Chapter 6 Katie
Chapter 6 Katie
Walking into a live-action scene of a Clue game was odd.
Especially when one was dressed more like a lost camper than a 1920s Tudor mansion guest.
At least that’s what it felt like as I turned the corner of the hallway into the lower salon of the manor house and met a
collection of people poised as if waiting for the game to begin.
Not that I could pass for Miss Scarlet in the dining room with the candlestick.
Though Mrs. Lennox’s daughter, Ana, certainly gave off Miss Scarlet vibes as she reclined on one of the chairs by the fireplace
wearing an elegant red gown—especially the way she stared at the man by the bookshelf in a pinstriped suit. With his wire-rim
glasses and slicked-back blond hair, he had to be Professor Plum.
I chuckled. Hmm... Who else?
The middle-aged man wearing a white button-down and beige trousers by one of the large windows gave off hints of Colonel Mustard—all
the way to his shoe brush mustache—though he did have a bit of class about him.
Then there was the young woman with wild curly brown hair who looked like she was, well, examining a piece of pottery on the
mantel with a magnifying glass in hand. Mrs. Peacock, perhaps. After extensively viewing as many seasons of Downton Abbey and Upstairs Downstairs that would fit on my lengthy flight from Australia, I could confidently say that her simple blue dress looked era appropriate.
My lips inched wide. Okay, I was pushing the Clue comparison a bit too far.
Three women, two men. Those numbers couldn’t be right.
And then I remembered Mark... and my stomach cramped with annoyance. I’d known the man through our mutual contacts for
a year, and apart from the disastrous moment on a streetlamp-lit evening under an umbrella in London, things had remained
professionally distant.
But he’d rescued me, unintentionally, from a conversation with a horrendous travel agent by asking if I knew where the bathrooms
were, and then we’d found a pub, had coffees, and... he kissed me. Well, tried to kiss me.
But sometimes the loneliness felt heavier than other times. And the atmosphere was somewhat romantic. And I was wearing a
cute dress with flats, so we were almost the same height. And he’d complimented my hair.
I blame the ambience of lantern light on glossy pavement—it seems pretty powerful in classic movies.
Thank the good Lord for the double-decker bus distraction from prolonging the encounter or the kiss. Because the whole incident
brought forth his true colors from beneath the umbrella and shocked me back to my senses. Loneliness was preferable to boorish
and conceited company any day.
I tipped a little farther around the doorframe, my very un-Clue-like body half hidden, to get a better look for any other
occupants in the room.
“Miss Campbell?”
I spun from my spot, nearly decapitating a bust of some possible war hero on the table nearby. Mrs. Lennox approached from
the hallway, her peach lace dress giving off all the Downton Abbey vibes, though I’m not sure a white feathered stole matched the Crawleys, but who was I to say?
I currently wore vegetable-covered bright yellow wellies and carried a fishing pole.
Which may have been why Mrs. Lennox’s smile tightened into some sort of terrifying imitation of my aunt Maude the first time
I showed up at church wearing trousers. That what could you possibly be thinking? mixed with wait until I speak to your mother type of look.
“If I’d been able to find you, I would have properly prepared you for meeting the rest of the guests.” Her gaze trailed down
me.
“I still don’t have anything to wear except a gown that’s too tight in the chest and rises above my calf.” I scrunched up
my shoulders. “And I think I may break some sort of Edwardian rule by wearing that in public, because the men might actually
see my calves.”
Instead of the joke inspiring Mrs. Lennox’s natural smile, her brows crashed together. “Oh, well, we certainly can’t have
that, can we? I do feel that the guests we have with us are the honorable sort, but I wouldn’t put much stock in the staff
to keep things aboveboard.” She tapped her lips and gave me another once-over. “Well, until I can secure a seamstress, I’ve
had Mrs. March order you something appropriate from”—she lowered her voice—“Amazon. They promise to deliver the items here
within the next two days, which will bide us some time for any alterations of the other gowns.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” I tugged out the card Mirren had given me and offered it to her. “This is a local seamstress who comes
highly recommended. And the clerk in the bookshop assured me she works fast too.”
“Local?” Mrs. Lennox reached out to take the card as if it had leeches hanging from it. Truth be told, it did have a little
blueberry smudge from the scone I ate at Mirren’s, but nothing worthy of dramatics.
