Page 32 of Priceless
He blinked a few times, saw Vonnie still standing in front of him. “Did ye tell them all?”
“I did.”
“Good. Now, make a sign and put it on the front door. But write it in Gaelic, do ye hear? I don’t need tourists coming in here asking what it’s about.”
“As a matter of fact,” Vonnie said, “I’m doin’ the askin’. The name Jocko is painted across the buildin’. Just what’s wrong with sayin’ it aloud now?”
He shook his head. “One day soon, I’ll explain. Just not the now.”
“Not the now. Any reason it cannae be the now?”
“All the reason in the world, lass. Now, get on with it.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just go check on everyone whilst yer at it.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I stepped out of the narrow hallway, the wordloostill felt odd to me. The next time I needed a bathroom, I didn’t know if I could call it a loo, but it was less embarrassing than calling it a toilet. Toilet was just too vulgar. The woman at the hotel in Edinburgh had called it anensuite, and that was almost worse, more pretentious.
So, loo it was.
Apparently, the British and Americans didn’t speak the same language after all.
The pub was dark thanks to the dark green trim and the rich tone of wood that made up the walls and the booths. The latter had high partitions that made each booth seem like a private little box with an opening only wide enough for a waitress to step through. And those partitions kept the light from reaching too far, leaving pockets of shadows in odd places.
Thick beams crisscrossed the low ceiling, so close overhead I could imagine the sound of someone’s boots on the floor above. Along the walls, framed black-and-white photos hung in no particular order—men with weathered faces, fishing boats, and a rugby team lined up in mismatched jerseys.
This wasn’t a bright shiny place for luring tourists. This was homey.
A shelf ran the length of the far wall, lined with bottles in every shape and color—amber, blue, green, clear—with labels that looked older than I was. Beneath that shelf, a low fire burned in the fireplace, its flames snapping quietly in their own little world.
I made my way back to my table, a small square one near the fire. Soon after I sat, the large man from the kitchen doorway came around from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a folded towel. He was tall, with broad shoulders, a strong jaw. His hair was dark blonde with gray at the temples, sideburns, and short facial hair. Along with the deep laugh lines that fanned out from his eyes, he couldn’t be a day under fifty.
Handsome for sure. Must have been a lady-killer in his youth.
His eyes flicked to mine, then away again, though he continued in my direction. They were dark, but not brown. Blue maybe. He slowly handed me a menu like it was his baby and he didn’t know if he could trust me with it. Then his eyes met mine again.
“Thanks,” I said.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. After a few seconds, he stopped trying and clamped his lips together before giving me a nod and turning away. The lighting wasn’t bright enough to know for sure, but he might have blushed. Maybe it was the heat from the fire. Or maybe he’d already been drinking.
I suddenly remembered that he hadn’t been able to speak when I’d asked for directions to the restroom either. He’d only pointed. So maybe he was mute.
How very sad. I would have imagined a man like that would have a nice deep voice. And with a Scottish brogue, he could have melted a lot of knees.
I flipped open the menu. The left side listed things that were mostly recognizable. Fish and chips, steak pie, haggis with neeps and tatties. Cullen skink—whatever that was—and finally, a Scotch egg with mustard sauce. The right side felt more like the café back home had been invaded by a chef with something to prove: venison sliders with bramble jam, smoked salmon on oatcakes with crème fraîche, a blue cheese and caramelized onion tart. Under desserts, there was a sticky toffee pudding with a picture that made my stomach growl.
I’d never been in a pub before, let alone a Scottish one, but if the food was as good as it sounded, I might just have to trust everything else Jocko had put on my itinerary.
Jacob metVonnie coming out of the kitchen as he was diving back in. “Go take the woman’s order. Table seven. I gave her a menu is all.”
“The American?”
“Aye.”
She frowned. “Peelie-wallie are ye?”
“I’m fine.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
