Chapter Seven
Rafe
Iona stares at me as if I'm a deranged lunatic who escaped from an asylum a few hours ago. Maybe I have done an excellent impression of a raging bastard who's off his rocker. Iona wants explanations, and all I've given her is vitriol and madness. I feel as if I've gone mad, that's for sure. Steady, calm, reliable---those used to be the words most often ascribed to me.
"Get out of my room," Iona declares. "Never come within five miles of me ever again. If you do, I'll file a harassment report at the police station."
I ignore her statement because I have no valid response to give. She's correct. She should file that report and have me thrown in jail again. I use hunting for my shoes as an excuse not to look at Iona. Once I've found them, I have no reason to stay in this room.
Without saying a word, I walk out and shut the door behind me. My feet seem determined to drag across the floor as I head for my room directly opposite Iona's. Yes, I should go into my room. But that's the last thing I want right now. My behavior of late has shocked me more than anyone else. My wife rejected me. My son rejected me. Even the woman I shagged a few minutes ago rejected me.
I don't feel like a man anymore. I've become the beast from that fairytale, punishing a kind woman for my own problems. I doubt Iona will volunteer to rehabilitate me.
As I shuffle out of the hotel, I pull out my mobile and search the built-in maps to search for someplace I can go to cool down and figure out what I hope to accomplish here in Scotland. I should leave Iona alone. Yes, that's bloody obvious. But my son...Toby is all I have, and even he despises me.
Toby, you are coming home with me right now . Oh, yes, wasn't that the clever thing to say to my adult son. Toby has always been trustworthy. I know that. But when I found him earlier, I'd treated him like a child. Naturally, he lashed out at me. I deserved it.
I'm sleeping with a woman twice my age, and there isn't a bloody thing you can do about it. Maybe you shouldn't have broken up our family without a second thought. Maybe then I wouldn't have turned out to be a selfish prick, just like you.
Of course he's angry about that, even years later. I let him believe I'd initiated the divorce. He loves his mum, and I couldn't let him find out what she'd done.
After a long stroll down the streets of Loch Fairbairn, I drop my arse onto a bench that sits at the edge of a small playground. It's full of various things children like, such as a jungle gym. But I don't see any children playing. Maybe they're in school. I haven't a clue what day it is. Monday? Saturday? Who knows. All I can say for certain is that I need to give Toby time to calm down before I try to explain.
I bow my head, gazing down at my hands.
"Ah, there you are. It's been quite a search to find you."
That Scottish voice does not sound familiar. When I glance up at the man who spoke, I don't recognize him either.
The stranger sits down beside me, offering his hand which I do not accept. "I'm Jack MacTaggart. And you are Rafe Knight, the evildoer who upset Iona Buchanan."
"Aren't you so bloody clever? I'm probably the only British male in this town." No, I won't dispute his description of me as an evildoer.
"Not quite. Alex Thorne and his wife Catriona live just outside the village limits."
"I don't know who those people are."
"You'll find out eventually." Jack thrusts his hand at me again. "Let's be friends, eh? The alternative isn't as pleasant."
I'm too exhausted to argue with this bloke about anything, even a handshake. So, I grasp his hand. "Can't say it's a pleasure to meet you. A vague threat isn't friendly. How did you know where to find me? Even I haven't got a bloody clue where I am."
"You're on the high street, one block away from Kirsty Turner's metaphysical shop. I understand you visited the shop earlier."
"By mistake. But where the bloody hell am I?"
My new mate chuckles. "On the high street."
"Oh, yes, that clears up my confusion, doesn't it? A man who has never set foot in Scotland before today should instantly understand the street layouts."
Jack MacTaggart sighs as if I'm an errant child and he's the tolerant kindergarten teacher. "You're holding a great deal inside yourself, aren't you? I can help if you'll cooperate. I'd like to get to work on your inner-directed anger as soon as possible."
I swivel my head toward Jack MacTaggart, suddenly certain that I do not want to go anywhere with him. I've sussed out his agenda. "You're a psychologist or a therapist or something of that nature."
He grins and punches my arm. "Good job, Rafe. I could tell you were intelligent when I first saw you. I'm a psychotherapist, as you correctly surmised. Now, let's turn that intelligence on you."
"You want to analyze me here on a park bench."
"No. I recommend we go to my home. That's where I see my clients."
"Lovely. Do I get a free meal too? Perhaps your wife and children will watch while I bare my soul."
Jack stands up. "Come with me and you'll find out. A wee bit of therapy can't hurt."
I huff. "Can't hurt? That's a shedload of bollocks."
"Sounds like you've had experience with therapy, and it didn't work out for you."
I huff again.
"Give me a chance," Jack says. "If you hate it after five minutes, I won't bother you again---and the session will be free of charge. Does that sound reasonable?"
"I suppose so." I crane my neck but can't see anything beyond the corner across from us. "How far must we walk? I'm knackered."
"No walking required. We'll go in my car." He waves toward a vehicle I hadn't noticed before. A bush had partially obscured it until I bent forward. "Might as well give in, Rafe. If you don't, Thane and Ramsay are on standby to dump you into the nearest rubbish bin headfirst."