I glanced around the room and caught my eye roll before it started. Dramatics was the theme of this experience. “Surely you realize that one of the best ways to grow your business is through word of mouth?” I waved toward the room. “It’s why social media works so well. But local reputation carries a lot of weight too, especially for this type of business. If you don’t get the community behind you, then you’re really missing out on free marketing, as well as some local support.”
“But I don’t know any of the locals, except the MacKerrows.” She brought the card closer to her face to read it. “It’s quite a small village
though, isn’t it?”
“It’s big enough to spread the word about Craighill. Plus, the folks in Glenkirk will visit places like Tobermory and Inverness
and other parts of Scotland.” I shrugged a shoulder. “You want the folks in the village to have good things to say about you
so the word will keep spreading, don’t you?”
She studied the card and then looked back at my face, her brows dipping the teeniest bit before she gave her head a little
shake and drew in a breath that straightened her posture. “We simply must do something about your attire, Miss Campbell, but
now that you’re here, it’s time for introductions.” She waved her hand toward me. “And you’ll just have to make do as you
are.”
Strange how the statement came with a weird mix of barb and freedom. Being who I was had rarely been good enough in Mom’s
world of high class and higher expectations, especially after Sarah died. Distance helped.
My brain stumbled over the thought. I’d created distance from her for a long time. As soon as I was old enough to leave home.
Death within a family hit hard enough, but even more so when the favorite child died. And measuring up to a perfect sister
was hard enough when she lived. Measuring up to a memory was impossible.
“Come, Miss Campbell, let us meet the guests.” Mrs. Lennox gestured me forward, and all eyes turned toward my navy-raincoat,
yellow-wellies, mussed-hair self.
Miss Adventure in the sitting room with a fishing pole.
Exactly what the story had been missing all along. I chuckled inwardly. Except maybe a butler. I hadn’t seen one of those, and a butler seemed necessary for any Clue-inspired daydream of mine.
Mrs. Lennox sashayed into the room, her smile sweeping the space and giving a bit of dramatic pause in her entry.
Ah! There was Mark, standing by a mounted elk on the wall and wearing some sort of vintage hunting pants, a white button-down,
a vest, and a... noticeable glare.
At me. Which I didn’t deserve. I was the one who was almost hit by the bus in London while he kept kissing me! If I hadn’t pulled out of his iron-clasped
hold when the bus blared its horn, my London misadventure may have been my last.
And no one wanted their last memory to be of a really bad kiss.
Even if it was in the rain.
“I am so pleased that you all could join Craighill for its very first Edwardian Experience.” Mrs. Lennox’s wrists twisted
as if attached to the words. “Allow me to make introductions, and then we will discuss a few specifics.” She gestured toward
Colonel Mustard, her smile broadening. “This is Alexander Wake, who will be referred to as Lord Wake while with us. In his
modern life, you may know him as the owner of Wake Trust.”
My attention shot to the man. Wake Trust? Seriously? It was only one of the top marketing companies in Europe. How on earth
did Lennox bag the owner of Wake Trust for her little costume drama?
“Lord Wake and my husband are dear friends, and he graciously offered his support for our little venture.”
Well, that answered the question.
“The esteemed Miss Ana Lennox, my daughter, as many of you know, will assist me in offering some of her thoughts on Edwardian
times. She is quite the connoisseur of historical movies.”
“I’m fine if you’d prefer just to call me Ana. Especially as we become more acquainted.” Ana stood and focused her attention one by one on each of the men in the room, giving her shoulders enough of a shrug to have the sheer golden shawl slip off one side to reveal her skin.
Hmm... subtle much? And then the thought hitched on the idea that Ana was the only child of the Lennoxes and, from what
my servant Emily said, very wealthy.
Another reason to avoid going home. Mom always had some rich, uninteresting businessman with the glorious reputation of social
status, dull personality, and high-maintenance mother for me to meet.
But I think Mrs. Lennox may have taken the wedding cake!
I shrugged a shoulder. Not sure what this said about me, but after the first few days here, the eccentricity of the choices
of these people began to make more and more sense.
“Mr. Nigel Logan is well-known for his food blogs, articles, and weekly television show called Tastes Around the World .” Mrs. Lennox nodded to him. “Our chef is particularly delighted to have you experience his culinary masterpieces, Mr. Logan.”
Mr. Logan dipped his head, his pale gaze zipping from one person to the next, bouncing off Ana before landing on, or should
I say, rising to me. To say he was unimpressed may have been an understatement. Which didn’t hurt my feelings. Especially since dancing with
the man might require a stepping stool... for him.
