Legacy of the Highlands (5 page)

After snaking its way through Miami traffic,
the car slowed to cross a narrow bridge and was waved through a
gated security checkpoint. Minutes later, they arrived at Diego’s
home. Alex looked out the window in time to notice the discreet
brass plaque on a stone pillar next to the driveway that read
“Villa Recoleta.” Ornate wrought-iron gates slid open at the touch
of a button on the car’s dashboard. Ground lights illuminated lush
landscaping and the villa beyond. The house — was it pink? — had
the look of Mexico or Tuscany, which made sense since Diego’s
mother was Italian and his father, Spanish. The beauty of the place
took her breath away and helped to improve her mood a tiny bit.

The Mercedes glided to a stop in front of a
pair of enormous, intricately-carved wooden doors. Diego extended a
hand to help her from the back seat as a man emerged from the
house. He stood with erect military bearing, impeccably clad in a
dark navy suit, starched white shirt and charcoal gray tie. The
suit’s fine tailoring did little to disguise the muscles that were
apparent beneath his clothes. Alex wouldn’t have been surprised to
see him salute his returning master.

“Welcome to the Villa Recoleta, Mrs.
Cameron,” he said formally. Then he grinned at Diego and the two
greeted each other as only men can by pounding each other on the
back. Diego introduced him as Serge, but didn’t elaborate. She
assumed the tall, blond man was a butler or some other household
employee. He had a slight accent that she couldn’t place. Eastern
European? German? Didn’t matter. Fatigue was making it hard for her
to think clearly.

An olive-skinned, fortyish woman hurried
toward the door and hugged Diego, then excitedly said, “Welcome,
welcome,
Señora
Cameron. I am Luisa. I will do everything I
can to help you feel at home.” A radiant smile reinforced her words
and her dark eyes twinkled with a mixture of kindness and delight.
Alex liked her immediately.

“Are you hungry? The cook prepared a light
supper as soon as we heard you were on your way. I am sure this has
been a difficult day for both of you.” Alex didn’t know how to
answer. She felt like she was a character trapped in an endless
play, only she didn’t have a script. Was it just this morning that
Will had been buried?

Diego saw her confusion and jumped in. “I
think you should show Alex to her room, Luisa, and perhaps send a
tray up. I’ll find something to eat in the kitchen.”

The woman nodded. “Of course,
Señor
Diego, as you wish. Come with me,
Señora
.” She wrapped her
forearm around Alex’s in the European fashion, patted her hand
maternally, and opened a pair of French doors that led to a large
inner courtyard which they crossed to reach the opposite wing of
the house. Diego didn’t take his eyes off Alex and only turned away
when he could no longer see her.

Alex paused to admire her surroundings.
Trickling fountains, a profusion of flowering plants, shade trees
and columned loggia formed the sheltered heart of the villa. She
could hear chirping birds and the thrum of insects. “This is
beautiful,” she murmured.

“Yes, it is lovely,
Señora
. This way.”
Luisa led them through another set of French doors, past a casual
sitting room to a grand staircase, which they climbed to the second
floor.

Luisa opened one of the doors along the wide
corridor. The elegant simplicity of the room’s butter yellow walls,
soft lighting and delicate four-poster bed draped in a gauzy fabric
suited Alex’s need for calm. She crossed the room to step onto its
balcony, drawn by the sound of the ocean. The air was still warm,
but with a cooling night breeze. She inhaled the salty scent of the
sea and began to unwind.

“Shall I close the doors and draw the drapes
so the light doesn’t awaken you in the morning?” Luisa inquired,
then waited patiently as Alex explored her surroundings.

“Yes...please. I love the sound of the ocean,
but I need to sleep. I haven’t had much rest in the last week,” she
explained, but the dark circles under her reddened eyes made that
statement unnecessary.

Luisa nodded. “I understand.
Señor
Navarro told me about your loss.
Lo siento
,” she said and
squeezed Alex’s hands in sympathy before she closed the balcony
doors and drew the drapes. Silence filled the large space except
for the subtle hum of central air conditioning. “The television and
sound system are in that cabinet and you’ll find an assortment of
novels and magazines near the bed. There is nightwear in the closet
and also some swimsuits for tomorrow. They’re all new, so choose
whichever you like. Toiletries are in your bathroom and the tub is
filling,” she said and paused for breath. “If you need anything
else,
Señora
, you only have to ask. The Navarros believe
mi casa es su casa
, so please consider the Villa Recoleta
your home,” Luisa concluded as she stood in the doorway. Alex
sensed that the woman was reluctant to leave her alone.

