Page 1 of Charlie

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Rob told me our marriage was over on my twenty-sixth birthday while I was wiping his cum from the inside of my thighs. The day I moved out and into my parents’ pool house was the same day my best friend moved in with him. I can't stop thinking about them fucking in the bed I picked out.

Bethany has been there for me since I was twelve, through all the times I thought Rob was cheating on me but couldn't prove it. All the times he showed his narcissistic asshole side. It hurt more when I found out she was having an affair with him than when he told me I had to leave. She has my old life, and I have a one-room pool house and no job prospects. Fuck me for thinking it was a good idea to work for Rob's family. I put all my eggs in one basket and look where it fucking got me: a one-way ticket to the worst year of my life.

Arty MacLeod bursts into my life a couple of months into my pity party for one. At eighty-five, his body is shrunken and wrinkled, but his brain is as sharp as a tack. He has an endless list of small jobs for me to do and follows me from room to room, regaling me with stories while I work, his hands moving a mile a minute while he talks.

After helping him for a few weeks, we have our routine down pat. That's why I know today is different the second I walk in his door. He's perched on a chair at his dining table, tea for two spread out on the shiny mahogany.

"What's this?" I ask, slipping off my jacket and draping it across the back of a chair. Arty's dressed in a brown tweed suit, matching bowtie, and a pocket square that bring out the green in the jacket. Harris tweed, he proudly told me last week.

"I have a proposal," Arty says, carefully pouring tea into our cups. I plop a sugar cube in each one as he pours in some milk.

"Do tell, Arty." I sip my tea, pinky up like a good girl.

"Your mother and I were talking?—"

I groan inwardly, already knowing this is going to be a disaster.

"She told me you have a small business?" One thick eyebrow rises above the rim of his glasses.

"I do?" The only thing I've been doing since I met Rob is working in his family's landscaping business. Then it dawns on me. "Well, I did," I say slowly, nervous about where this is leading. "Back before Rob hired me on, I made genealogy charts."

Arty takes a long sip of his tea, waiting for me to elaborate.

"They weren't anything special," I say, shrugging.

"This is not just a genealogy chart, Charlie," Arty says, retrieving a rolled-up piece of parchment from the buffet. It's almost as wide as he is tall. Pushing a couple of chairs aside, he spreads it out all the way to the far end of the table.

I run my fingers along the edge, the paper bumpy under my fingertips. It brings back memories of happier times.

"I forgot about this," I whisper, memories flooding back. It's a months-long labor of love that I had gifted my mother years and years ago. I had practiced my calligraphy for weeks before I felt confident enough to start on the chart, not to mention the hours I had put into each watercolor vignette that accompanied the most interesting ancestors. Rob and I were only engaged at that point. He had still been trying. Kind of.

I found my passion while making that chart and created a successful business – until Rob convinced me to close up shop and work for him. Biggest mistake of my pitiful life.

"This is a work of art," Arty says as he sits back down, motioning for me to do the same. "Now tell me how you did it."

"Like how I actually made the chart?" I ask, trying to understand what he means.

"No, how did you find all of your ancestors? You have eighteen generations on that piece of paper."

I smile. "Well, that comes from being a bit obsessive. My mom was always curious about her genealogy, and I was determined to give her the best gift possible. I researched as much as possible online and then headed to Europe for a couple of months."

"And you made this into a business? You did this for other people?"

"I didn't travel for anyone else. I would research back as far as I could online, which on average seemed to be eight to ten generations."

"Do you have a passport?" Arty asks, nibbling on a scone.

"I do." In fact, I just received a new one in the mail a few months ago. Rob and I were supposed to go on a Mediterranean tour to celebrate our fifth anniversary. He's probably getting ready to go with Bethany. I feel my soul folding in on itself, trying to make itself small enough to escape the pain, when Arty interrupts my thoughts.

"It's settled, then."

I take a deep breath, blinking back tears. "What's settled?"

"I'm sending you to Scotland to research my genealogy and make me one of these." He taps the chart for emphasis.

"To Scotland?" Scotland? Holy shit.

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