“I do realize all of you need to use your modern devices for your work, but do try not to allow them to negatively impact your overall immersion into this era. Photos and videos are encouraged, but please
refrain from interrupting the natural process of our historical journey here at Craighill. And though you all have signed
waivers to allow for your images to be shared, please ensure your fellow participants are presented in the best light.” Her
smile dipped into a delicate frown, as if she curated it for the speech. “We want everyone to experience the best of the Edwardian
world with the fewest interruptions from the modern era or negative perspectives as possible.”
“The full experience will truly be delightful,” Ana Lennox added, her white teeth on full display for Mr. Logan.
“Next, we have Miss Estelle Dupont, known for her history articles and blogs.”
The woman with the magnifying glass curtsied and preened, pushing her glasses up on her nose.
“I’ve also been a consultant for two historical movies.” Her smile brimmed as she raised the appropriate number of fingers,
her lush French accent curling over the words. “And I’m waiting to consult for another of even larger appeal than the previous.”
She searched the room with those large brown eyes of hers, her smile fading. “Of course all of you are doing marvelous things
too. Even if it isn’t... cinema. We all have important pieces to contribute—”
“Yes, certainly,” Mrs. Lennox interrupted and spun to Mark, who straightened and flashed his perfect teeth. “Mr. Mark Page
is with us as a sports and outdoor enthusiast who, I am sure, will find our equestrian and other Edwardian opportunities well
worth note in his magazine and popular YouTube channel.”
“I’m looking forward to proving my visionary skills.” And focused the full weight of his comment on me.
What in the world? His comment didn’t quite fit with—And then his allusion clicked into place. Right! We were both up for
the Vision Award... again.
And clearly he wasn’t too thrilled about it. Especially since I beat him out of the prize last year.
His competition levels rivaled most teenage boys or diva TikTokers. Just because we were finalists for the same international
social media award didn’t mean he had to try to burn my face with his scowl. Leave it to Mister Outdoorsman to take offense
at us sharing the spotlight for the third time.
Another win would certainly help my chances of getting published too, wouldn’t it? Prove to the publishers I had the credentials and skill to create great travel stories for children? And winning again might just prove the nudge I needed to take that chance.
I turned to meet Mrs. Lennox’s defeated expression as she looked over my ensemble again, focusing for a full five seconds
on my fishing rod.
“And this is Miss Katie Campbell.” She tossed a limp wave in my direction. “She is known for her humorous videos and blog
posts, insightful articles, and... entertaining documentaries under her moniker Miss Adventure.”
At least she sounded more positive toward me than she looked.
“We are having a bit of trouble with her attire—” Mrs. Lennox seemed to think better of elaborating as she took a dramatic
view from my wellies to my head. “But I feel certain it will all get sorted very soon.”
My smile froze on my face. Yep, no need for anyone to wonder what she might be referring to.
“As stated in your packet, as part of the experience, each of the ladies will receive a custom-designed gown to wear to our
Edwardian Ball on our last evening, and each gentleman their own Edwardian suit.” She brought her hands together in pure delight.
“And I will be guiding you through your process of immersion into the Edwardian world. As a former literature professor and
an amateur historian, I feel certain I have set up this experience to give you a taste of the era, while also enjoying some
modern perks. The natural beauty of Mull only enhances your discovery and allows you a natural break from many of the distractions
common in more populous places.”
She offered a self-satisfied chuckle.
“Though I do hope you increase the number of people you bring to the next experience, Mother.” Ana scanned the room, her smile
coy. “More people to meet.”
“We shall see, dear.” Mrs. Lennox’s smile tightened as she stared at her daughter and gave her head a little shake. “I look forward to guiding you in your Edwardian Experience”—this time said with less flourish and no wrist swirl—“for the next three weeks. May you absorb the history and opulence of this marvelous time period.”
She pressed her palms together as if in prayer, perhaps for me... or for herself on having to reform me into an Edwardian
lady. I hope my expression offered my condolences.
“We will begin our first class at ten o’clock sharp,” Mrs. Lennox continued. “How to dine like an Edwardian.”
Even though I’d seen this class in the brochure, it still inspired my grin. I mean, how many ways were there to eat?
