Page 11 of Some Like It Scot
I shook the thoughts away. “How are Jess and the kids adjusting to the new apartment?”
His hesitation didn’t bode well. “We need more space, but we just can’t afford it right now. Jess is trying to make the best out of the situation, as usual, but I can tell she’s feeling the pinch.”
“Maybe moving away from Atlanta would help?”
“It’s something we’ve talked about, but I’d need to find a solid job before we can even consider that option, and we can’t count on an income from Jess for a while. It’s cheaper for her to stay at home with the kids than pay for daycare.”
“But that means you can’t pursue your art like you’d hoped.” His dream for years.
“I think I may need to hang up the hobby for a while. Mom always said it would never amount to anything anyway, and I want to be a part of my kids’ lives when I’m home from the bank.”
Unlike our dad. But Brett didn’t say that. He didn’t have to.“You’re a great dad. I just wish you could have a little freedom for your dreams too.”
“Katie.” His voice softened with acceptance that I didn’t fully understand. “Sometimes one dream has to bow to another, and that’s okay.” He chuckled. “I love having my family to come home to, even if they’re sometimes loud and stinky.”
“Gross.” I pushed levity into my response, but my heart squeezed a little. Home sounded sweet when he said it. “I’m going to tell Jess you called her stinky.”
“Funny.” Quiet passed between us as I looked out the window into Scotland green. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Clearly one of a kind to put up with you and all your dad jokes.” I felt that pinch in my chest again, but for a different reason. A weird sort of fight-or-flight battle against pressing into what Brett had. Something sweet enough to redirect dreams and plans. “But I hope you can pursue your art someday, Brett. You have a gift and you love it.”
“I hope so too, Skeeter.”
The nickname incited my grin.
“When will you be back at the farm? We’ll come visit.”
Oh, how Brett loved that farm. He’d never say it aloud, but we both knew he loved the old place more than I did. Why Grandpa and Gran left it to me, I’m not sure, except maybe as a way to link me back to my roots when I traveled more days out of the year than not.
“I have an assignment in Kentucky right after Scotland, and then I have a few weeks before the next trip. This time to Spain.”
“Spain.” He released the word with a puff of a laugh. “Someday you may want to land a little while, Skeeter.”
The unspoken implication unearthed something Gran had told me once: “It’s fine to run away from home, but one day home will catch you.”
“You find me a match as amazing as Jess and I might consider it.” I rubbed my palm against my jeans and shook off the unsettling feelings I couldn’t quite define. “Otherwise, I’ll be off now on my little afternoon adventure to a quaint Scottish village in the middle of the most magical countryside you can imagine.”
“Rub it in.”
“Turnabout is fair play, brother dear.”
With the sound of his familiar chuckle in my ears, I ended the call and started for the village of Glenkirk. My maid—which sounded really weird to voice even in my thoughts—had mentioned a path to the village cut through the garden on the back side of the house, so I started down the second floor (or first floor in the UK) hallway of guest rooms toward the back stairs. Reading about Scottish legends while rocky cliffs, ocean breezes, and ancient mountains surrounded me was sure to inspire my imagination for my magazine articles, not to mention my blog. I’d already written up a teaser to describe my introduction to Mull from the ferry.
And my books? This place breathed with some sort of otherworldly wonder.
I slowed my pace down the hallway to take a few photos of the amazing woodwork, which looked new but was so intricately woven into the existing crown molding that it fit perfectly. Those must be some of the renovations Mrs. Lennox had mentioned during the tour. And had she said only half of the rooms were in use? What did she have in mind once the whole house was restored? Surely not just a Downton stage. From the entryway to the views, this place nearly screamed for something more.
I’d just made it to the top of the back stairs when a strangely familiar voice broke into the silence from the direction of the main stairs. Considering an entire hallway separated me from the top of the main stairs and I could still hear his voice painfully clearly only proved the identification of the man all the more probable.
Mark Page, or at least that was his online moniker.
My entire body seized, and I pressed myself against the wall as if my jacket and jeans would somehow become one with the floral print wallpaper. I even pulled my ball cap a little lower on my head.
Why had he been invited to Craighill’s media preview? He wrote sports travel articles. How on earth would he fit into an Edwardian Experience?
“Horseback riding?” His words barreled down the hallway toward me as if in answer. “Of course I know how to ride. Been doing it since I was sixteen.”
I rolled my gaze heavenward and prayed for a secret passage to open behind me and transport me to... anywhere. Even that awful dungeon restaurant I’d visited in Belize.
