Chapter 3
Not being a morning person, I’ve never actually leaped out of bed before. I certainly didn’t expect to do so when I’m fighting
the effects of jet lag. But I’m on a high from my adventures yesterday—bonding with my favorite author, flirting with a boy,
albeit one I’ll never seen again—and can’t wait to see what today holds.
I shower, fight my hair that really wants to give in to the natural humidity here, and end up sticking it on top of my head
in a messy bun. At the very least, it gives a few more inches to my less-than-impressive height.
Once I’m dressed, I head to the private little kitchen where Eileen and Bill are having tea and toast.
“There’s the lass,” Bill says. “How are you faring so far?”
“Pretty well, I think,” I say as Eileen sets a plate of toast and preserves in front of me.
I tell them about meeting Margaret for the first time and the responsibilities I’ll have this summer.
The scene is so domestic, I feel a pang of guilt that I haven’t called my parents yet.
I’m just not sure what sort of mood I’ll find them in, and I’m not ready to get sucked back into their drama.
My parents got pregnant with me on their second date and decided to “do the right thing” and get married before I was born.
They also got married before realizing that they don’t like each other very much. My mom vents to me about my dad, my dad
vents to me about my mom, and any time I suggest they take some time apart, they look aghast and say, You want to break up our family?
When I got the chance to spend the summer in Edinburgh, I didn’t even hesitate.
I arrive at Margaret’s door ten minutes early and debate sitting on a nearby bench versus knocking on those adorable brass
Highland cows. Deciding that being early shows initiative, I take ahold of the ring through one of the cow’s noses and knock.
There’s scuttling behind the door and I hear her voice holler, “Just give me a wee second,” followed by more scuttling. Eventually,
the door swings open.
The Margaret I met yesterday was put together. The Margaret before me now is scattered, at best. Her black hair is sticking
out at all ends; her cheeks are flushed; the buttons on her blouse aren’t through the correct loops. Seeing her this way feels
wrong, like spying or something, so I look down. She has only one sock on.
Either she slept late and was rushing this morning or I’ve committed “coitus interruptus,” and she has a partner waiting for her in the bedroom.
Please don’t let it be the second scenario, I swear to myself. I am not emotionally prepared for that kind of awkwardness with my new boss. I vow to never be early to anything again. Ever.
I’m about to apologize when Margaret says with a happy sigh, “Oh, my dear, the most wonderful thing has happened this morning.”
I pray she isn’t about to tell me the story of how she got laid. I’m progressive—I hope Margaret is getting hers if that’s
what she wants—but I am also a repressed Midwesterner.
“Come in, come in,” Margaret says, shutting the door behind me. “We’ve got to have a wee talk, you and I, and I truly hope,
dear, that you won’t hate me by the end of it.”
“I could never hate you,” I tell her, because I couldn’t. She’s created characters that will be my lifelong friends. She’s
invented worlds I’ve escaped to when my own life has been frustrating or scary or even just boring. Despite all that, there’s
a pit in my stomach, an instinct kicking into high gear. Something’s off and it isn’t just her appearance.
We go to her study, a room I’d happily move into. There’s a gorgeous antique desk covered in papers, various pens and sticky
notes in myriad colors, and an open laptop. Every wall is a bookshelf. She even has one of those sliding ladders. Talk about
living the dream.
Margaret sits in one of two plush, mustard-yellow chairs tucked in the corner of the room and gestures that I should take the other one, a delicate table between us.
“Before we start,” she says, “can I get you any tea?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I tell her. I tried drinking tea at breakfast this morning with Bill and Eileen, and I do not get the appeal. But really, I don’t want to delay the news any further.
What could she say that would make me hate her? Has she decided to change directions with her book, and I suddenly need to
become an expert in the Byzantine era to help her? Or maybe she wants me to use a Scottish accent while I’m here because she
finds my American pronunciations gauche, she—
“I’m seeing someone,” she says. Her eyes sparkle as she brings her hands together in a prayer position under her chin.
“Oh.” Oh. I relax. Margaret MacIntyre wants to have girl talk with me. I can do girl talk. “That’s so exciting!”