I groan and heave my body off the bench. With all the resignation of a condemned man, I tell Jack, "Let's go."
The drive to Jack's home takes only a few minutes, and his car is quite comfortable. I couldn't help noticing a child's toy stuffed into a corner of the backseat. Jack must have a wife and child, perhaps more than one child. Only one wife, though, I assume. These days, you never can tell.
Jack's home is a lovely cottage on the outskirts of the village. He has neighbors close by, but not so close that it would be annoying. I doubt the therapist would care if his neighbors pester him. It's his job to care about everyone. Not that I'm an expert on psychotherapy. Far from it.
The moment we walk into the house, I know I've misjudged Jack. The first thing he does is kiss his wife, who sits on the sofa with a toddler who resembles his father and his mother. The beautiful blonde smiles at me, her green eyes sparkling.
Jack ruffles the toddler's hair. "This is our son, Michael. We like to call him Micky. And the bonnie lass beside him is my wife, Autumn. Say hello to Rafe Knight, mo chridhe ."
"Welcome to our home Mr. Knight." Autumn says with a smile. "Whatever help you need, I'm sure Jack will get you fixed up lickety-split."
I suddenly feel itchy, but I resist the urge to scratch my entire body. "Ah, thank you, Mrs. MacTaggart. I gather you're American."
"Yep. But please call me Autumn. We aren't formal in this house."
"That's kind of you, Autumn. Please call me Rafe." Has she not heard about my rampage through the village? If she's been home with her child all morning, she might not have known about that. But Jack knows all about it.
Autumn smiles. "Good luck, Rafe. I'm sure you boys have a lot to talk about."
Jack grips my shoulder. "Time to therapize you, laddie."
"I don't think 'therapize' is a word."
"Not technically. My wife invented it." He nods toward a hallway. "My office is down there."
Since I agreed to this rubbish, I have no choice but to follow Jack down a short hallway to a closed door. He opens it, waving for me to enter the room, and follows me so he can shut the door---for privacy, I assume. Well, at least I'll have a measure of confidentiality. His office is not what I expected. Don't therapists always want their clients to lie down or at least sit down on a couch? Since I don't have much experience with therapists, I shouldn't have assumed Jack's methods would be identical to those of every other psychologist.
He has a desk, and there is a chair across from it. But I don't see a couch. Two high-back, upholstered chairs are positioned on either side of a window seat. At Jack's suggestion, I approach the window seat and settle onto the nearby chair. Actually, this is a rather pleasant place to sit and have my head examined by a professional. The view is lovely too.
Strangely, I feel more relaxed in this room than I did when I was at home in my house.
Jack takes a seat on the chair across from me. Then he sets one ankle on the opposite knee. "Let's get started. How do you feel?"
"Ah, so you're the cliché-loving sort of therapist." I drum my fingers on my chair's arms. "How do I feel? Like smashing my fist through a concrete wall, that's how."
If Jack is shocked, he hides it well. "Why are you so angry, Rafe?"
"Because I am."
"That's not a useful response. How can I therapize you if you won't cooperate?"
I sense a note of sarcasm in his voice.
Jack waves toward the window. "Try gazing out at the bonnie blue sky, then slowly allow the memories to unfold in your mind."
"Are you trying to hypnotize me?"
His lips curl into a mischievous smile. "Aye. Is it working?"
I've met a number of Scots in my life, though always in England or America or some other country. The Scots I've met in this village are by far the strangest on the planet. If Jack's tactic is to drive me insane, his plan is a roaring success. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
So, I relax into my chair and casually glance out the window. "It is a lovely day. I understand sunny weather isn't the most common sort in Scotland."
"Inane conversation won't make me forget why you're here."
"Because you dragged me to your home, that's why. Showing me your child won't turn me into a sentimental sod. And your hypnotism routine won't work either."
Jack taps his chin with one finger. "Hmm, you are a difficult one. But if I could reform Alex Thorne, I can do the same for you---with or without your cooperation."
I grunt.
And he smiles. "I think you're ready. Now, tell me why you're so angry?"
"Because Iona Buchanan is shagging my son."
"Why does that upset you so much? Toby is an adult, after all. Perhaps he has genuine feelings for Iona."
I grunt again. "She seduced him. That's the only explanation for why he took up with a Scottish woman and never even told me about it."
"How did you find out?"
"Well, ah, you see I...installed tracking software on his mobile phone."
Jack's brows shoot up.
"Yes, I know, it was a terrible thing to do. To be fair, though, I installed that with his permission on the day he went away to university. I sort of forgot to remove it later."
"I see. And you used that software to track him down." Jack tips his head to the side, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly. "Did you read his text messages? I doubt you could've learned about his supposed love affair with Iona any other way."
"Yes, that's how I did it. Toby began texting her regularly whilst he was still in England. Then he and his best mate, Eric Taylor, drove to Scotland without telling me."
Jack studies me for a moment, and my skin begins to itch again. "How does Toby's mother feel about the situation?"
"She doesn't know. My ex-wife rarely sees our son."
The man determined to therapize me sits up straighter and smiles at me as if he's uncovered a vital clue. "Now we're getting somewhere. Tell me about your marriage, Rafe."
Bloody hell .