Page 57 of Some Like It Scot
What if he was my chance?
The possibility crept right back into my pulse, and like the coward I was, I packed my bag, scarfed down a few more bites of my monster breakfast, wrapped the oatcakes in my napkin for later, and walked out the door.
It’s what I did.
Ran away.
From the note. From the attraction. From the possibility of seeing him today.
But I couldn’t quite shake the nudge that one day I’d run too far away and miss out on something extraordinary.
***
“You need to bring Jess and the kids here, Brett. Your artist’s heart would soak in the views and colors and essence of Scotland like food to a starving man.”
“Touché.” My brother’s dry response pierced my conscience. His family was already financially struggling, and I had to go and stick my foot in my mouth all the way to my hip bone.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He sighed—a painful sound. “We’ll sort it out, but Jess and I have been talking about options. Maybe moving away from the city. Cost of living is really hitting us hard.”
And maybe space to resurrect your art?A talent recognized by Gran and Grandpa, if not the rest of the family... except me, of course. Because “painting” and “photography” didn’t make a real job. Brett had second-guessed his gift since we were kids, and his insecurities became worse after Sarah died. Everything became worse after she died.
“So, this holy island. What’s it called again?”
Deflection. Our primary language. “Iona, and there’s just something about it. A feeling. I don’t know if it’s because we heard about Scotland our whole lives from Grandpa, or maybe I’m hormonal or whatever, but there’s something about this place. As weird as it sounds, it does have a strange sort of holy sense to it. Like God is very close.”
“Which I hear He is, no matter which island you’re on, sis.”
I sighed loud enough for him to hear through the phone. “You’resofunny.” The water rushed up to my shoes in an uncommonly beautiful shade of blue. “Well, it’s nice” came my lame response. Even as a writer, my words sometimes failed.
“So, how goes the Edwardian Experience?” Kudos to his horrible impersonation ofmyimpersonation of Mrs. Lennox.
Dancing with Graeme popped to mind, unbidden. “Unexpected, that’s for sure.” I stood on the shore of Iona, glancing the short distance across the water to Mull. A four-minute ferry ride from one island to the next. “Where have platter-sized hats been all my life?”
“We always had them. Mom wore them to the beach, remember?”
I snorted at that image, scaring a seagull who’d just landed a few feet in front of me. A mist fell. Not really rain, but certainly not dry. And the entire place conjured up thoughts of King Arthur and Merlin—not the parrot—and valiant knights.
Graeme pulling me out of the loch emerged in my head, so I turned back toward Iona Abbey to get my mind back on higher things. There was no shaking the otherworldly, almost sacred feel of this place, even more so than Mull. Mull—and Scotland as a whole—carried some sort of internal draw to linger. Iona somehow encouraged me to... pray.
“So in answer to your unvoiced question...” My brother’s voice called me back to the phone. “What if Scotland is the place you’ve been searching for?”
“Searching for?” I knew what he meant but didn’t want to say it.
“Home, Katie. We’re all trying to find it.” His familiar voice relaxed my shoulders, and I breathed in the clean, salty air. “Sometimes it’s a place. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s both.”
He sounded just like Gran.
Silence followed his words as I stared back up at the Abbey, which was half shrouded in fog. I was a little afraid to ask God if Scotland was home. Afraid He’d answer yes, and then I’d have to figure out what home looked like exactly, how it would work, and how not to screw it up.
“Stop it. I can practically hear you beating yourself up about how you’d ruin your life.”
I huffed. “My thoughts were notthatloud.”
“It’s been a recurring theme for a long time, sis.” His sweet endearment, so intimate between us, brought tears to my eyes. It never got old. That one connection to my family that felt natural and real and good. “You call me out on my insecurities too.”
“Touché right back atcha.” I wiped my eyes and started following the path up the island toward the abbey. For a July day, the island looked pretty empty, except for its colorful array of shops at the ferry drop-off point.
