Chapter 3 #2
My throat tightens. Granny read these to me every summer when I stayed with her while Mom and Dad worked back in New York.
We’d spend entire afternoons on the couch, me tucked under her arm, working our way through Katie’s adventures.
Granny loved that Katie was Scottish like her, and I loved that Katie was brave and got into scrapes and always figured her way out of them.
Those summers with Granny weren’t just visits, they were the foundation of everything I became.
While other kids were at day camps or glued to screens, I was discovering that stories can transport you anywhere, that books can be friends, that reading is magic.
It’s because of those long lazy afternoons with Granny that I fell in love with children’s literature in the first place.
That I chose a creative path instead of following my parents into accounting or healthcare administration.
A career I worked so hard for. A career that’s now behind me.
I close the book and set it back, blinking hard.
“Can I help you with anything?”
I turn to find a woman about my age watching me with kind eyes. She’s a little shorter than me, with long, frizzy dark-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a soft, curvy figure in a baggy moss-green cardigan.
“Oh, I’m not local,” I say. “I’m not here to check anything out or anything. Just... having a look around.”
She laughs, a genuinely warm sound. “Aye, I could tell you weren’t local. I’ve lived in Ardmara my whole life—I know every face in this town. I’m Ellie. Technically, I’m just the library assistant, but since the actual librarian is based at a hub forty miles away, I pretty much run the place.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Blair, and as I’m sure the accent already told you, I’m American.”
“And a fan of children’s books?”
“Yes. I actually worked in children’s publishing in New York... until recently. You know what? I just flew three thousand miles across the Atlantic to escape that world, only to wander straight into a library. Ironic, huh?”
“I get that. People give up smoking more easily than books.”
I decide I like this woman. The laugh, the cute cardigan, the no-nonsense wisdom. It all puts me at ease.
We drift into easy conversation, about the library, about Ardmara, about my first impressions of Scotland.
Inevitably, Granny comes up. I tell Ellie about my reason for visiting and how I’m hoping to find the house she grew up in.
I did want to track it down on my own, but jet lag is once again creeping in and the town’s winding streets have me hopelessly turned around.
What the hell. I reach into my bag and pull out the photo.
“Actually, I don’t suppose you could help me? I only have this old photo to go on.”
I hand her the black-and-white picture. She studies it for a moment, then her face lights up.
“Oh, that’s Douglas Fraser’s house! It’s on Braeview Drive, just past the turn-off for the old kirk ruins.
You can’t miss it. It’s still got those climbing roses, though they’re a bit more established now. ”
She gives me detailed directions, drawing a little map on a scrap of paper when I look confused about which fork in the road she means. Quaint, but probably more useful here than Google Maps.
“Thanks so much,” I say, tucking the photo and map back into my bag. “I really appreciate it.”
“No bother at all.” She pauses. “So, you don’t know anyone in Ardmara, and you’re travelling by yourself?”
When I nod, she brightens. “Well, if you fancy some company later, you’re welcome to come round to mine for dinner. Nothing fancy, mind. Probably just pasta and whatever vegetables are threatening to go off in my fridge. But it might be better than sitting in a hotel room on your own, eh?”
I blink at her, genuinely surprised by this small act of kindness. In New York, librarians are lovely, but they don’t typically invite random tourists home for dinner.
“I... thank you. That would be lovely. Though I should warn you, I might not be the best company. It’s been a long day, and I’m mostly running on caffeine and shortbread at this point.”
“Och, I’ll take my chances. Worst-case scenario, you faceplant in the food and I get a funny story to tell.”
Ellie sketches me a second map, this one leading to her house, and tells me to come by about six. And just like that, I’ve made a Scottish friend.
Following Ellie’s hand-drawn map, I wind my way through Ardmara’s maze of streets, past more cheerful nods from locals and a tabby cat that judges me from a garden wall. Cats, it seems, are the same in any country.
The town is almost offensively picturesque. Every corner I turn reveals another postcard-worthy view of stone cottages with colourful doors or glimpses of the harbour through narrow gaps between buildings.
Braeview Drive turns out to be a quiet residential street that climbs gently away from the town centre. The houses here are older and weathered by years of salt air and storms. About halfway up the hill, I stop dead in my tracks. This is unmistakably the house from the photograph.
