Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
GAVIN
Spoiler alert: I don’t want to be just mates with Callie.
I want to be more. I want to take her behind the stone doorway into what’s left of the shadowed tower and kiss her senseless.
The overwhelming look of gratitude on her face when I taught her a simple Gaelic phrase was almost too much right there.
But I’m glad I contained myself, or her sister would have had a front row seat to my lack of self control.
“How do you get anything done living here?” Tom asks, looking over the valley to Glenbruar below.
“I don’t come up here very often,” I tell him. What do Americans think we do all day, roam the moors in our kilts while herding our Highland coos and admiring the views?
Luna nods. I wonder how many of these questions she had to field when she first took her parents to the Cotswolds, where she now lives with Rhys. “Can we see your house from here?”
I locate the house and barn, Patty’s ahead and Donald’s beyond.
There are too many trees to really see them, but I point out the general area.
“It’s on the far side there. If you look closer, my Granny and Grandad live on this side of town in the white house there, and they have a good view of the castle most of the year. When the skies are clear.”
“So not most of the year?” Tom jokes.
“They don’t live very far,” Callie says. “We can drop in and see if they’d like to come decorate those gingerbread houses tonight.”
“They’d love to meet you,” I tell Mr. and Mrs. Winter.
“We can invite your parents, too,” Mrs. Winter says.
“Oh, they’re staying with us,” Luna says. “I think they were sleeping late this morning.”
“They might have gone out for coffee.” Callie tucks her hair behind her ear. “They like going out for it more than the homemade stuff.”
It’s sweet of her to come up with reasonable excuses, but I know my mum is probably anxious about meeting more new people and making herself scarce. Again, why she’s chosen to stay with me is a complete and utter mystery. It doesn’t make sense.
We climb down the hill again, and I take a few pictures of the Winter family with the castle in the background. “I wish Rhys and Oliver were here,” Mrs. Winter says. “These aren’t complete without them.”
“We could coordinate better and come back.” Luna looks as though her mind is turning. “Get a good family photo.”
“Yes. Let’s plan it,” Callie agrees.
Granny won’t mind the drop-in visit, so we leave the castle and head straight to her house. I pull up the lane and park behind her blue car, then kill the engine. The whitewashed stone house looks the same as it always does, a green wreath hanging on the door, but something is off.
I scan the lane and mossy stone wall lining the property between Granny’s house and the neighbor’s, but can’t put my finger on it.
We climb out of the car and start toward the house when the door swings open. Granny stands there, a smile spreading over her lips. Her white hair falls just past her shoulders and she’s wearing reading glasses on a chain around her neck. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Hiya, Granny. We’ve brought Mr. and Mrs. Winter to meet you.”
“Come in.” She gestures us all in, her chunky jumper swallowing her thin frame.
When my feet reach the step, I kick the snow from my boots and it hits me. I glance to the road again, then back to my grandparents. “Where’s Mum and Dad’s campervan?”
Granny’s mouth hangs open, then closes slightly, as though she’s struggling to know what to say.
Grandad comes in from the parlor. “What’s all this?”
“My parents have arrived. Maeve and Tom Winter,” Callie says. “You’ve already met my sister, Luna Norland. Her husband is good friends with your grandson, Hamish.”
Grandad grunts. “Aye, we’ve met. Come in. You’re letting the heat out.”
We all file into the parlor. The sofas are worn but well taken care of, the photographs old but polished. Knickknacks line the shelves, telling a story of Granny and Grandad’s life, his military service and her shooting trophies.
“Should I put a pot of tea on?”
“I don’t think we’ll stay long enough. We’ve planned to decorate gingerbread houses this evening after dinner.”
“Would you like to join us?” Mrs. Winter asks.
“That would be nice,” Granny says. “Hamish?”
“Hm?”
“Shall we go to Gavin’s house tonight?”
“Will he feed us?”
“I will,” Tom says. “It’s our turn to make dinner tonight. We’re having shepherd’s pie.”
“With beef,” Luna says. “Not mutton.”
“Hm,” Grandad says again.
I’m stuck on the missing campervan. Is that why my parents are staying with me? Why they’re driving Grandad’s truck? If it was in the shop, they wouldn’t be acting so strangely about it, surely. Something feels wrong.
