Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
B ryan absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred thousand percent did not want to attend the ceilidh with his family and hoards of neighbors bent out of shape over the renovation.
But his grandfather’s words, If you ’ re going to be here, then be here , burned in his ears. Being here meant being a part of things like the end-of-festival ceilidh. Maybe if he wanted the town’s support, it was time to stop keeping them at arm’s length. Maybe the same could be said for Grace , and so he had begged her to come with him. It was a rash decision, but it had been late, and he was tired and thrown off guard by seeing her sitting in the window seat, a last-minute addition she’d inspired in his floor plan.
Miracle of miracles, she’d agreed, so now he had to go. But old habits die hard.
Resenting the town for seeing him as a child who couldn’t talk—his father’s stammering mini-me who disappointed them all by eschewing politics—and for refusing to see him as a grown-up when perhaps he refused to act like one, it was all second nature. He’d carried that chip on his shoulder so long he’d forgotten it was there, might actually miss it if he ever managed to dislodge it somehow. But you can’t just blow into town and build an industry if the town doesn’t want you. He needed their support. More than that, he wanted it. Now was the time to show them the man he’d grown into, occasional stress-induced stammer and all.
Thank Christ Grace had agreed to come.
Polite hospitality for the sake of the Americans might not shield Bryan from the worst they could dish out, but if nothing else, having Grace at his side might help him keep his Barra - Bryan temper in check.
He took the old MacNeil kilt from the back of his closet. Like the closet, it smelled of Grandad : of tobacco smoke and oiled leather and sycamore resin. Tears clogged his throat as he breathed it all in and then closed it all back behind the door.
Had it been a truly terrible mistake, coming home and changing everything? Knocking down that wall like it would somehow set him free? Would Grandad have wanted the house enshrined in history, unchanged for evermore as the neighbors seemed to think?
Don ’ t ever let them make you doubt yourself, lad , his grandfather’s voice came to him once more, as though through a portal to the past, staticky, like they were talking down the phone line. You know what you ’ re about.
He’d said those words when the town had laughed at Bryan’s big ideas for recycling, reducing carbon footprints, and saving the bees. He’d used the same words again when Bryan confessed he might like boys as well as girls. Saving the world and saving himself, Grandad took it all in stride. The same advice applied because it was all just part of living.
So Bryan did as he’d done the day he left the island. He squashed his doubts down deep and got himself dressed, everything else be damned.
He looked like a complete tosser in his white button-down shirt, charcoal waistcoat, and matching skinny tie, with the blue and green kilt and flashes on his knee-high socks. He’d debated the flashes when he found them in his grandad’s drawer. Were they too much?
It was all too much.
Turning up the sleeves to expose his tattoo felt more natural. He ripped off the tie so his collar could hang open leaving his throat unconstricted, and he kicked off the stodgy dress shoes, pulling on his favorite tall boots instead. Not exactly traditional, but they made him feel more himself. He left the flashes on as a concession to Grandad .
When he emerged from his room, the Americans were stepping out of theirs as well, and for a moment they all stood in the hallway gawping at each other.
It was definitely too much.
He shifted nervously, resisting the urge to dart back inside and change into jeans and a leather jacket. His hand clenched reflexively, seeking the familiar old worry stone. When would it accept the thing was gone just like his grandfather, nothing left but echoes and memories?
“Wow,” Wesley said, breaking the awkward staring contest. “ You clean up nice.”
Bryan’s face heated, but he cleared his throat. “ You too. And you,” he added, darting a shuttered glance towards Grace . She was resplendent, actually, in a soft cream sweater and silky tartan skirt that hugged all the right curves in all the right ways. Suddenly his collar felt too tight again.
“This old thing?” Wes asked, indicating her own lightweight summer dress, a pale-yellow sleeveless number with stitched poppies sprinkled liberally along the hem. She looked cute, but she was going to freeze unless she planned to steal another jumper off Eòghann . “ I was hoping you might have a bit of plaid lying around I could use as a wrap,” she admitted, as though reading his mind.
“Eòghann will know someone who does,” he said, pretending not to notice Wesley’s blush before he sent his cousin a text.
* * *
The hall was a crush of flushed strangers drunk on their last night of vacation and islanders who’d known Bryan since infancy. When the three of them stepped inside, the very air seemed to thicken around them, clogging his throat so he could hardly breathe, let alone speak.
He powered forward with Wesley on one arm and Grace on the other, telling himself heads kept turning their way because the ladies looked so incredible and not because of him, the prodigal son walking among them once more. His pulse sped up anyway, and sweat began to slick his back and palms. He should have left the damn waistcoat at home.
