Page 72 of Some Like It Scot
“Och, lass.” I exaggerated a groan. “Dinnae say it like that.”
Her eyes lit with her laugh, and the world tilted back into its rightful place. She walked over to the puffin on the windowsill. “What amazing craftsmanship, Graeme.” Her fingers skimmed over the puffin before she turned back to me. “These are remarkable.”
“Thanks.” I’d been praised before for my work, but her sincere admiration melted through me like a perfect cuppa. “It started as ahobby I did with my grandfather, and then, over the last few years, it’s become... more.”
“Of course it has. How could it not?” She lowered to her knee to examine the puffin more closely. “Well, this knowledge adds a whole new twist on the idea of you as the resident handyman.”
“And butler, don’t forget.”
She tossed a grin over her shoulder as she stood, the look branding my mind. “How could I ever forget! Every manor house needs a butler.”
The way her eyes swept over me warmed me through. And I tipped my head in curiosity, only to have her face flush as she looked away.
She stepped forward to the side table by the couch. I followed her gaze to the paper on the table—the invitation to exhibit my work in London.
“And you exhibit your work?”
Why did this keep coming up? First Mum, now Katie?
I stepped over to her and shook my head. “I’m not much of a traveler. Not with Lachlan, Craighill, and the work.” I took the paper and placed it over on my nearby desk. “Sales are good enough online for now.”
“I bet they are.” She stepped back to the puffin. “But think of how many more people you’d inspire if they saw these in person. I’m sure the visibility up close would only get your name out there even more and you could give up the butlering side job.”
Her easy teasing after I’d been harsh humbled me, and niggled her suggestion a little deeper than I’d allowed before. Inspire people?
“How do you reckon I’d inspire people?”
“Doesn’t beauty always inspire us? I mean, it does me. Inspires my imagination. It’s one of the amazing parts of traveling.” Her finger glided over the puffin’s wing, slow and—though she had no intention of it—seductive. The movement and her admiration shoogled my pulse. “I’ve never seen a real puffin before, and they’re such interesting-looking creatures.”
“They’re a curious lot,” I offered, happy to move the conversation away from its current trajectory. “I’ll have to take you to see them, because even in sculptures there’s no way to do them justice.”
“Well, you must have gotten pretty close to create such detail. They look so real. I can’t imagine seeing your work and not feeling awe.” She leaned close to the puffin. “So intricate. I’ve been all around the world, and your work is just as good as some I’ve seen, and better than most.”
Her wonder kept settling deeper, softening the edge of my reserve. Making me want to... share. Could this be the way people responded when I shipped my sculptures to them and they unwrapped them for the first time?
“It’s a joy.” I hadn’t meant to say it. I’d thought it hundreds of times but never voiced it to anyone, except Greer. The realization shocked me back a step. Why now? Why Katie?
Her smile rewarded my blunder. “Well, I think your joy certainly comes through in what you do. It’s amazing how you can take a piece of wood and create such beauty. What a gift!” She stood and stepped to the kestrel resting on the lone bookshelf in the room. “It’s special when you can find something that really feeds your joy, isn’t it? I find it in bringing people’s stories to life. Trying to find and highlight the beauty in them. I love knowing something I wrote or retold lightened someone else’s day.” Her expression sobered as she stared at the bird. “Too many real-life stories end so hopelessly, don’t they? And it’s a wonderful thing to unearth that one treasure in someone’s tale to bring it to the surface.”
Much like re-creating that one unique curve to a bird’s beak or a fox’s nose. Watching the wood come to life. And this was a glimpse into her heart? What a contradiction, for the woman who wanted to lighten others’ burdens courted her own trouble on a daily, if not momentary, basis.
I studied her. But perhaps one fueled the other? Or the trouble from her own hurts inspired her desire to bring joy to others throughher stories? Just maybe we were both managing our wounds in the same way. “Do you write all the stories you hear?”
She turned toward me, her wet hair curling into waves around her face, bringing out the depths of those eyes. Or perhaps it was the knowledge of what she held behind those eyes that gave them depth and feeling and attractiveness.
“Only the best ones. Or the ones with that golden lining of beauty.” She shrugged a shoulder. “And sometimes the funniest.” Her gaze grew distant for a moment, and her countenance fell. “Some stories are too raw to re-create.”
Her own? Some unspoken grief held behind those eyes.
Rain still pelted the window, and I wasn’t anywhere near ready to have her leave just yet.
“Would you like some tea?” The request came out all raspy and gruff, so I shrugged a shoulder. “The rain’s not let up yet, and the tea will take the chill off.”
Her smile returned with a nod. “Thank you.”
She followed me into the kitchen, where my breakfast table stood to one corner, some bric-a-brac littering one side of it. I turned to apologize for the mess, but Katie had walked to a cupboard against the wall, gaze intent on a few of my carvings there.
“Really, Graeme.” She touched a sculpture of Wedge on point. “As corny as it may sound, why would you ever choose to hide this gift?”
