Page 17 of Some Like It Scot
Though the poles were simple, the craftsmanship was not. Tiny curves and curls grooved into the wood. Swirls of Celtic variety. A simple silhouette of a dragon or a bird or a mermaid. My fingers glided over the indentations and smoothed over the arches of a few of the poles until I settled on my choice. The pole held carvings of flowers and the moon, and ended near the top with a beautiful woman, her hair and gown swirling down the wood to meet the flowers.
“Ah, you’ve chosen Aine.” Mirren’s grin crinkled.
“Aine?”
“Aye, the goddess of love.” Her brows rose again. “Seems to be a theme. I wouldnae wonder if there’s a secret desire in your heart, Katie-girl.”
TheScottish Kissesbook popped to mind and my cheeks went hot again. “Well, doesn’t everybody want love?”
Whether we’re able to find it or not is the real question.
She didn’t answer but rang up my order while whistling some sort of magical tune that reminded me of a bluegrass ballad from mychildhood. “This afternoon is meant to be a fine day, and the pools will be a good place to start.”
“The pools?”
“Aye, for fishin’.” She nodded toward the pole in my hands. “There are some nice pools down the trail with a few fish and a pretty view just waitin’ to show off some of our island scenery for ye.” Her suggestion, paired with the twinkle in her eyes, gave me the nudge I needed to take a little detour and indulge in a childhood memory placed quite perfectly in Grandpa’s old stomping grounds. “I’d wager an adventure or two may wait there too.”
Why did “adventure” take on a totally different connotation when paired with her mischievous twinkle?
“But first, we must have tea before it gets cold.” She guided my newly wellied feet, my bag of books, and my fishing pole over to the little sitting area by the stove where she’d left her tray. “You won’t want to become peckish while you’re out near the pools.”
I had just taken a seat and filled a little plate with a sandwich and scone when the bell over the door jingled someone’s entrance. Four older ladies, a book and bag in each hand, entered the shop and, in deep conversation about some spy in a downed plane, found their way to the corner where I sat.
With a nod and/or smile in my direction and without any explanation, each lady took a plate and cup from the tray and joined me on the seats near the stove as if they’d been expecting me.
What was happening?
“So glad to have a new one with us today,” said one lady as she welcomed me, took a seat, and opened her bag. “Not often enough we get new ones.”
The next three ladies did the same.
From their bags, they drew yarn balls of various colors, knitting needles, and knitting projects in various stages of completion.
I looked over at Mirren as she took the vacant chair next tomine, her own knitting piece in hand. She leaned close. “This is our Wednesday morning Stories and Stitches book club.”
Book club? I shrugged off the surprise and embraced the opportunity. “How lovely.” Getting involved with the culture always led to some great blog posts and articles. And, like this, I usually stumbled upon them.
“And everyone will love to learn more about you and your history,” Mirren continued. “All of us bring our own stories, don’t we?”
My back stiffened a little. My own story? I wrote about other people’s stories. Not my own. Some places weren’t meant to be explored too deeply.
“I’m much more interested in hearing aboutyouall.”
“Oh! She’s American!” exclaimed an older lady wearing a purple cloche hat that brought out the green of her eyes. “How lovely.”
“Katie, this is Lori.” Mirren gestured toward the hat lady. “And Bea.” The woman beside Lori offered a gentle smile. Her beautiful dark hair spun up beneath a teal headband that highlighted her skin tone, which was only a shade lighter than her hair. “And there’s Blair.” The woman had a full white head of hair and wore round spectacles perched atop a narrow nose framed by two rosy cheeks. If anyone ever looked like Mrs. Claus, this was her.
“And I’m Maggie,” announced the fourth woman, shaking her too-blond-to-be-real head of tight curls and examining me through narrowed eyes.
I pulled my gaze away from her to friendlier faces. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. My name is Katie Campbell.”
An audible response emerged in various ways from the little crowd but, apart from Maggie, ended in more sympathetic smiles than not, with Bea nodding and saying, “But those feuds were so long ago.”
And I wasn’t sure whether to nod my gratitude at not being in peril for my last name or laugh at the idea that my last name could putme in peril. In Scotland. Where stories and histories seemed to carry weight for decades and, maybe, centuries.
“What do you like to read?” This from Mrs. Claus... er... Blair?
“All sorts of things.” Surely book choices couldn’t be as historically controversial as my last name. “Fiction, travel, of course.” I laughed. “History.”
