What Lies Between (22 page)

“MacIver doesn’t agree with my plan to set up the holding pens.”

“Let me hear the options,” I said.

After hearing both of their plans, I had to agree with Ben. I loathed siding with him over Henry, which is what it would look like. But this was business.

Taking Henry’s arm, I led him away. “You know the last thing I want to do is agree with a MacIver, but what Ben’s saying makes sense.”

Henry’s jaw clenched and his face turned bright red. I thought he might pass out or explode. “You’re making a mistake, Ellie. This isn’t the right decision.”

Digging the end of the pitchfork into a pile of hay, I stood my ground. “It seems right to me. I’m sorry, but we’re doing it how Ben suggested.”

Jim approached and touched Henry’s shoulder. Henry’s entire body jerked back from Jim’s hand, but Jim stepped in front of him to break the angry stare he was aiming in Ben’s direction.

“Henry, give it a rest, eh?” Ben said, moving toward Jim and Henry, gearing up for a confrontation.

“Ben, let it go,” I reached out and touched his arm. Henry’s eyes locked in on my hand and his forehead creased with concern. I withdrew my hand from Ben’s arm, wondering myself what I was doing. Anything I did, when it came to Ben, escalated tensions.

After Jim had managed to direct Henry outside, Ben turned to me. “What has wound him up?”

“I don’t know.”

Bethanne leaned on her shovel, watching us. I dragged my fingers down the pitchfork handle in a warning to her.

“Let’s go out the back of the barn,” I said, tilting my head in Bethanne’s direction and Ben nodded. I shot Bethanne a look that dared her to follow.

When Ben and I stood outside, I leaned my pitchfork against the side of the barn and wiped the sweat, which had sprouted from nerves rather than heat, off my brow. The cold air mixed with stress and sweat made me shiver.

“Henry doesn’t care for MacIvers anywhere near Glenbroch. Can’t say I’m wild about it, either.”

“Speak your mind, why don’t you!” Ben’s jaw pulsed with anger. “I’m trying to help and all you see is an enemy. I understand why you might, but you need to get one thing clear: I’m not my father. If you could see—och, no never mind.”

Ben stormed away, brushing off Bethanne’s grab on his arm. He strode through the barn and out the front. I heard the motorcycle’s engine rev and the rough spin of tires. I turned the corner at the back of the barn and watched Ben disappear around the bend in the road.

Re-entering the barn, I found Bethanne standing inside, a smirk curving her lips. “I don’t need to get in your way. You’re making a right bourach of it all by yourself.”

Lifting the pitchfork that was still in my hands, I met her eyes. She and I glanced down at the tines, facing toward her, and back up at each other. Taking in a long, slow breath, determined not to act on my thoughts, I then let out a loud exhale and plunged the fork into a pile of dirty hay, tossing the clutch into the wheelbarrow.

Let her think what she will.

October wore on, bringing more bitter temperatures. I now understood about the heating and didn’t often turn on the central heat—the cost of utilities ran much higher than in the States. In my effort to keep expenses down, I was getting used to old-fashioned means of keeping warm and took a hot water bottle, sometimes two, to bed each night. I had come to prefer the “hotties,” as Maggie referred to them, and radiator heat over forced air.

But today was the first time I’d driven anywhere with one of the faux fur-covered hotties perched on my lap. The Beast’s heater seldom warmed up until I’d driven down the road a good ten miles and most days I didn’t go much farther than that. Anna usually came to Glenbroch with Jazz and we headed out into my fields to work with him. More than a week ago, she extended an open invitation for afternoon tea, and I’d mustered up the courage to visit the MacIvers.

Did John or Ben know Anna and I spent time together?

The MacIvers’ lane led away from the loch, sheltered by trees still releasing the last of their color. Leaves in shades of russet, saffron, and coral fell on the Land Rover, designing a bright collage on the hood. The sparse branches afforded me a clearer view of the curving hills stretching out across the horizon. I could imagine the stark silhouette of bare tree limbs frosted with clumps of snow, the road’s sloping edges filled with drifts, hills draped in thick gauze, fields hibernating. I rolled down the window and breathed in the smell of cool, wet earth after a soft rain, the sharp scent of pine needles, the mustiness of disintegrating leaves.