“In my next book, I was planning on writing about a woman who rediscovers herself while in a relationship with a younger man,
but I never thought it would happen to me.” She leans in conspiratorially. “He’s only forty-three.”
Huh. Margaret must be older than I realized. “What’s he like?” I ask.
She leans back until her head is resting on the chair. “How do you describe a person who feels new and old to you at the same time? He’s clever, he’s kind. He has the greatest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I tell her, and I mean it. Even though hearing someone else talk about a happy relationship causes
my insides to feel pinched. “Will I get to meet him?”
The sparkle drains from her face, and she sits up. “That’s the thing, Hannah. He was just here on holiday. He lives in Japan,
and this morning he asked me to move there with him.”
I stare at her, uncomprehending.
“I decided immediately that I’m going. What have I got to lose? I mean, look at me.” She gestures to herself. “I’m at a time
in my life where I have to doff the expectations I’ve set for myself.”
“Wow,” I say, struggling to catch up. I can’t imagine moving anywhere for a guy, and here Margaret’s doing it at her age.
“Are you leaving after the summer, or . . .”
She reaches across to touch the arm of my chair, her eyes growing sorrowful. “I’m sorry. I . . . We have an expression in
Scotland: ‘Be happy you’re living, you’re a long time dead.’ I have to do this, Hannah. And I am so very sorry that you’re
the collateral damage in this decision.”
“What about your book?” I ask faintly.
“I’ve learned long ago that I don’t have to chase the muses—those lasses chase me,” she says with a wink.
There’s still an ember of hope in my stomach. She may still want me to stay and work. I may still have this summer abroad I desperately need.
Margaret pats the arm of the chair and stands up. “I’m so sorry, I know this throws quite the wrench in your plans, and you
must think I’m a right fool for running after a man like this.”
I do think she’s a fool. I don’t say so. Every female character Margaret MacIntyre has ever written has chosen herself over
a man. I can’t believe she’s doing this.
“So this job, working for you, it’s . . . it’s . . . done?” I’m undercaffeinated and overwhelmed and nothing is making sense.
I stand up too, understanding only that our conversation is coming to a close.
She pulls me in for a hug. “I feel terrible for disappointing you this way. I’ll pay for your flight home, of course.”
The ember is officially extinguished, making room for panic. I grip the fabric of my shirt and try to swallow. “I can’t go
home. I can’t go back there. Not this summer. I can’t do it.”
Margaret looks at me with compassion. “Again, I am so sorry. Ah, but Hannah. I promise you can figure it all out. You’re young,
you’re smart. The world is at your feet.”
It literally never feels that way, Mags, I want to tell her.
“If you change your mind,” she continues, her face still full of apology, “and need the money for the flight home, you can
let me know.”
My head is swimming with confusion and anger as she leads me out of her house and wishes me well.
Despite the numbness taking over, my feet manage to move one in front of the other as I make my way off her street. I don’t
know where I’m headed but eventually I find myself at the Royal Mile. If I weren’t feeling so hopeless, I could appreciate
the fact that Edinburgh Castle is in the distance, the first castle I’ve ever seen in real life. I’d planned to come to the
Royal Mile on my first day off to appreciate the history, the Scottish baronial architecture. Do some shopping. But I can
barely see it through the glassy lens of my tears.
I’m out of a job, which means I’m also homeless. The flat at Bill and Eileen’s was arranged and going to be paid for through
Margaret.
I’m thousands of miles away from everyone I know.
As dire as that fact is, it’s not even the worst part. The worst part is I never got to share my writing with Margaret MacIntyre.
I never got to hear her tell me I’m a writer.
I start walking faster and farther, pushing through the crowds of the Royal Mile until my feet hurt and the tears I’ve been
holding back stream down my cheeks. Every plan I had for myself just shattered because Margaret MacIntyre got herself a boyfriend.
This is total and utter garbage.
I swipe at my tears, fatigue taking over as subtly as a cannon. I slump down until I’m sitting on the curb in front of a row of multicolored shops, all bright blues and pinks and whites. Tourists and locals alike grumble as they step around me, but I don’t care.
This was supposed to be my summer of escape. My summer of grand plans and ambition. Within twenty-four hours of being here,
it transformed into a summer of complete and total horseshit.
Men ruin everything.