“Now, your assigned servants should meet you this evening after tea to ensure you have all necessary items to properly begin
your Edwardian Experience in the morning.” She paused, her expression dimming a little. “Two last items. My husband, Mr. Lennox,
will be joining us for our meals and will assist as needed. His business expectations at this time do not allow him the freedom
to enjoy all of our activities, but I am sure you will find him a charming addition whenever he is able to join us. And second,
do not be alarmed if you should see a macaw flying about the premises or note a weasel in pursuit of said macaw.” Her chuckle
took a desperate turn. “It was not uncommon for the wealthy of Edwardian times to keep exotic pets, and we don’t wish for
you to be alarmed. It is our desire to keep the menagerie under amicable control.” Her smile resurfaced and she gestured toward
the room. “Now, please take some time to meet your fellow guests and enjoy your afternoon.”
Since I felt a little unprepared for the current Clue game with my wellies and fishing pole on display, I started for the
hallway, only to be ceremoniously thwarted by Mark.
“I can’t believe we’re finalists again this year.” He folded his arms across his chest, the size of his biceps evident beneath the strain of his shirt sleeves. I was pretty sure those biceps were one of his few winning features, along with his impressive orthodontia. “You wouldn’t even be in the finals if it hadn’t been for the London incident you clearly planned.”
“Planned?” Not even the biceps could save him from my glare. “Planned to end my life with a double-decker bus?”
“That ‘almost’ ran over you,” he said, employing air quotes. Maybe his orthodontia wasn’t so impressive either. “And then
you conveniently landed in the arms of a passing policeman while the camera was running?”
“A tourist’s phone camera, Mark. Not mine! That’s the only reason it was recorded.”
“Who just happened to follow you on social media?” One of his brows rose and my whole body tensed.
“Only after she realized who I was.” I released an exhaustive sigh. “You are being ridiculous.”
He returned to the folded-arm stance, hazel eyes narrowing. “Were you that afraid I’d upstage you?”
“Upstage me?” Though I had stepped away from him on the sidewalk after he claimed an unwanted kiss. “I could have died.”
“Diva.”
Now he’d thrown one of my least favorite insults. I lowered my fishing pole like a lance toward him. “You think I risked my
life to get more visibility than you? Mark, I like my job, but not that much. You’re the one who wants to perform life-threatening
feats, not me. I only plan about 20 percent of the misadventures that happen to me. The rest of the time is just”—I exaggerated
my shrug—“luck?”
“Luck.” He scoffed and then leaned close. “I’m winning that award this year, Miss Adventure, and this trip is the award team’s
final look at social media ratings, content, and writing before they make their decision, so don’t get in my way.”
That award meant another boost in salary, which always came as a boon, but I didn’t plan to wrestle, threaten, or swindle it from anybody. I’d win it fair and square, which was more than I could say for Meddling Mark.
“I don’t even want to be in the same room with you, Mark.” I pointed the fishing pole lance close enough to his chest to almost
make contact. “And just because you feel threatened by me, my writing, and my humor doesn’t mean that I’m trying to beat you.
So get off your high horse.”
“Your silly little cyberworld doesn’t threaten me. I have plans, Miss Adventure.” He knocked the fishing pole away and leaned
in, nose flaring in the special way he had that resembled a frustrated horse. “Plans to push my ratings well above yours.
So just stay out of my way.”
With that somewhat anticlimactic warning, he turned and stomped from the room toward the kitchen. And with a look in Miss
Dupont’s direction and a half curtsy to Mrs. Lennox, I scooted right out of the room.
There would be plenty of time to meet the guests when I didn’t look like a stand-in for the Goonies, but since I already had
my fishing pole, rain jacket, and camera, I might as well take Mirren’s advice and visit the pools, whatever those were.
Plus get a few more videos and photos.
Maybe, just maybe, I’d uncover a faerie or two.
I grabbed a quick bite to eat from the sandwiches Mrs. Lennox had left for the guests and ran to my room, avoiding Mark, who
had thankfully found a conversational partner in Miss Lennox. Or rather, she may have found him.
Shrugging off my backpack and setting out my wet shoes to dry, I prepared for my trek to the pools. My gaze fell on my notebook
in the internal pocket of the backpack, and I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even one o’clock yet.
Definitely enough time to type up a few of my notes from the morning. My laptop looked a little out of place on the vintage desk, but I cozied up on the stiff-backed armchair (okay, not so cozy) and flipped open my computer. As the screen opened to reveal the last few documents I’d been working on, my attention caught on an open document at the bottom. Katie and the Lost Scarab of King Tut’s Tomb shown as the title. I paused and then clicked open the page.