“So, Mum’s campervan—”
“It’s better coming from your parents, Gav,” Granny says.
Grandad makes a frustrated sound. “You think he’ll hear the truth from them?” He shakes his head slowly. “I knew he wasn’t buying a better campervan. I knew it all along.”
Granny rolls her eyes. “We don’t know for certain. Gav, what are you getting your parents for Christmas?”
Not that. My stomach rolls. Bile climbs my throat. Whatever scheme they’ve cooked up this time sounds far more expensive than any they’ve done before. The Winter family doesn’t need to be part of this conversation.
Callie must have picked up enough to sense what’s going on. She points to the shelf on the opposite wall. “How many children do you have, Nessa?”
“Three,” Granny says. “My daughter married an Englishman and went off to Wiltshire, my other daughter married Don and stayed in Glenbruar, and my son lives thirty or so minutes from here.”
Grandad frowns.
“We should probably be on our way if we want to leave enough time to make caramels and fudge,” Luna says.
“Are those for the gingerbread houses?” Granny asks.
“Just Christmas traditions,” Mrs. Winter says.
Luna plays with her necklace. “We usually make enough to give to our neighbors and sing carols while we deliver them, so I hope you’re prepared to hear a few songs while we decorate houses tonight. We’ll need to sing for it to feel like Christmas.”
“You are the reason Violet must sing as she hunts for a tree,” I say.
“Or use the bathroom,” Callie adds.
Mrs. Winter raises an eyebrow. “Or eat her breakfast, evidently.”
Luna tosses her hands up in surrender. “Violet isn’t my child. You can blame that one on Ruby or Hamish.”
“We’ve never really sung carols much,” Granny says. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to it. Has your mother joined in, Gavin? She has a lovely voice.”
Coming here feels like a mistake. I clear my throat. “Mum and Dad have been busy. We haven’t seen much of them.”
There’s an unreadable expression on Granny’s face.
We say our goodbyes. We’ll see them shortly for dinner and to decorate gingerbread houses. Granny pulls me aside at the door and gives me a hug.
When her mouth is near my ear, she lowers her voice so only I can hear. “Reserve judgment until you’ve heard the entire story from your parents.”
“That isn’t promising.”
“It could all be a grand misunderstanding. That’s all, love.”
“I see.” Granny, as always, wants desperately to believe the best of her daughter. My cynical heart will not cast shadows on her doorstep. I frame my face into the pleasant smile she’s used to. “I’m sure you’re right.”
She relaxes immediately. “We’ll be there shortly.”
“Grand.”
In the process of coming home and making enough royal icing to cover our gingerbread village in a blizzard, Maeve granted me permission to call her by her name as well.
Either this family has grown informal since Rhys joined them, or they really don’t view me as a threat to their daughter’s locality, because they’ve brought me under their wing faster than heather takes to a hillside.
I’d be lying if I tried to pretend I didn’t love it.
Cooking has always been a necessity of mine—a skill I learned so I wouldn’t have to eat beans on toast for dinner most nights when I was young, then more fully developed as I grew older.
But baking has just been a hobby. I’ve honed the skill over the last few years since I’ve needed something to work on while my mind needed a break from illustrating and writing children’s stories, and I found it in the kitchen.
Spending the day with Maeve in the kitchen has been a Christmas joy I didn’t know I wanted.
Rhys has been in and out as he’s had time.
Hamish doesn’t cook, but he’s sat at the table and visited with us, too.
This house has a large kitchen and a table made for entertaining.
Sitting alone at it night after night has been haunting over the last three years.
It’s meant to be filled with people and noise and the bustle of family like it has the last few days.
Especially today, with all the different projects going on and every surface being covered in something cooling or setting.
The houses have been assembled and are drying on the table, jam drops are taking up the space by the toaster—though Maeve calls them thumbprint cookies. They taste the same.
“We should have Christmas music on,” she says now. “Don’t you think so, Cal?”
Callie leans against the counter, licking a silicone spatula covered in royal icing. “I like music.”
Both women look at me. “I have a device in my bedroom. One of those Alexas. I could bring it down here.”
