Chapter Twenty
In which there is afternoon tea and revelations.
Scarlett…
As I’ve gotten older, it’s been harder to remember my mother, how she laughed, the feel of her hugs, the warmth of her concern. I have a feeling, though, that she would be a lot like Mala.
She exudes a calm confidence that’s very reassuring after that surreal photo shoot.
“I could offer tea,” she says, leading me into the mansion’s great room, “but I’m thinking it’s not too early for a glass of wine.”
Thinking of the hangover I woke up with, I gulp and say, “Maybe the tea? I had… a night.”
Mala laughs lightly. “Welcome to a very long line of MacTavish women who woke up feeling the same way after their wedding. I’ll go order tea, why don’t you relax for a moment? That photoshoot and catcalls from the Russian peanut gallery must have been an ordeal.”
While I grew up surrounded by luxury in our house in Boston, it doesn’t compare to the MacTavish estate. The main hall soars up two stories with a glassed-front entryway squeezing in all the light the weak Edinburgh sun is willing to give.
The great room is centered around an enormous fireplace - I’m sure Wallace loves this room - deep, substantial-looking leather couches and a gleaming herringbone floor. The floor to ceiling windows look out on the front entryway with a circular driveway and the very tall and substantial gate.
Settling into one of the nice, squishy couches, I take my first deep breath of the day. In fact, I don’t feel like I’ve caught my breath since Wallace saved me from being immolated along with my family’s office building.
“Trying to catch up?” Mala’s back with a big tray of tea and cakes and little sandwiches. “I must admit, I wasn’t much of a tea drinker when I lived at home back in the states. But once you add all the pastries, it starts making sense.”
“Where are you from?” I accept the cup from her, it’s a soothing green tea.
“San Francisco, originally.” A shadow crosses over her face. “I understand being raised in a crime family.”
“Not a happy beginning?” I venture.
She shrugs. Mala must be in her late fifties, but she looks a decade younger, her auburn hair is still bright and she’s lean and strong.
“I have more of a Zen perspective these days,” she says, eyeing one of the little pink frosted cakes. “Everything I went through brought me to Cormac, so I can’t regret a thing.”
“Being Zen sounds lovely,” I sigh. “My life’s been pure chaos since I lost my father.” Am I volunteering too much? Being too needy? I stuff a little sandwich in my mouth.
“Cormac told me about how Wallace found you. He said Wallace was so horrified that he could barely speak about it. My nephew has an… exquisite gift for making fire. But he would never kill an innocent.”
“He risked his life to come back into that building to save me,” I say.
“Has Wallace shared anything about his life with you yet?” She’s watching me closely.
“No. And it’s infuriating. He - and your husband - have a very thorough background report on me, probably right down to the fact that I failed calculus in high school.”
“Oh, I was terrible at math,” Mala agrees.
“The point being, this has been a wildly unbalanced…” I flounder here. A relationship? I can’t even say the word marriage. “Situation,” I finish awkwardly. “So, I would very much like to know more about Wallace.”
“Most of Wallace’s story is his to tell,” she says regretfully. “I will say that I’ve never seen him like this about a woman before. He takes his responsibility for your life as… almost a sacred duty, I think. Does that make sense?”
“Maybe?” I say doubtfully.
“There’s more to it.” She drinks her tea, brow furrowed. “Wallace isn’t impulsive, like some of my nephews, or my sons, for that matter. In fact, taking a full forty-eight hours to marry you from your first meeting to saying ‘I do’ could be considered glacial by MacTavish wedding standards.”
I hide my grin by stuffing another little scone in my mouth. This family.
“Everyone has their own challenges,” Mala continues, “though Wallace’s were early, and violent. He’s a courageous man, some might say heroic.”
“Why am I sensing a ‘but’ is about to appear?” I ask.
She looks at me closely, her toffee-colored gaze intense. “I’m going to share private information because you’re right. Wallace seems to know all the surface things about you, where you went to school, who’s your best friend, do you prefer red or white wine.
"But, I can tell that it’s the unspoken parts of you that he’s interested in learning about. That’s the kind of connection that hits hard, whether you’ve known each other for five days or five years.”
“So…” she draws the word out, “I’m going to help you catch up a little, give you a chance to understand him better, all right? Ask me five questions about your new husband.”
“You know, I truly wish I could ask Wallace these questions myself,” I admit. “Like normal people do. A shared exchange of information. But I’d have to actually pin him down long enough.”