Talking to Brett about my dream of publishing these books always made me want to delve back into Katie’s world. My grin tipped
as I gazed over the first few paragraphs, tickled at my little creation’s spunk and positivity. What little girl wouldn’t
love to embark on such literary adventures? Books saved my sanity long before they became my refuge. They introduced me to
braver girls. Daring ones. Kind and generous ones. Girls with warm, welcoming homes full of love and laughter and belonging.
This fictitious fourteen-year-old Katie was all the things I loved best about young fictional heroines... and so much cooler
than twenty-eight-year-old Katie. She dashed boldly into adventure, built relationships without fear. Fictional Katie knew
where she belonged and traveled with the knowledge she’d return home after each adventure to a safe, welcoming world that
embraced her as she was.
A twinge of discomfort wiggled its way up through my chest to tighten my throat. What must it feel like to belong to fictional
Katie’s world?
I closed the page and opened my notes, drowning out the thoughts with different ones describing my morning adventure in Glenkirk.
A half hour later, fishing pole in hand, I walked through the back garden again and took the trail behind the village toward
the pools as Mirren had directed. The air smoothed over my skin with a cool touch, sending my hair flying about my face in
a fury. I forged ahead toward some rocky hills beyond the village and not too far in the distance.
Well, they didn’t look too far, but after walking a good half hour, I felt as if they weren’t getting as close as they ought. Lucky for me, I stumbled
upon an inlet of sorts and just a distance from the shore, over a strip of land, was a scattering of small pools of water
surrounded by massive stones.
Very Outlander -ish stones.
Ah! This must be it. The Fey pools.
I paused to take in the view from the steep hillside and snapped a few pics, adding on a video to edit later. The scene beckoned
me closer. I felt like Lucy Pevensie, being drawn deeper into the wardrobe to a world of magic and mystery. But this land
wasn’t in a book. It pulsed with life and age and an unidentifiable allure. Perhaps there was something to all those legends
and myths. I poised my fishing pole against my shoulder and made my way to the pools.
Cliffs lined the horizon beyond the loch in the distance. Stones were scattered haphazardly among the pools, as if tossed
there by a giant from one of the caves in the cliffs across the way. I carefully descended a small ledge, lowering myself
to a patio of rock and sand with bits of tall grass peeping in between. The ocean whispered to my left, just over a hillside,
so close I could smell the salty air. What a wonderful place an island was! One could find mountains, seas, lakes, and countryside
all wrapped up within a thirty-mile stretch!
Certainly, if magic belonged anywhere, here seemed as perfect a place as any I’d visited.
A combination of rust-colored, brown, green, and gray slate mixed with sand and seaweed created my floor as I wove between
the scattered standing stones to reach a set of three larger pools with a few smaller ones sprinkled in various spots among
the stones. A larger one on the nearby hillside even spilled over to create a small waterfall.
Tossing my backpack on the ground and placing my fishing rod down on a grassy spot, I poised my phone against a nearby rock and pushed record. Why not give the viewers my fresh attempts at fishing? Sure, it had been a few years, but it wasn’t a super complicated activity.
After a few maddening attempts at casting—and an episode of removing the hook from my hair—I finally succeeded in dropping
the line quite perfectly in the spot I’d aimed for... mostly.
I squinted heavenward and sighed. Sometimes I wondered if God created me for comic relief. Oh well, it would be perfect fodder
for the followers of Miss Adventure. Besides, fishing came with a much sweeter reward than a catch. My whole body relaxed
into the warmth of sunshine, a cool breeze, and sweet memories.
After slipping off my wellies and socks to dip my feet over the edge of the rock into the pool, I basked in the glories of
the day and the simple act of fishing. My grandfather had taken me fishing with him when I was younger, and though I caught
more branches and weeds than fish most days, the whole point of fishing with Grandpa was enjoying the day and talking about
something... or nothing at all. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized it had never been about the fish. In fact,
he’d been one of the few people in my life who just wanted to spend time with me... as me. Nothing else. I think I missed
that freedom most of all.
Maybe being with him was the last time I felt anything close to home.
The sun blinked behind a few clouds, the sea-scented air fueled my lungs, and a quiet chorus of songbirds lulled me into reminiscing—an
act I tried to avoid most of the time. Some memories didn’t need extra space in my thoughts because they’d inevitably make
it to my heart.