The whitewashed stone walls gleam in the sunlight. Just as Ellie said, the roses are more established now, climbing high across the front wall in a cascade of pink blooms. But the arched doorway is exactly the same, and even the little window to the left of the door has the same deep-set frame.
I pull out the photo and hold it up, comparing. Yep, this is it. This is where Granny played as a child, where she learned to speak with that soft Scottish lilt that never quite left her, even after seventy years in Canada.
Standing here, I can almost see her, a gap-toothed little girl with braids and mud on her knees, probably getting into the same kind of scrapes as Katie Morag. Maybe she climbed that rose trellis, or hid behind those stone walls during games of hide-and-seek.
For the first time since I stepped off the plane, I’m sure I’ve done the right thing. This trip, this crazy impulse to flee to Scotland, it was exactly what I needed. Granny would have loved knowing I came here, that I found her childhood home.
I glance around the quiet street. A few houses along, an elderly man tends his garden, and he gives me a friendly wave when he catches me looking.
Everyone here really is so welcoming. Surely Douglas—that was the name Ellie said, right?
—wouldn’t mind if I knocked and explained the connection.
Maybe he’d even invite me in for tea, let me see what the inside looks like now.
What’s the worst that could happen? He says no, and I politely leave.
Go on, Blair. Do it.
So I walk up the short path and knock on the wooden door. The sound echoes, but no footsteps follow. I wait a moment then knock again. Nothing.
He must be out. Oh well.
I step back and pull out my phone to take a picture of the house, trying to frame the shot just like the old photo of Granny. At least I’ll have this to show Mom and Dad.
But as I’m sliding my phone back into my pocket, I can’t resist one more look. Just a quick peek through the front window—not to spy or anything, just to imagine what it might have looked like when Granny lived here. I cup my hands against the glass and lean in, trying to see past the reflection.
The living room beyond carries the clutter of real life.
A sagging couch faces the fireplace, flanked by a jumble of toys that haven’t made it back into their box, while a lopsided Lego tower sits proudly on the coffee table.
Not a show home by any stretch, but it’s got a comfortable, lived-in feel.
I try to picture it years ago when Granny was young, maybe with different furniture and?—
“Oi! Get away from there.”
I jerk back from the window and spin around to find a man striding up the path toward me.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair falling into eyes that aren’t the least bit friendly.
There’s a rough, outdoorsy edge to him, like he spends his days under open skies, not hunched over a laptop in a Starbucks.
If he didn’t look like he’d happily toss me into the harbour, I might even call him handsome.
At his side, a golden retriever wags and prances at the end of its leash, radiating a joy its owner clearly doesn’t share.
“I’m so sorry, I?—”
“Ah. American. That explains that,” he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. Then, louder: “You do realise people actually live their lives in this town, right? We’re not just tourist attractions to be gawked at. How would you like it if I pressed my face against your living room window?”
My cheeks blaze. “Oh my God, I... I really am sorry. Is this your house?”
“No, it’s my mate’s, and I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate someone peering in at him, or at his kids. The man deserves a bit of privacy.”
The golden retriever chooses this moment to strain forward, tongue lolling out, desperate to reach me with what’s clearly an agenda of face-licking and slobbery affection. I instinctively retreat a step, which only makes the dog more determined until his owner gives him a firm tug back.
“I wasn’t—this was—my grandmother—” I’m flustered and tired, and the words don’t come out right.
The man shakes his head, and I catch a flash of green eyes that would be gorgeous if they weren’t filled with disdain. “Oh, brilliant. Another American over here tracing her roots.” He actually does an eyeroll.
That does it. “Excuse me?”
He goes on glaring at me.
And here I’d been thinking everyone in this adorable little town was friendly and welcoming. Apparently, I’ve found the one guy who missed that memo. The one person who thinks being a complete ass to strangers is acceptable behaviour.
The really annoying part? Though he’s not said much, his accent is criminally hot. Low, rough, and distinctly Scottish in a way that does inconvenient things to my pulse. Which only makes me more irritated with him, and with myself.
“You know what?” I snap. “Forget it.”
I brush past him and stalk away as fast as my legs will carry me, my face burning.
So much for Highland hospitality.