“Thank you, Luisa, I’ll be fine after I get
some sleep,” Alex said, comforted by the woman’s sincere concern.
“You’ve been very kind. Thank you. And please call me Alex.”

“It would be my pleasure. I will have your
supper brought up.
Buenas noches
, sleep well.”

Alex peeled off her clothes and pulled her
hair into a ponytail. She sighed with pleasure as she lowered
herself into the bath’s scented water and silently blessed the
Navarros for choosing a tub large enough to accommodate her long
legs. Luisa had lit a few candles and their subtle perfume filled
the air. “Bliss,” Alex murmured, and allowed the water to soothe
her.

Clean, dry and wrapped in a powder blue silk
robe, Alex put her hand to her stomach as it growled and realized
she was hungry for the first time since she’d forced down a piece
of dry toast along with a mug of strong coffee early that morning.
One of the household staff had left a tray in the bedroom’s sitting
area while she’d bathed and she hungrily dug into a salad dotted
with goat cheese. There were slices of juicy pineapple and papaya,
assorted cheeses, crusty bread, a glass of wine, sparkling water
and chocolate chip cookies, still warm and fragrant from the oven.
Luisa would quickly learn that chocolate was her houseguest’s
favorite comfort food. Alex reached for a second cookie as she
leaned back and sighed. Maybe leaving Boston with Diego hadn’t been
so crazy after all. It might make perfect sense to avoid reality in
his family’s luxurious oasis for as long as possible.

Whoever delivered supper had also turned down
the bed and whisked away the clothes she’d carelessly dropped on
the floor. She dragged her body across the room, tossed off the
robe, and sank into the kind of dreamless sleep that had eluded her
without Will next to her, his warm, naked body spooned against
hers, the two of them slumbering as one. She’d always felt safe in
his arms, as if nothing bad could happen so long as he held
her.

When she finally woke the following afternoon, she
tried to shake off the residual grogginess of too much sleep. She
shielded her eyes as she opened the drapes to let light fill the
room. One glimpse of the sun glinting off the ocean’s sparkling
blue water turned the decision of what to do for the rest of the
day into a no brainer. She considered each of the swimsuits in the
closet and finally pulled on a dark blue bikini that exposed more
flesh than she liked, especially with Diego around, but it would
have to do.

She found the kitchen, introduced herself to
Isabel, the Navarros’ cook, and helped herself to coffee and a
sweet roll. “The house is so quiet. Is Diego still asleep?”

“No,
Señora
.
Señor
Navarro left
the house early this morning. When I asked if he would return for
lunch, he said he had business to attend to and wasn’t sure when he
would be back.”

For some reason Isabel’s news upset her,
until she realized that it would be easier without Diego around to
hover over her like some guard dog. She brushed a few crumbs from
her lap, thanked Isabel for breakfast and headed to the beach.

Alex felt her body gradually unwind as she lay on
the warm sand, her tense muscles relaxing under the sun’s
relentless heat. Her creamy, freckled skin burned easily, so she
only allowed herself an hour in the sun before reluctantly trudging
away from the ocean toward the sheltering palms that formed a
natural border between the house and the beach.

Alex felt a little better in this tropical
environment, far from Boston and all that happened there. But that
fragile peace shattered with the sudden ringing of her cell phone.
It was Detective O’Shea with yet another routine question about her
vacation in Scotland with Will.

She ended the call as quickly as she could,
but it had rattled her. Despair, that was as difficult to control
as a riptide, pulled her under, gasping for breath, no matter how
hard she fought against it.

She recognized the start of an anxiety attack
and reached into her bag for a small pillbox. Sometimes the little
orange pills prescribed after Will’s death smoothed out the bumps,
other times not. She popped one into her mouth and as she waited
for the drug to kick in, she closed her eyes and concentrated on
the feel of the sand as it trickled through her fingers and the
sound of palm fronds rattling gently in the breeze.

She put her hand on her chest, relieved that
her heart’s anxious racing had resumed its normal rhythm. Relaxed,
she was able to capture an image of a happier time. As she drifted
into a drugged sleep, her last conscious thought was of her trip to
Scotland with Will.

