Chapter Twelve
Eric
Toby seems happier today, the day after our intense conversation with his father. Rafe isn't a bad guy, but his temper makes me worry about Iona. I mean, the guy basically admitted that he can't control his wild mood swings. Toby never mentioned those to me. The first I heard about it was during the weird therapy session Jack MacTaggart arranged for my best friend and his father. I went along for moral support.
Why would Iona hang around with Rafe? She deserves a hell of a lot better than a British guy with mental problems.
Iona can't like Rafe. She can't want to have a relationship with him.
I decided to hike into town alone since Toby wanted to sleep. I'm starving. Granola bars won't sustain me for long. So, I'm heading out to get supplies, and I plan on bringing food back for my best friend. He'll feel better after a good rest and a good meal.
I stuff my cell phone in my jacket and my wallet in my hip pocket. Ready to go. My hike to the village doesn't take that long. Our campsite is only about a quarter mile away. That means I arrive looking like a tourist instead of a creature in a horror movie.
My food options are minimal---the café or the grocery store. I'm not in the mood for a restaurant, but option two gives me a great idea. So, I schlep down the sidewalks and side streets until I find the grocery store, which I've learned is known as "getting the messages" here in Scotland. Yeah, I searched the web for that info. Not sure what I expected, but the Scottish grocery store looks pretty much like the ones in America and England.
There's also a section for locally grown and traditionally Scottish foods.
Should I buy haggis? Nah, I don't need to go totally native just because I'm here for six weeks. Besides, my plan for today is to cook a nice meal for Iona and surprise her with it. I don't want to make anything too Scottish since she must eat that kind of stuff all the time.
No, I plan on crafting a romantic dinner.
But, uh...what would a woman think is romantic food? Back to the internet for more ideas.
An older couple notices me hunting around at the meat counter and approaches me. The man says, "Laddie, what are ye looking for? Maybe we can help."
"Wow, that's really kind of you. I'd love some advice."
The woman clucks her tongue at the man. "How rude of you. We haven't even introduced ourselves. I'm Senga McPhee and this is my husband Ivor."
I shake both their hands. "I'm Eric Taylor. It's nice to meet you, Mr. McPhee, Mrs. McPhee."
"Call me Senga."
"Aye," her husband says. "Dinnae be formal. I'm Ivor."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Let's help you find a romantic meal for your girl." Ivor winks. "Senga knows all about my dinners. They always make her randy."
"Oh, you scamp," Senga says while blushing.
The older couple does give me great advice about how to impress Iona with a fancy dinner, though I didn't tell them who my girl is. Not sure Iona would want everyone to know I made her a romantic meal. I never used to have so much trouble with women. But the moment I first saw Iona, I knew she was the one for me.
Am I crazy? Maybe.
But I want to make Iona feel better after the way Rafe Knight harassed her, and I don't think that's insane.
After leaving the grocery store, I waste a few bucks on a taxi ride to Iona's house. I give the driver a good tip, and he thanks me with a grin. Iona's car is in her driveway, so at least I know she's here.
I knock on her door and wait.
The door swings open---and Iona stares at me like she isn't sure who I am. "Eric? What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you." I raise my bag of groceries. "And to feed you."
"Eric, honestly, I am not your girlfriend. I ate earlier, anyway."
"But how much did you eat? You must be stressed out after the debacle Toby's dad caused."
Iona sighs and shakes her head. "I'm a journalist, Eric. I deal with all sorts of obnoxious people. I broke the story about a local teacher who was embezzling school funds, and that bod ceann threatened me with physical harm. If that didn't upset me, nothing can."
"At least let me show you the groceries I bought."
She sighs. "If you insist."
Okay, I'm a little disappointed that she isn't excited about the meal I want to create for her, but I can deal with that. I did surprise her, after all. Aren't women supposed to like romantic surprises? I've always had pretty decent luck with girls. But Iona Buchanan isn't a girl. She's a full-fledged woman who has grown children and is a tough journalist. Still, I'm sure she'll appreciate my gift once everything is cooked.
Iona finally swings the door open all the way to let me in.
But she still seems less than enthusiastic about dinner.
I brush aside my mild disappointment and let Iona lead me over to the open kitchen, where she stops us on this side of the island-slash-bar. "Here you are. Do what you like, and I'll wait in my office. I have work to do."
"Sure, yeah, that's fine. I'll shout when everything's ready."
Iona gives me a tight smile, then disappears down the hall.
Maybe she just can't envision me, an American man, crafting a meal that a Scottish woman might enjoy. But Ivor and Senga gave me great tips and even helped me choose the best cuts of meat, not to mention suggestions about how to make a meal truly romantic by choosing appropriate spices and seasonings. I took notes on my phone so I wouldn't forget everything they said.
Now, I move behind the bar-slash-island and get to work.
Turns out, I love cooking---and I rock the meal prep. The instructions my cooking gurus gave me say it'll take two hours to get everything ready. But it actually takes two hours and forty-five minutes. Yeah, I timed it. Once I've got the table set and the mood music playing, it's time to escort the lady to her table.
I jog down the hall and poke my head into Iona's office. "Dinner is served."
She jumps up and lays a hand over her belly. "Och, it's about time. I'm fair starved. How long does it take to make sandwiches?"
"What gave you the idea I was making plain old sandwiches?" She told me earlier she wasn't hungry, but now she's famished. Women are so confusing.
Iona walks up to me and shrugs. "You're a young man. Laddies your age dinnae want to learn how to cook."
"Well, I'm not your average adult male in his twenties." Okay, maybe I'm kind of peeved that she called me a young man. That makes me sound like I'm a kid with a crush on his hot math teacher. "Come on, before the food gets cold."
I offer her my arm.
She compresses her lips, then sighs and gives in.
As we exit the hallway, she gets her first look at what I've done for her. She'll be impressed, for sure. I went to a heck of a lot of trouble to whip up this meal, which could probably qualify as gourmet.
I pull out a chair for her, and she sits down, politely smiling at me.
Before I can even get started explaining the dishes, Iona stabs her fork into one of the two chicken breasts and starts hacking away at it with her knife.
"That's Caprese stuffed chicken," I announce. "Seasoned and perfectly seared, stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella, and fresh spinach."
Iona mumbles something, but the food jammed into her mouth muffles whatever she said.
"Don't forget your salad," I say. "It's got balsamic honey roasted figs and halloumi. That's a kind of cheese."
Iona mumbles again while stuffing her face.
"For dessert, I made chocolate strawberry shortcake."
The woman I'm trying to impress grunts and continues gobbling up her food like she hasn't eaten in several days.
I give up and sit down at the table opposite her. All I do is pick at the food, too bummed out to really enjoy it. Iona treats her dessert with slightly more appreciation.
Once she's done, she sighs and smiles contentedly. "That was fantastic, Eric. You're a good friend to make a meal like this for me."
And there she goes again with the "friend" bullshit.
Iona rises and yawns. "I'll wash the dishes in the morning. Good night, Eric."
"But---"
She marches over to the door and yanks it open. "I said good night, Eric. I'm jeeked after eating so much."
Iona ate everything on her plate. What else can I do? I leave and trudge back to the tent Toby and I have been sharing.
Women are crazy.