“You almost look respectable with these two on your arm,” Teàrlach said, approaching with a broad grin. “ I hope you don’t plan to keep them all to yourself.”
“Teàrlach!” Grace exclaimed, dropping Bryan’s arm and gripping his cousin’s hand instead. “ It’s so nice to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Teàrlach agreed, smiling up at her, and Bryan remembered with a pang how they shared a history at the wedding he’d avoided like a coward. “ I fly at daybreak, so if you want to spend another evening teetotaling in the corner being snarky about the drunks, say the word,” he told her with a wink, eliciting a laugh that made Bryan’s stomach do stupid things. “ Eòghann’s looking for you,” Teàrlach added to Wesley .
“I meant to bring back his sweater, but I forgot,” she confessed, overly loud to compensate for the fiddle and pipe band and perhaps for the obvious lie. Even Auntie Eilidh had to know Eòghann would never see his jumper again.
Bryan scanned the room for his older cousin and spotted him on the other side, his gaze already fixed on Wes .
“Hiding in the corner might be wise.” Grace’s voice dragged him back to the conversation at hand. “ These people look like they know what they’re doing.”
“No harder than line dancing. Isn’t that a requirement where y’all come from?” Bryan drawled, and she glanced up at him sharply, her eyes full of both amusement and challenge.
“A rare joke from the Stoic Scot ,” she teased.
“Christ, is that my new nickname?” he asked. “ I assure you, I was quite s-serious,” he added, eyes still locked on hers, hoping his falter on the S sounded intentional. If she noticed it, she didn’t let on.
“You requested a wrap,” Eòghann said, extending a length of gold and red Buchanan plaid to Wesley .
It was a perfect match for her dress, and Bryan smirked at his cousin.
“Thank you,” she whispered, reaching reverently towards the soft, vibrant fabric. There was no way Eòghann was getting that back either. It , like his jumper, would be flying coach back to Tennessee one day all too soon.
“Allow me,” Eòghann murmured, unfurling the yard of plaid and draping it around Wesley’s shoulders, inhaling the scent of her pinned-up hair as he did.
Uh oh . His cousin had it bad, and Bryan knew the feeling. What was wrong with the pair of them? They knew better than to get mixed up with tourists.
And yet, the two looked perfect together, Eòghann in his dusty ancient hunting tartan and black turtleneck, and Wesley matching in resplendent crimson and gold. Bryan tried to catch his cousin’s attention to offer a smug smile, but Eòghann only had eyes for her.
“Care to dance?” he murmured, whisking Wes away before she could decline, not that she would have.
And then there were three.
Bryan watched them leave, envious of how easily his cousin moved in the world. At a ceilidh, Bryan stood out more for not dancing than he would’ve if he’d just grabbed Grace’s hand and led her into the fray.
Picking up the conversation where they’d left off, Grace said, “ My brother wanted the Electric Slide at his wedding, but his English wife wouldn’t hear of it.”
“And how is the lovely Mathilda ?” Teàrlach asked with a certain edge to his tone.
Grace looked away from Bryan and turned back to his younger cousin. “ Lovely as ever,” she said, matching his tone, and he grimaced.
“Had I known D wished for line dancing, I’d have insisted we got one started. I’d have tied up the DJ and risked the bride’s eternal wrath.”
Grace grinned. “ I wouldn’t have dared back then.”
“Shall we make up for it now?” Teàrlach asked. “ I’ll talk you through the steps, easy as landing an Otter .”
Grace looked to Bryan , for what—permission?
“Have fun,” he said, so she nodded her agreement and followed his cousin out to the dance floor, leaving Bryan the most alone he’d ever been inside a crowded room.
Teàrlach was more comfortable and graceful in his wheelchair than Bryan had ever felt lumbering about in his too-tight skin. Most likely a more patient teacher, too. Grace was in good hands.
Not wishing to stare too obviously at her as she laughed and tripped along to Teàrlach’s instructions, Bryan forced himself to look around the community center. Lùcas was over by the drinks table, so Bryan made a beeline.
“You look very dapper,” Elspeth said timidly, intercepting him along the way.
“You too, El . About the other night?—”
“I should have reminded them you’re vegetarian.” She shrugged. “ You know how they can get when they’re excited about a project.”
Bryan cocked his head in agreement. He did know, and maybe he got that way himself.