“Oh that’s perfect! I’ll get started on the caramels, you get the music, Gavin.
” Maeve reties her apron and glances around the kitchen.
“Rhys has the space tomorrow, so we need to get through everything today. I think we only have the caramels left, though, and Dad should start his fudge soon. Cal, you’re on dishes.
Can you get all these cleaned up? I’ll be using them again. ”
Callie takes one more lick of the icing and shoots me an amused glance. “We don’t have to put up with this. We can mutiny.”
I step closer to Callie, taking the spatula from her hand and dropping it in the sink. “And surrender these caramels I’ve heard so much about? Not a chance.”
“I like this one,” Maeve says, dropping a mixing bowl in the sink with a few measuring cups. “Can we bring him back to California with us?”
“Do you really think he’d sacrifice this house?” she counters.
Maeve hikes an eyebrow. “We live in a beautiful place too.”
“Aye, I’m sure you do.” I’ve never been to California, but I wouldn’t be opposed to a visit. “Not sure I could live without my Irn Bru, though.”
“You can ship it in,” she says, dropping butter in a pot on the stove.
Callie laughs. “Mom, enough. Leave the poor man alone.”
I love it. I don’t want it to be enough. It’s nice to be wanted by a parent instead of waiting around for them.
“We have horses,” Maeve says. “We live on a farm that backs up to a gorgeous mountain, too. We’re surrounded by vineyards people travel from all over to visit.”
“You sound like a tourist ad.” Callie rolls her eyes and grips my bicep. Is it too late for me to flex? Aye, it would probably be obvious now. She pushes me toward the door. “Quick, run while you can.”
“Music!” Maeve calls to my retreating back.
Callie’s laugh is music enough, chasing me through the living room while I head to my room for my Echo device.
I catch a whiff of pine from the tree as I pass and share a glance of amusement with my cousin.
He’s always been quiet, but even he is comfortable in this messy family, in the middle of a conversation with Rhys and Tom, Ruby snuggled into his side while the kids play on the rug in front of him.
It grows dark so early this time of year that the lights come from inside the house only, and they’re warm, especially when paired with the fire.
Everyone is wearing jumpers and woolen socks, and the vision is homey and snug in a way that tugs at my chest.
It throws me back to those evenings before everyone arrived, when Callie and I played her Garbage game and ate together and talked. It felt like we were playing at house, only neither of us had feelings for the other person.
Now, things are different.
I rub the back of my neck as I climb the stairs and try to push all those thoughts from my mind. It’s senseless to dwell on what I wish for when it’s impossible.
My parents aren’t home, but I knock anyway and wait a few moments before going inside. The room is a mess. Clothing is strewn on the chair in the corner and over the edge of the bed. An explosion of items has come out of Mum’s suitcase, but she never was very tidy.
Right. Stay on the mark. I go for the device in the corner and unplug it, wrapping the cord around the hockey puck-like speaker device while my gaze sticks to the bedside table and the laptop precariously sitting open on the edge there. Strange.
Why would Dad need to use my computer if he has one at his disposal?
Nothing about this is sitting right, of course. It hasn’t since the moment they walked through the front door, asking to stay here after three years of steering as clear as possible.
The reasonable adult thing would be to try to have a conversation about this, so that’s what I need to do.
But I should move the laptop back on the table so it doesn’t fall.
I push it gently, and a sheet of paper falls to the floor.
Great. This is getting worse. Something tells me to leave the paper there, but I don’t want my dad to come home and be suspicious, so I pick it up and lift the computer without looking at it.
My finger must have hit a button, though, because the screen glows to life.
Of course, Dad wouldn’t have a password.
Grandad was right. They’re expecting a campervan for Christmas, evidently. Because they’re looking at Highland Campervans’ website. I choke when I find the price of the Fiat they’ve bookmarked. Eighty thousand pounds.
How rich do they think I am?
Okay, to be fair, Leo and Johnnie is still doing very well for me. But this is ridiculous. I already give them so much. I drop the computer over the paper and turn around to find my dad standing in the doorway, looking at me, and the blood whooshes from my body.
I’ve been caught.