Thanksgiving was six weeks away, then my first Christmas in Scotland, and right after would be Hogmanay, the Scottish New Year’s Eve celebration. Although excited to experience Scottish traditions, I had never counted the holidays among my favorite times of the year. I endured them; they were designed for people who had people. And I didn’t.

Glenbroch’s potential new chef, Jenna Cooper, the woman Maggie recommended, met with me and we agreed to do a test run on a Thanksgiving dinner. We would see how we worked together and how Jenna handled unfamiliar dishes as she had not prepared a Thanksgiving meal before. I would get to sample a couple of her signature dishes as well.

Jenna was a tiny ball of pure energy who had spent the previous ten years working in resorts across Europe. She had developed her own approach to food, ran a successful blog, and was a whiz with social media. She would attract guests simply because of her reputation, but it was her ideas for growth and the chemistry between us that excited me most. Jenna was the kind of person I could partner with. And I figured the only way I could possibly keep Glenbroch was by working with people who offered more than help. I needed people who stood with me, people I could learn to count on. Jenna understood what I was up against with the MacIvers and wanted to support the cause to save Glenbroch in any way she could.

Maggie thought she would be perfect, and I was glad Jenna thought Glenbroch was a great opportunity. It was to my benefit that she had grown up in a neighboring village and wanted to put down roots near her parents.

Jenna spoke to the butcher and grocer to order the turkeys and fresh cranberries. Glenbroch’s gardens would furnish the organic vegetables for Jenna’s rumbledethump, a concoction of potatoes, onions, and cabbage. She had brought a batch over one day to sate my curiosity. The dish was pure comfort food, thick and satisfying, like an amped up version of mashed potatoes.

Rumbledethump—now that was a name for a dish. Hearing Jenna or anyone with a soft Highland accent pronounce the word with the guttural “r” and different turn of the vowels brought a smile to my face.

The Thanksgiving dinner idea had grown, along with people’s curiosity about the new chef, until nearly everyone working on the renovation had been added to the invite list, including Ben. It made good sense from a community point of view to invite Anna and John, but I couldn’t sit down to a Glenbroch dinner with that man. It was too civil. Yet, people here had a history of extending kindness and meals to friends and enemies alike. And not inviting Anna and John would look inhospitable, not a good trait for the owner of a local guesthouse. I would ask Anna today.

I pulled up to the front of the MacIvers’ house, and Anna appeared at the door, Jazz bounding past her. As I stepped out, he pulled up short in front of me, trembling with barely contained excitement. Ruled by his training, he refused his urge to jump up on me.

“Morning, handsome.” Squatting down, I buried my face in his neck—he smelled of a fresh bath—and stroked his silky hair. His body grew quiet with contentment. “Ready to work today?”

He whined softly in confirmation.

“Hi, Anna.” I opened my arms for her embrace and quick kiss on each cheek.

“Come in, see the house. Then we’ll have us some tea and a quick catch-up before we take Jazz out.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Eager to see the house, I quickly stripped off my wellies at the door. Of course I was intrigued by the MacIver home. Truth was Ben still occupied a space inside me. This was the house he’d grown up in. And I was curious.

The blend of elegant fabrics, timeworn furniture, and fishing and sports photos showed this house was loved by a woman and shared with outdoorsy men. In a large sitting room, baskets of coal and wood sat next to a fireplace, its fire lit and stoked. Anna ushered me into an open plan kitchen—its centerpiece a white, five-oven Aga like the one in Glenbroch’s main kitchen—and onto one of the stools gathered around a large, gray marble-topped island.

“While the water is coming to the boil for our tea, let me show you the upstairs.”

“Right behind you.”

I followed her, appreciating the thick, soft wool of the stairs’ runner under my socked feet. My relationship with Anna picked at an old longing. Being with her drove up the few memories I had of my parents and made me long for the life that might have been if that guy hadn’t gotten in his car drunk and jumped over the lane, hitting my parents’ car head on. He’d taken everything from them and deposited a solid mass of pain in me that squatted down, refused to leave, and over time wound itself around my heart, staking out a permanent home.