Elspeth nudged his shoulder with hers and took a pint of amber lager from the table, turning her back to lean alongside Lùcas . It was a good vantage point to watch the swirling dancers unobtrusively.
“Looking forward to having your house back to yourself, now the festival’s over?” she asked.
Was he? He’d kind of gotten used to late-night chats over football and whisky, and anyway, he’d promised the room to young Lùc once the Americans cleared out.
There were more years between Bryan and El than his gap with Cait , which almost made their relationship easier somehow. She smiled sympathetically, seeming to understand his ambivalence.
The back of Bryan’s neck tingled as he selected a dark beer and turned to lean against the table beside his sister. When he did, he came face to face with Old Man Ellis , the neighbor who had spent the better part of a week glowering and shouting at him from the beach as he worked on his house.
“You’ve a lot of nerve wearing MacNeil plaid, young man.”
Bryan sagged and took a sip of his beer. If by nerve the elderly busybody meant anxiety, then he was bang on.
“Once a MacNeil , always a MacNeil ,” Bryan said with more confidence than he felt because fake it ’ til you make it , as Grace would say. Then he found himself searching for her in the crowd as though she were a beacon who could guide him safely away from rocky shoals.
When his cousin had asked her to dance, she hadn’t batted an eye at the fact he used a chair, and if Bryan hadn’t been falling for her already, seeing her now, laughing and flushed, would have sealed the deal.
“If your grandfather was alive, he’d disown you for what you’ve done to his house. Isn’t that right, Nell ?” Ellis called over his shoulder to a table full of pensioners who all nodded their heads in sober agreement.
“My grandfather was an environmentalist,” Bryan said. “ I think he’d appreciate every choice I’ve made.”
“Set your son straight, Cam ,” Ellis all but hollered, shooting an arm out to stop Bryan’s father as he tried to pass by.
“What’s he done now?”
“The house!” Ellis exclaimed. “ We’ve got a petition for an injunction to stop it.”
“There’s nothing to s-s—there’s nothing to stop,” Bryan stammered.
“It’s an abomination! Panels on the roof, knocking down walls, leading our youth astray,” Ellis added, with a nod towards young Lùcas , who cast Bryan an apologetic shrug and slunk away with Elspeth at his heels.
“Knocking down—what’s this?” Bryan’s father demanded.
“Walls, Cameron , whole entire walls! Your great grandaddy dug up those stones with his bare hands, and now they’ve been reduced to rubble.”
“They’re in the garden?—”
“There’ll be nothing left of that house once the lad’s finished, you mark my words,” Ellis went on.
“Whole walls, Ryan ?” Bryan flinched. “ You said you were fixing things up a bit. Making them more green.”
Was it Bryan’s imagination or did his father actually sneer at the word green ?
“I- I - I —” he struggled, and a wave of nausea washed over him as the crowd of angry neighbors grew larger and the pipes and drums and fiddles all faded into a foggy buzz.
“What does knocking down walls have to do with distilling whisky?” his father demanded.
“You’d do better to keep renting it to tourists.”
Oh good, Cait had entered the chat.
“It’s an experiment,” Bryan blurted out, closing his eyes immediately, anticipating the backlash at his poor choice of words.
“An experiment!” someone exclaimed. “ On the oldest house on the island?”
“Knocking out walls is an experiment, Ryan ? What’s next, lighting the place on fire?” Nellie Combe demanded.
“Experiment on the mainland, why don’t you?”
Christ, he couldn’t breathe. Every effort made his lungs feel tighter and his head lighter. He opened and closed his palm, stopping short of twisting his kilt in anxious, empty fingers.
“Not exp-exp-experiment,” he said. “ A p-p-proof of c-c-c— proof of conce-concept.”
If a fault line could crack open and swallow him into the ocean right about now, that would be perfect. He hadn’t stammered this badly since he was a kid, not after his theater classes in Glasgow .
Bryan scanned the dance floor, again but he’d lost track of Teàrlach and Grace . He couldn’t find her anywhere.
“What’s that, Ry ? We can’t understand you when you stammer,” fucking Mitchell Murray from karaoke shouted, and suddenly Bryan was ten years old again, fighting on the playground.
“Proof. Of . Concept ,” he gritted out.
“Proof of concept, he says,” Ellis hollered. “ What’s that supposed to mean, Ryan MacNeil ? D’you plan to knock down my wall next? Tear up every old house on Barra ?”
Old Nellie Coombe gasped. “ I won’t stand for it! You stay well away from my house, do you hear me, Ryan MacNeil ? I won’t stand for it!”
