Page 31 of Some Like It Scot
Darkblue. Winter loch blue.
An image of Katie Campbell flashed to mind and my lips tilted in an upward curve. She was a pretty woman with her auburn hair and large eyes. Even the freckles scattered across her nose seemed to call out for my attention. Ridiculous, really. Freckles were commonplace enough. Even I had a healthy dose of them, generously handed down from Mum.
But whatever hid behind those eyes drew me. She was witty and, if I had to hazard a guess, fairly stubborn. My lips twitched again. And the way she quickly apologized for bossing me around, then laughed at herself, came with its own appeal. Yet something about our interaction pointed to carefully protected wounds. Wounds hidden behind her smile and humor.
I pushed my frown into place and gave my head a severe shake before standing and stretching my back. I’d barely made it to my feet when my workshop door burst open.
“This is the fourth one, Graeme.” Mum stepped over the threshold waving a piece of paper. “You can’t keep ignoring the opportunities God’s clearly sending your way.”
The red header on the page flashed clearly enough for recognition. I sighed and turned back to my worktable, putting away my tools to have something else to do with my attention than look at Mum. “Last I heard, the post was private, Mum.”
“I didnae pilfer your post, son.” She pointed the paper at me. “Lachlan collected the mail and”—she shifted her attention away from me, clearly guilty—“I merely helped him carry the post into the house and noticed another letter from the London Artisan Festival requesting your presence since...” With a flourish of her wrists, she flipped the paper in front of her and began reading, “‘Your work has been reviewed by our esteemed artisans and found to be of excellent quality and craftsmanship. We request the honor of displaying your work in our upcoming festival, as well as encouraging you to submit a piece to the annual contest.’”
Her sudden quiet turned me around, and her look needled my conscience like a barb. Mothers had superpower stinging abilities.
“Weren’t you sent a similar invitation from Germany two months ago?”
I walked around her and turned off my band saw, hopefully communicating that I didn’t have any intention of talking about this invitation, the last, or the two before it.
“What are you afeart of, Graeme?”
Afeart?“I’m not.” My shoulder tensed at the implication, and I pivoted toward her. “I just dinnae have a need to travel to those places. My online orders are growing enough for now.”
Her silence hit harder than her nipping. We both knew money was tight. And I refused to take any from Dad or Mum, not when they already did so much to help me care for Lachlan. “But this, Graeme...”The hope in her voice, the faith, urged me far out of my comfort zone. “This will not only get your work out to more people, but it’s what your sister, your brothers, your dad, and I had hoped all along. That others would see your gifts.”
Though my family talked about Greer often, the reference to her in this context hit me in the chest. Parents weren’t supposed to lose their children, and one twin wasn’t meant to lose the other.
But cancer was not a respecter of persons.
“I’m needed here and I want Lachlan to have consistency.” The excuse kept growing weaker with each month after Greer’s death, but the idea of expanding the dream we’d shared didn’t feel right without her. Besides, she’d given me custody of Lachlan for a reason. She knew I’d keep him near the family, raise the boy as my own in this world he’d always known.
I didn’tneedto leave.
The realization ground even deeper. I didn’twantto leave.
I looked over at Mum as she followed me to the door, but she didn’t press the issue. She recognized the weakness in my argument too. Part of me knew it would be good to step back into a life beyond this island, as if Greer hadn’t died, but the other part... well, I wasn’t certain. What held me back? What part of Greer’s death and Allison’s leaving grounded me here?
“Exploring possibilities”—Mum’s voice came soft behind me, almost a whisper—“doesnae mean you love her or her memory any less.”
I pinched my eyes closed for a second, then crossed the small distance from my workshop to the blue front door of the cottage. Was I afraid? And if so, of what?
I opened the door for Mum to enter before following her inside, but she didn’t continue the conversation. The question still waited in the air for me to answer, mixed in with the perfume of wild orchids wafting through the open windows and the scents of coffee and breakfast rashers.
I breathed it in. The blending meant home.
Greer’s spirit still touched this place. Every time I stepped into the cottage, she met me in each corner.
She’d redesigned this house when Lachlan was born, intending to keep some independence while remaining close to family as she raised her son on her own. I’d moved in when she got her diagnosis, to help manage the heavy lifting of caring for the house and Lachlan and... her. Dad and Mum assisted with medications, transportation, and meals.
Calum and Peter pitched in too, as well as various members from Glenkirk and especially our church.
Family extended well beyond blood kin on Mull.
And those were the people to trust, the individuals to pour back into instead of spending my time gallivanting to London or Germany or wherever else.
“Where is Lachlan?”
Almost as if called, the lad walked through the kitchen doorway with an old fishing rod in his hand, Wedge trailing behind him as always.
