Page 2 of Some Like It Scot
Grandpa and Gran would have loved to see this.
I shook away the unexpected pull to linger in the feelings—maybe even in the view—and redirected my squirrelly brain.
I didn’t linger places.
Never for very long.
Travelingis what I did. Traveling and story catching. Then I brought those adventures to life through words for others to experience. And I sometimes engaged in humorous misadventures along the way, which only increased ratings and readers.
These were only a few of the many reasons why Dave shouldn’t distract me with an editorial position.
Editor?
The word hinged in my brain with cautious—and maybe a little unwanted—curiosity. Like trying food from a jungle tribe in the Amazon. Fifty percent of the time it was going to be tasty. One hundred percent of the time you didn’t want to know what it was made of. But something about the idea of becoming an editor stirred a tiny bit of nervousness in my stomach.
“Because,” came his voice from the phone, “when you see someone with talent in the right places, you want to put them where they’ll make the greatest impact. If you were an editor, you’d improve half a dozen of our other writers within the first six months just because of your skills. That would increase our quality output exponentially.”
I lowered my camera and sighed, loud enough for him to hear.
“This is your boss speaking, Katie.” His tone deepened a little to prove his point. “With Carla retiring next month, I need someone with the skill set to take her place as associate editor forWorld on a Page. You’re my top choice. I don’t ever plan to ask you to stop traveling, but editing would give you the chance to grow as a writer and aprofessional. Give you some structureandoptions. Maybe even allow you to put down some roots.”
Roots? Ihadroots. Sort of. Back home in Waynesville, North Carolina. In fact, I’d inherited an entire family farm (which I barely saw) from my grandparents—a place that held some of my favorite childhood memories. Those two amazing people had offered a much-needed sanctuary from my childhood home life with a passive-absent dad and a super society-conscious mother. And expectations no one, except she, ever met.
“Whoa there, Dave.” I shook my head and took another photo. “I just turned twenty-eight. I don’t think I’ve met my expiration date just yet.”
“Seriously, Katie.” His voice softened, pricking at my conscience a lot more than the “boss” voice. “I want you to consider this. Ireallythink it would be good for you.”
For some reason, when I thought “editor,” I pictured Dave, who looked like a classic fiftysomething, small-town car salesman, who was one of the best guys in town and lived in a white picket-fenced house with his lovely wife, two and a half kids, and a perfect dog.
Settled.
Older.
Which really was ridiculous because I knew it wasn’t true. So why did the idea stick like a splinter beneath my skin? Well, it was not so much annoying as... uncertain.
And this was coming from Dave, who’d basically mentored me from a crummy writer wannabe to now. He was a good-hearted, smart man who cared about me and my professional future. I couldn’t disregard his instincts or faith in me. Gran always said that listening to the people who knew us best was a sign of wisdom.
But... editing?
“I’ll think about it.” I pulled the phone close to my mouth. “But you have to promise I’ll still travel.”
“I promise—if that’s what you want.”
If that’s what I wanted? Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be?
“Over the next few weeks, I’m going to send some articles your way to edit.”
“What happened to methinkingabout it?”
He didn’t even take the hint. “This assignment in Scotland sounds like you’ll have some free time, so when you’re not rummaging up stories or cosplaying like a Victorian, then you can stretch those editing muscles a little.”
“Dave, it’s the Edwardian time period, not Victorian. I’ve talked to enough historians to know it makes a difference. And it’s not cosplaying. The brochure states—several times—that it’s an Edwardian Experience.” Whatever that meant. “No lightsabers or hobbit cloaks.”
“Youstilldress in costume for a few weeks and pretend to be in a different era.”
Three weeks, to be exact—a fact that still felt a little weird. Since beginning the whole travel-writing gig, I’d been careful to keep all my assignments to a week, sometimes less. It reduced the mess. No hard goodbyes, no super-deep conversations.
But Mrs. Lennox, the creator of this new specialty holiday house, evidently had not only an extremely rich, overindulgent husband but one who held some surprising connections in the media world. So various available and quality media influencers from across the travel-writing community had received an invitation to join her on the Isle of Mull for a first look on how to “live as an Edwardian.”
