Page 63 of Some Like It Scot
How had she gotten me to admit something I didn’t even know about myself a week ago? I narrowed my eyes a little.Faerie magic.
“And you’re afeart of it?”
Afeart? My grin tipped a little. “I don’t know.” And my words tumbled out even more. “Maybe I’m afraid of it not being what I hope it could be.” And with whatever Scottish magic she used, the confession slipped from me in a whisper. “Or if it’s that I’m not...”
Her hand reached out to cover mine, pausing my search for words. She studied me in a way I felt all the way to my soul. My body readied for her words, braced for them.
“It seems to me we need to pray you find home, Katie-girl, because every wandering heart needs a place to rest.”
***
A place to rest.
It sounded so simple, and yet it shook me.
Weren’t people supposed to know where home was? Wasn’t thatnormal?
And the idea of home being a restful place ushered up all the summers I’d escaped to Grandpa and Gran’s for refuge. I’d belonged there as a teenager and young adult. My heart had rested on their farm, away from the impossible expectations and criticism I was met with at home.
But when they died, maybe I thought the beauty of such a place died with them. Brett’s words resurfaced: “Sometimes home is a place. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s both.”
Maybe the people were what made the place home. Like how Mirren transformed a simple bookshop into something more.
For some reason, Graeme came to mind and the way he held me as he helped me from the loch. Secure. Strong.
I’d read about that feeling in romance books and had tossed the notion away as mere fiction, but I’d felt it before my encounter with Graeme. With my grandparents. There was something inextricably grounding about my memories with them—of their love.
It wasn’t as if I didn’t believe my parents loved me in their own broken way.
They did all the typical “right” things, like call on birthdays, check in every once in a while, ask if I needed any money, and so on. But the relationship stayed shallow. We didn’t discuss our grief or the people we’d lost. We didn’t share our emotions unless they were positive ones; otherwise Mom’s nerves would act up. And living with a mom whose behavior meant the rest of us had to walk around on tiptoe, and a dad who distanced himself emotionally—I suppose as a way to cope—cast a big, wide, and deep sadness over so many memories.
As an adult, I could now see it and attempt to make sense of it.
Mom deserved some compassion. Dad too. But anger still bubbled beneath my compassion. Alongside a deep sense of longing. Longing for whatever those warm, fuzzy movies portrayed about belonging.
Love lingered long, but so did wounds. But maybe I’d spent more time focusing on the wounds and running away from the pain than I had recalling all the love and allowing the good to heal me.
I gazed up into the sky on my way to the fishing spot. From what I believed and all I’d seen in my grandparents, love could change everything. But whether from the care of a mother figure, the camaraderie of a little boy, the kindness of a handsome Scot, or reminders of the truth in my faith, could I slow down long enough to let love make a change in me?
The morning’s mild temperatures had taken a strange turn into cooler air and darker skies. I pulled my jacket closer around me and continued my walk across the grassy field, a foreboding set of mountains rising up in the distance like guards keeping watch over the island. One peak rose above the rest. The tallest on Mull.
What had the map labeled that mountain?
Ben More.
During dinner the night before, I’d overheard Mark talking with Wake about “bagging a munro.” At first I thought they planned to go hunting, but then Miss Dupont, in her encyclopedic way, explained that a munro is a mountain in Scotland, and the phrase “bag a munro” meant hiking to the summit of one of the mountains.
I stared at the towering vista.
Maybe I could hike it next time I visited.
The thought paused me in my walk. Next time. Hmm... I didn’t usually contemplate things like “next time” this soon into an assignment.
With a shake of my head, I followed the path over the next hill and saw Lachlan down below, already fishing. Wedge’s nose raised to sniff the air, and he turned first, noting me and taking off in a run in my direction.
I rewarded his welcome with a solid scratch behind the ears. “Are you keeping a good eye on that little boy, Wedge?”
With renewed vigor at the mention of his name, he gave me a solid lick on the nose. “That’s good to hear. Mull doesn’t seem to be a crime capital or anything, but I’m glad you’re around to keep things under control.” I loved dogs. Hard to own one as a travel writer, but I embraced the moments I saw them along the way.
