Page 82 of Some Like It Scot
Before I messed things up worse. Before I didn’t meet expectations.
Before all the charm and delight of the newness of a place and relationship dulled with familiarity and reality.
Because the very real fear lay between wanting to believe in the beauty but seeing only the brokenness. Maybethatbeauty was worth being brave for.
And if Graeme MacKerrow and this little world on Mull proved to be all the wonderful things I feared it might be, would I be brave enough to trust them with my brokenness... and choose to stay?
Chapter 15
Katie
My phone was exploding.
And I was stuck inside an Edwardian-era swimsuit with no hope of escape.
It had been interesting enough to put on the worsted wool serge suit (say that three times fast) when dry, but now that the outfit pressed damp against my body, un-sausaging myself while my phone kept buzzing about a certain emergency left me tangled with my arms stuck over my head, my belly in view, and my lower cello still covered with “ruffled bloomers.”
No way was I calling for help.
There were some imagesno oneneeded to get stuck in their minds.
Me as a headless Edwardian belly dancer was one of them.
At least the beach outing had been relatively trouble-free, except for the instance when Miss Lennox fell out of the bathing machine (read changing room on wheels) into the cool loch water, garnering plenty of attention and a rescue by Logan.
She seemed a little disgruntled that Mr. Logan hadn’t attempted CPR on her.
From the way she was clutching his shirt while “unconscious,” he may have thought she hoped to givehimCPR. I feel certain all sorts of Edwardian etiquette was broken when Miss Lennox’s strength proved greater than Mr. Logan’s resistance and mouth-to-mouth took on a little less life-saving quality and a little more scandal.
My phone buzzed again, and I suddenly envisioned poor Emily finding my tangled dead body already mummified inside the vintage swimsuit.
Lord, help me.
With another tug and a pulled muscle, the cloth freed me and I sighed down on my bed.Worstedwool serge, indeed!
While sliding into some blessed dry, though still Edwardian, clothes, I reached for my phone. Ten messages popped up on the screen. Most from my mom.
My stomach tensed.
Oh no! Who was hurt? Dad? Brett?
Mom:Katherine, I cannot believe you’d attack another person! I was sure you’d grown out of your volatile teenage phase.
What?
Mom:I just can’t believe it. For all the world to see! I knew all along traveling all the time couldn’t be good for you and your mental health.
Where was this coming from? I never hurt anyone—at least on purpose.
Mom:All the ladies at the club are appalled. I’m horrified. How am I going to explain this one?
Brett:Hey, sis. Looks like you’ve got an online enemy among your ranks.
Dave:Are you okay? This isn’t your usual way to get viewers!
Brett:Here’s the link.
I clicked on the link just as another text came through from Mom.