She shrugs. “The life of a MacTavish.”
“Okay, question one.” I smooth my dress over my knees. “Wallace only went to the Ares Academy for two years? That’s the most competitive college in the world for crime families. What happened?”
“He abruptly left the school just after finals in his sophomore year, with straight A’s, I hear.
He became a volunteer firefighter in the Pacific Northwest; there was a monstrous wildfire burning that summer.
It took them months to finally extinguish it.
Wallace decided firefighting suited him, so he worked there for a couple of years before returning home. ”
“A firefighter.” I shake my head. “That is both perfectly logical as a career goal and wildly ironic. Second question: what happened when he returned home?”
“Has he talked to you about his parents at all?” Mala deflects.
“We’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours, so not yet.”
She laughs, “Fair enough. His mother Sorcha is the only MacTavish daughter of my generation. She married Alastair Taylor, who runs a very respectable real estate development company that covers for one of the most successful crime syndicates in England. Wallace’s only sibling is his little sister, Isobel. ”
“Of course,” I nod. “You’re all relentless overachievers.”
“I suspect Wallace went to the Ares Academy to please our side of the family. He broke loose long enough to do something he cared about.” She frowns a little. “His guilt must have brought him back to London, because he was accepted to Cambridge University in finance, just like his father.”
“Wallace?” I hold back an unladylike snort. “Finance? That’s the last thing I could imagine for him.”
“Agreed,” she says. “As the only son, he knows his father is expecting him to take over the family business, eventually.”
“Question three,” I continue. “He’s working here in Scotland, with your side of the family. This seems to be his happy place. How did he get out from under the weight of his parent’s expectations?”
Mala smiles sadly. “I’m not sure Wallace fully understands this, but his parents would rather see him happy. Cormac knew Wallace was miserable in London. He asked Alastair and Sorcha if he could ‘borrow’ him for a couple of years to do his specialty work for the MacTavish Mafia.”
“I don’t have a lot to base this on yet,” I say, “but Wallace seems very happy here. He’s extremely close to his cousins.”
“He is.” She rolls her eyes slightly. “But the boy is bound by duty and honor, two admirable qualities that most MacTavish men have in spades. But it does tend to make them infuriatingly short-sighted sometimes, and willing to suffer if they think it’s their duty to be something they’re not.”
I think about the sense of peace Wallace exuded when he first brought me to his house in Tweed Valley, how it comforted me, too.
“Two more questions,” she prompts.
“Question four… um, what’s his favorite meal?”
“Roast beef, asparagus and rosemary fingerling potatoes,” she says instantly. “Sorcha told me he asked for it every year for his birthday dinner. Last question.”
“Question five. Why did Wallace make me marry him?” My hands are sweating and rubbing them on this nice silk dress leaves wet marks. “He could have just gotten me out of there. But marriage? It makes no sense.”
“I see how he looks at you.” Mala’s auburn hair is lit like a flame from the setting sun behind her. “You’re his sacred responsibility now. You know the saying.”
“If you save someone’s life, you are responsible for it for the rest of yours,” I nod. “He said that to me.”
“There’s more to it than that,” she says thoughtfully. “There’s obsession. Devotion. There’s something in you that he connected to. Deeply. And Wallace does not do that.”
“Have ye managed to impart the entire, sordid history of the MacTavish clan to our latest member?” Cormac strides into the room, kissing his wife soundly.
“Only the worst bits,” she replies primly.
I see Wallace lounging against the doorframe, watching them with a faint smile. And I’m watching him.
Obsession? Devotion? I’m a sacred responsibility?
How do I process this?
Wallace glances over at me, head cocked slightly. “Are ye ready to go, wife?” He holds out his hand.
“Thank you for the tea, and conversation,” I say to Mala.
Her smile is warm. “Welcome to the family.”
Taking the hand my new husband offers me, I let him lead me from the house and back into his gleaming black sports car.
“Are ye all right?” he asks, watching my mildly stupefied expression. “It’s a lot to take in, aye?”
“Yeah, it’s been a busy seventy-two hours,” I agree. I look at him and I see raging forest fires, and the spires of Cambridge University, his quiet, secluded home in the forest and hilariously, a lovely roast beef dinner. I see his warm smile and his intent gaze.
I see Wallace, and if only for a moment, I see what could be. I see him as my husband.