Anna was more effusive and outspoken than my mother, from what I could remember. Although quiet and not terribly demonstrative, my mother had loved me, and I was sure Anna loved her boys at least as much. I wanted to know what had led her to choose John as her husband. The choice didn’t make sense to me, but it wasn’t a line of questioning one should broach.

“I’ll warn you the boys’ rooms haven’t changed since they were at home. I need to redecorate eventually. Ben only moved into his cottage a couple of years ago after he finished its renovation. I was happy to have him in the house as long as I did, although he was never around much. Logan and Andrew’s rooms are here, side by side.” She opened the nearest door. “This is Logan’s.”

Tidy, simple. Medals and sports equipment covered walls, shelves, and corners.

She opened the next door over. “Andrew’s room.” The space was nearly the same as Logan’s room, although photos of a horse and a young man riding it decorated the walls.

“Andrew loved to ride but he doesn’t much anymore, living in the city. The mare in the photographs, Tilly, died about six years ago. He was so attached to her. I hope he’ll return to riding someday.”

Another photo of three smiling boys with a younger Anna and John drew me into the room. “Andrew and Logan are identical twins?”

“Yes, but they are worlds apart in personality and don’t even live near each other these days.” Her eyes drifted away. “They had been close when they were younger, but they went off to different universities and took separate professional directions and now they see very little of each other . . . and little enough of me,” she said with a sigh.

Moving down the hall, Anna opened the door to another room full of trophies and sports gear. “And this was Ben’s. He was quite a shinty player. Still does well.”

A white desk sat in the corner. I pointed at the framed photos displayed on its surface. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Take a closer look at anything that takes your fancy.”

A photo of a younger Ben, in full dress kilt, standing next to a young girl in a formal gown caught my eye. “They look beautiful together.”

“That is Bethanne Ferguson there with Ben.”

“Bethanne?” I looked closer. A lump pushed its way into my throat. The photo bothered me more than it should.

“She quite fancied Ben back then, still does I suppose. After university, he started his company with Ewan and was on the road all the time.”

“What happened between them?” I tried to act casually interested. I
should
only be casually interested.

“My son flitted from one girl to the next more than I approved. At one time or another I think he took out every girl who lived within a fifty-mile radius. It was fairly innocent in most cases, but he got involved too much at times. Bethanne was someone Ben considered a friend, but had no more serious interest in. Poor girl. She came round nearly every school day, mooning about for him. I warned him to be careful. A person can’t easily shut off feelings for someone, even if that someone is supposed to be just a friend. I think she ended up feeling jilted, even though I’m certain in Ben’s mind they never were together in a proper sense.”

My thoughts drifted to my ex-boyfriend, Matt, and then to Ben. “No, feelings can’t be shut off easily.” And whatever Bethanne’s feelings were for Ben could well be affecting my life now.

“Sometimes the best one can hope for is to learn to endure and let the ache settle into another part of us.” She gave me a knowing smile that told me she had experience in this area.

A pregnant silence filled the room. Neither of us made a move to disclose what lay hidden behind our words. I began to fidget in the uncomfortable quiet and picked up a photo of Ben with a woman at a sports event, bleachers in the background.

“Who is this?”

“That would be Jessie Wilcox. Ben went out with her in Edinburgh while he was at university. She was killed in a car accident. Ben wasn’t with her when it happened, but he felt responsible and took it pretty hard. Close as we are, he wouldn’t talk to me. Nor to John either, but then he and John couldn’t be more different if they tried. John goes overboard with his insistence Ben focus on the future. He pushes him quite hard to get married and start a family, but Ben hasn’t been involved with anyone seriously for some time.”

I followed Anna back down to the kitchen and held my burning question until we had our tea and were settled into the sitting room.

“Anna, you said you knew my grandparents and Gerard. Would you tell me about them?”

She took a sip of her tea. “Your grandparents were lovely people. Generous, perhaps too much at times, especially when it came to overlooking the faults in people. I always had the impression that Helen could see deeply into people, looked at more than their behavior or their weaknesses. Like my John. She adored him.”

My mouth gaped open in shock—
so what Jim had said was true
—and I clamped it shut. No need to appear rude. “What was their relationship?”