“Aye, no, none of us will,” Ellis agreed.
“I d-d— It’s n-nothing to d-do with you,” Bryan argued.
“Calm down, Ry , take a breath,” Cait said, in a way that he supposed was meant to be soothing, but Bryan jerked as though she’d slapped him, his breaths growing more and more shallow.
“Just spit it out, Ryan ,” his father murmured in that disappointed way he had whenever Bryan couldn’t speak.
“Still as much of a tangle-tongue as he ever was,” fucking Mitchell Murray whisper-shouted for all to hear, making a face and grabbing his throat like he was choking.
Bryan could be wrong, but he was pretty sure this was actual hell, payback for all his many sins, and he would much prefer to simply blink right out of existence instead.
As a kid, he’d had a few exit strategies from this exact scenario, none of which were appropriate for a man of thirty-five. One was to let his fists fly, literally fighting to be heard. Another was to burst into tears, never a difficult feat when they burned so close to the surface of his frustration. The third option was to throw up on the closest tormenter’s shoes. Another few minutes, and he could probably pull that one off.
He never should have dared try to come back to this place.
“What’s the matter with you people?” a familiar American voice demanded, all brash and ballsy and brave, and his chest loosened enough to allow in a tiny whoosh of air. “ You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Suddenly she was beside him, Grace Rios Rivera , giving his friends and family a dressing down that made them take a collective step back, and he sort of loved her and hated her for it at the same time.
“First of all, his name is Bryan ,” she said, the very words he’d wanted to scream for nigh on thirty years. “ Bryan ,” she said again, emphasizing the diabolical B . “ He can say it, and so can you.”
He dragged his gaze up from the floor to peek at Cait , whose own face was turning a dark shade of crimson.
“And secondly, if it’s any of your business what Bryan does with Bryan ’ s property, then you should be thanking him.”
Christ, he loved the sound of his name in her light American drawl, craved hearing it in a desperate sort of way.
“Thanking him?” Mitchell Murray scoffed.
“I know I didn’t stutter,” she said, deadly serious. “ Yes , thanking him. Bryan’s updates are making that drafty old cave cozy and inviting. They’re making it modern and sustainable. They’ll cut his energy costs, and if you still want to rent it out to guests, they’ll be lining up to stay there because it’s going to be gorgeous. Maybe if you ask him nicely, he’ll show you how to do the same thing in your own homes.”
“That’s what we’re afraid of!” Ellis shouted. “ That house is a hundred years old. So is mine, nearly, and it’s fine the way it is. I don’t need him to prove to me that his new ways are better.”
“Good thing he’s not doing it for you then,” Grace went on, and for some reason Bryan found himself rapt, as though it wasn’t his story she was telling, but someone else’s entirely, someone who should be admired for a job well done. “ Bryan has big plans,” she told them, and there was that name again—his name—slipping so easily off her tongue. “ Are you people so self-absorbed you don’t know where he’s been? What he’s made of himself?”
“Something about whisky,” his father muttered.
“He’s a master distiller!”
“Not quite yet,” he demurred softly.
“He’s a whisky genius with an Ardbeg expression all his own,” she went on. “ And he brought his brilliance and training back home to you, god knows why, to build a sustainable distillery right here. He’ll bring jobs—good jobs—and publicity, and tourism, and revenue.
“He could have done it anywhere, but he chose to bring it here to you people like a freaking gift. And all you seem to give him in return is grief. If he’s made any mistake at all, it was hoping you short-sighted, narrow-minded, ungrateful jerks would give him the chance to succeed.
“And if I ever hear you use that expression again,” she said to fucking Mitchell Murray , who’d called him tangle-tongue, “ I swear to god, I will cut yours out and shove it up your ass until you choke,” she said, and Mitchell turned white as a ghost before going bright red.
She finally stopped talking to take a breath, and Bryan noticed Teàrlach nodding encouragement—at himself or at Grace , he wasn’t certain, but it made his heart swell.
With shame-faced murmurs, the crowd dispersed until there was no one left but his father and sisters, and his cousins flanking him like sentries on either side, as the fiddle music came roaring back into his ears. He might have to pull up stakes and leave forever after that humiliation, but it had been something to witness.
“I’m sorry, Ry — Bry ,” Caitriona said, catching herself. “ I had no idea you hated it.”
His father just looked at him long and hard, assessing, passing judgment, and Bryan assumed he fell short of the mark when Cameron took a beer from the table and moved off into the mingling crowd without a word.