“They were Highlanders!” Will had exclaimed with
boyish enthusiasm when he’d come across an impressive display on
Clan Cameron at a museum in Inverness. “Now I know why I like
single malt whiskey so much. It’s hereditary!” He burst out
laughing at the absurdity of this statement.

His hazel eyes twinkled as he’d wrapped his
arms around Alex and pressed his lips to her temple. She loved the
ebullience and joy with which Will had always approached life. His
good-natured, boyish charm was a big part of his attraction, but it
was his unselfconscious masculinity that had sealed the deal for
her.

They’d decided to visit Scotland on a whim
after spending a couple of weeks in London with a former partner of
Will and Diego’s. The three men had become wealthy enough to never
have to work again when they sold their interest in a Venezuelan
oil exploration company after Diego’s father got wind of President
Chavez’s plan to nationalize the industry. Will had never wanted to
coast on his family’s money, and the timely buyout gave him the
independence to return to architecture, his first love.

While in London, a Scotsman at their friend’s
local pub heard them talk about their planned trip and urged them
to visit an Inverness gift shop owned by his uncle. “Mr.
Mackinnon’s gruff, aye, but he will treat ye fairly, especially if
you give him regards from Ewen. That’s me,” he’d grinned. “He’s a
Scot through to the bone. You won’t find any tartans made in China
in his shop!”

They’d taken Ewen’s advice and found that
Mackinnons’ carried the usual Highland paraphernalia — kilts, plaid
scarves, broadswords, dirks, sweaters and even bagpipes. Since
discovering his Cameron roots, Will had enthusiastically embraced
his clan’s tartan. Alex wasn’t surprised, therefore, when he’d
zeroed in on a treasure chest covered in his family’s red, green
and yellow plaid. It was trimmed in dark brown leather and closed
with an ornate brass hasp. Will had insisted that it would make the
perfect place for a boy to keep his toy soldiers. His words had
made Alex’s heart clench in a flash of pain and guilt. He’d love to
have a son, she thought. She’d been able to become pregnant easily
enough, but it seemed as if her body didn’t want to carry a baby to
term. They’d already lost two and they were unsure if they would
try a third time or eventually adopt. But there, in a small
Scottish shop, as she’d watched her husband’s face glow with
unsuppressed glee, she’d realized the boy Will had been referring
to was himself, and not some longed-for offspring.

He’d placed the box on the counter along with
a book on Highland history, a volume about Clan Cameron, and a set
of coasters adorned with a sheaf of five arrows pointed toward the
Gaelic words
Aonaibh Ri Cheile
— the Cameron family crest
and motto.

The shop’s aged proprietor hadn’t seemed
surprised by his choices. Many Scots had dispersed — some
willingly, others not — to America during the centuries of hardship
that followed Bonnie Prince Charlie’s failed 1745 rising against
the English. Many of those émigrés’ descendents visited the
Highlands in search of their roots.

The shopkeeper had raised his bushy gray
eyebrows inquisitively as he’d examined Will’s selections, rang
them up and placed them in a bag. “So you’re Scots, aye? And a
Cameron too I would guess.”

“That’s right, I am. Can you tell me what the
words on these coasters mean?”

“Ah, to be sure. Well, it’s the Gaelic, you
see, and they translate into but one word in English — ‘unite’,”
said the shopkeeper as he’d glanced toward Alex. “And is your lady
Scottish too?”

“Well, yes. My father was a MacBain,” Alex
had replied. She bristled that the shopkeeper had directed a
question about her to Will as if she couldn’t speak for
herself.

“Ah. MacBain and Cameron. A good match,” the
old man nodded.

“Why?” Will and Alex had asked in unison. He
had their full attention.

“Well, now,” the proprietor spoke with the
musical lilt and slow cadence of a Celtic storyteller. “It would
not do for a Cameron to be marrying a Macintosh for instance. There
was bad blood between those clans for hundreds of years. Nor would
it be seemly for a Cameron to wed an English lass, for the Camerons
were Jacobites, ye ken, and bravely fought for the Bonnie Prince in
the ‘45.” He’d leaned closer to Will. “In fact your ancestor,
Archie Cameron, was the last of the Jacobites to be hanged in
London — at Tyburn Prison in 1753, I think it was.”