were well shaped. She’d noticed before, but she hadn’t been able to really look at them until now.

“Too bad we don’t have a camera,” he said. He held the fish a moment longer, then released it into the river. With a flick of its tail, the salmon disappeared, splashing softly in the water.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever served as a fishing assistant.”

“Technically, you caught him,” he said, sitting down next to her. He noticed she was hugging herself to try to keep warm.

Kenzie wore a thick, unbuttoned shirt over his T-shirt. He reached in the breast pocket and took out a small metal flask.

“Here, have a little,” he offered.

“Whisky?”

“Uisge beatha.”

She waited for the translation.

“Water of life, or whisky, if you prefer. It’ll warm you up.”

She took the flask tentatively.

“Come on,” he said. “All you need is a sip.”

She sniffed it, and the fumes of a powerful aroma filled her nose. Then, steeling herself, she brought the flask to her lips and took a sip. The liquid burned all the way down, from her throat to her esophagus. Then a comforting warmth invaded her insides, spreading throughout her body.

She coughed just a bit and looked at Kenzie with a grin, her eyes shining.

“I told you,” he said.

“It’s like an explosion.”

“The best sensations are the first ones. Once your body’s used to it, it won’t ever taste or feel quite the same.”

After the first sip came a second, and then a third. Rebecca was feeling good, if a little lightheaded. She didn’t really care for the flavor, and each sip scratched her throat. But that feeling passed, and soon the warmth turned to heat.

She had forgotten the uneasy thoughts that had accompanied her to that place, and, high on the geniality the whisky encouraged in her, she began to open up.

She told him all about their trip to Inverness, about how wonderful St. Andrew’s Cathedral was and about the beauty of Cawdor Castle. She stole brief, bashful glances at him as she talked. She described the castle gardens, forgetting that he might have seen them himself. She didn’t skimp on the details as she continued with her lively chatter.

Kenzie fixed his piercing blue eyes on her. He watched her with daring interest, paying special attention to the movement of her lips as she talked. But he didn’t lose sight of her eyes, green like the meadows and brilliant from the Edradour whisky. There was something about her that attracted him instinctively. He’d noticed it the day he held her close while they danced. Even then he had sensed an inner quality to this woman, something elusive that had aroused his interest. Of course, her beauty was evident, but that’s not what fascinated him. He had sensed her reluctance and discomfort when they danced. He had sensed her awkwardness at being in his arms, arms that weren’t meant to embrace her. Suddenly curious to know what kind of guy had managed to win her over, he interrupted her.

“Tell me about your fiancé.”

Rebecca stopped suddenly and looked at him, stunned.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Tell me about your fiancé. You’re engaged, right?”

“Yes,” she barely whispered.

“Tell me about him.”

She lowered her eyes, taken aback by his sudden interest, and handed him the flask.

“Well
 . . .
” she began hesitantly. “His name is Mario.” She paused, searching for words. “I’ve known him since I was little.”

Rebecca paused again, hoping he would say something. Instead, Kenzie opened the flask and brought it to his lips. Then he wiped his mouth with his arm. Even this, Rebecca thought, he did with light, graceful movements.

“So you’ve known each other since you were children,” he prompted.

She looked at the water before responding. “Really, since
I
was a child. Mario’s eleven years older than I am,” she said quietly. Kenzie turned his head slightly and partially closed his eyes. Those were the only movements he made in response to her words.

“And what’s he like?” he asked.

“He’s a lawyer.”

“Oh, that’s descriptive.”

“In Mario’s case, it is.”

“I think of a lawyer as someone who sells himself to the highest bidder. If the devil himself required his services, a lawyer would defend him by arguing that his client is a victim of a society that forced him to behave badly.”

“My father’s a lawyer too. And he would never defend the devil.”

“I don’t doubt that. But we’re not talking about your father.”

Rebecca smiled, thinking about Mario. “Well, Mario might.”

Kenzie offered the flask.

“No, thank you. If I had any more I wouldn’t be able to walk home in a straight line, and you’d have to carry me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, no?”

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of watching you walk like a tipsy sheep?”

“A sheep? It would have been more courteous to think of a nobler animal.”

“You are in the land of sheep, so it’s a good example. And sheep can be noble, too.”

“OK, I’ll give you that. But I didn’t care for the comparison.”

“You’re right; you don’t look like a sheep. A gazelle, does that make you feel better?”

“Much better. At least they’re graceful and svelte.”

“But I don’t know how drunk gazelles act.”

“And you do know about drunk sheep?”

“Absolutely. When I was nine I stole a bottle of my father’s best whisky. I hadn’t ever tried it
 . . .
You know, curiosity. But I’d always heard it’s best to enjoy whisky with friends, so I didn’t want to have my first drink alone.”

“And you gave whisky to a sheep?”

“Yes, we took turns. But Sally liked it a lot more than I did. The darn thing licked the bowl dry every time I gave her some. Every once in a while she shook her head side to side, but then she would keep drinking.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, it didn’t sit well with her. Made her horny, actually. She tried to mount Harry, the ram of the flock, but he wasn’t having any of that.”

“And how did you fare?”

“Not much better. I had to drag myself to my room. In my daze, I left the bottle in the shed, and my father found it the next day. He tanned my hide and told me the next time I wanted to try whisky I should let him know.”

“Did you learn your lesson?”

“You bet I did. I didn’t try it again until I was seventeen.”

“And the sheep?”

“Sally never drank again.”

“I mean, did she recover from her buzz?”

He smiled at the memory. “Well, the next day she was lying down in the stable. My father thought she was sick and called the veterinarian. When he concluded that the sheep had a hangover, I had to stay out of his way for two days to avoid another thrashing.”

Rebecca let out a laugh.

“Believe me, it wasn’t so funny for me,” Kenzie said, laughing himself. “But now I see they were good times. Then things changed, and we went to Skye.”

He said this matter-of-factly, like someone who’d moved because of a job. Rebecca kept silent, hoping he would add something else. Kenzie grabbed a few small rocks, placed them in the cup of his hand, then made them bounce and caught them in the air. He didn’t say anything else.