Page 1 of All My Broken Dreams

Chapter One

The rain was relentless. It soaked Robbie Listowel’s hair and ran down her neck, drenching the duffle coat she was wearing. She didn’t expect so much precipitation at this time of year. For some reason, she imagined November in Scotland to have more snow. She should’ve known better or at least checked the forecast before leaving for the airport.

According to the Internet, the duffle coat was supposed to do the job in all weathers–snow, sleet, rain. She didn’t know how long she would be in Edinburgh or where her search would take her.

Robbie yanked on the handle of the rolling suitcase; its wheels kept getting stuck in the cobbles. The weight of it, along with the backpack she had slung over one arm, meant she wasn’t going to get far on this street.

“He has to be here somewhere,” she said out loud.

Her brother’s last known address was scrawled in ink on a sheet of paper in her mother’s handwriting. The more often Robbie pulled it out of her pocket to check, the more the letters ran, but she didn’t trust her memory and she was pretty sure she was lost.

The cabbie had dropped her off in a part of the city that was a warren of slick, dark cobbled laneways, flanked by stone buildings with slate roofs. Trying to read the numbers over the doors was impossible. Doorways were not lit like they were in the States. She couldn’t even be sure she was on the right street.

In the country less than an hour and already screwing up. Mom was right. She should have sent someone else.

“Give yourself a break, Robbie. It’s a miracle you’re in the country at all.”

Her online therapist told her to counter negative thoughts with positive verbal affirmations. A week ago, she could barely leave her apartment without a panic attack and now look at her.

Squinting at the paper, she attempted to read the street name before it became totally illegible. It was a funny Gaelic name, unpronounceable, but the cab driver recognized it when she showed it to him.

The rain slanted at an angle, catching her in the face. It was getting dark. Not just overcast, but night-falling dark. The paper was soggy; the address now just a blurry spot of blue ink.

A normal person would ask directions.

“Fine, that’s what I’ll do ... as soon as Ifindanother human being in this place….”

The street was deserted and slick with rain. The walls of the buildings were soot-stained and gothic.

Pick a direction. Any direction will do.

A light ahead streamed from a shop window. “Oh thank the gods,” she breathed, and dragged the behemoth of a suitcase toward it.

The shop was a bookstore–the display window was filled with books. Her confidence soared on this flimsy bit of evidence that she must be in the right neighborhood. Her brother was a student at a private university. A bookstore would be necessaryin a university town. At the very least, the shop owner could direct her to the nearest student dormitory.

The bell over the door jangled loudly when she pushed it open and then fought to haul the suitcase in behind her.

Robbie froze in place, riddled with anxiety, a panic attack threatening to bloom. Her therapist taught her a technique to cope with moments like this.Concentrate on your surroundings. Demystify it. Take your time and examine what is threatening you.

There was only one person in the shop. A young guy was sitting in an armchair next to an electric heater that glowed red with bars of heat, engrossed in a book of poetry. He was older than she was but not much older. His hair was dark brown, very dark like a chestnut. In the low light, his eye color was harder to determine. Hazel maybe….

Robbie blinked. He was staring at her. Probably because she was staring at him. He had a frank, open stare that revealed little.

“I’m ready to close up, love. Are you coming in or going out?”

The man behind the counter had a thick Scottish accent that was unintelligible. If she couldn’t understand the language, how was she supposed to find her brother?

She glanced at the poetry reader. Maybe he could translate for her. She had the sense that he was listening.

Maybe not. He had gone back to reading his book. She was being paranoid. Robbie leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“I’m looking for Dugald Croft. The taxi driver said it was down this way. I think it’s some sort of student housing, like a dormitory, not like an apartment building. Have you heard of it? It’s attached to the university. I’m not a hundred percent certain I’m in the right place.”

“You can’t swing a cat without hitting a university in Edinburgh. Is itDugald Croftyou’re after finding then?” the man asked, loudly correcting her pronunciation.

Her face boiled. Robbie nodded. “My brother lives there. I’m from New York. I just landed actually and I have no idea where I am. I think the cabbie must’ve dropped me off at the wrong place. It’s my fault. I mispronounced the address.”

“You’re not in the wrong place but it’s not student housing you’re looking for. Dugald Croft is a magnificent Georgian manor house built at the turn of the last century. Not open to the public, I’m afraid, miss.”

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