But Scotland drew out such feelings and memories with more force than other places. Perhaps it was because of Grandpa and
his love for this country, or maybe it was the fact that I’d finally reached a point in my career where I could actually consider
crazy options like being an editor or publishing children’s books... or dream a little about finding whatever Brett found
with Jessica.
Something worth redirecting even the biggest dreams?
I tried to shut down the thought, but a question rushed over me. Where would I be if I weren’t traveling? Who would I be?
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there partly trying to avoid my own introspection and partly mulling it over, but my little rod
didn’t gain one nibble. I squinted down into the pool. Like some of the other bodies of water I’d seen so far in Mull, this
pool boasted clear water, but its depth kept me from seeing much except shadows beyond my purple toenails.
“You willnae be catchin’ any fish in that pool.”
The young voice pulled my attention to a little figure perched on a rock nearby, as if he’d just appeared out of sunlight.
Very sprite-like, which matched his overall appearance.
The boy stared at me with pale blue eyes, one brow perched high with suspicion. Dusty, strawberry-blond hair brought out the
matching freckles spanning his nose from one cheek to the other. I grinned as his young voice curled his vowels and consonants
in the most lilting of ways and made me think of a certain grumpy Scot.
Except the Grumpy Scot’s deep voice caused those vowels and consonants to rumble in my own chest. Or, at least, that’s how
my pulse responded to the dips and curls of his accent. I ignored the tug to think about him—again—and focused on the little
elf in front of me.
The boy’s hair stood in all directions, and he had a smudge of dirt across his forehead. Just as a boy of eight or nine or
ten should look. Like he enjoyed living life more than looking a part.
A veritable Peter Pan.
“I won’t catch any fish here?”
“No” came his quick reply along with a shake of his head.
“And why is that?”
His brow scrunched as he examined my face. “There’s no fish to be had.”
I looked back at the pool and my unmoving line. “There aren’t any fish in this pool?”
He released a sigh much bigger than his body should have been able to expel. “That’s what I’m sayin’.”
My grin started getting the better of me. “And why aren’t there any fish in this pool?”
His face sobered even more. “Why, it’s where the merfolk live!”
I felt my eyebrow rise and worked hard to subdue my smile. “Where the merfolk live?”
“Do you know nothin’ at all?” His childish voice took on a great deal of adult frustration.
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
He pushed up from his place on the rock and walked nearer, tipping his chin toward the water. “The merfolk eat the fish.”
“Of course they do.” Just like faux Edwardian lords collect thieving parrots. Perfectly understandable.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and studied me so long, I pulled my feet out of the warm pool, drew on my
socks, and tucked my toes back into my wellies.
“Ye cannae walk about the island when you dinnae know what you’re doin’, and that’s a fact.” He steadied his hands at his
waist. “I’ll show you the way.”
The little boy gave out a much louder whistle than I thought possible from a person his size and then returned his attention
to me as I stood to my full height. His freckled nose wrinkled with a frown when he set his focus on my wellies, but he didn’t
say anything because at just that time a border collie bounded from where the boy had come, taking a minute to sniff the air
before prancing down the hillside toward us. As the dog grew closer, he tilted his head, staring at me with one blue eye and
one brown.
Love at first sight may not be real for humans, but it sure was with dogs. I loved dogs. It was the first thing on my purchase list when I did finally settle down one day.
“That there is Witch” came the boy’s faerie-like voice.
The dog’s name was Witch? At this point, I was surprised at nothing. I mean, there evidently were mermaids.
“Witch?” I repeated, kneeling down to stroke the dog’s fur.
“Not Witch, Widge ,” he corrected, but it didn’t sound much different than before.
I racked my brain for another option.
The boy released an enormous sigh. “Like something’s stuck between two things. Widge.”
“Wedge!”
“That’s what I said.” The boy rolled his gaze heavenward as if sending a silent prayer.
The dog licked my nose, rewarding my eventual comprehension.
“We found him as a pup out on the moor wedged between two rocks.”
I laughed and stood, giving the dog’s head another pat. “And do you have a name as interesting as your dog’s?”
The boy shook his head and studied me with those curious eyes again. “Lachlan.”
“Nice to meet you, Lachlan. My name is Katie Campbell.”
“Campbell?” His strawberry-blond brows shot high. “Well, no wonder ye dinnae know what you’re doin’.”
I stifled my chuckle and pulled my pack back over my shoulder. I’d already heard on more than one occasion that Mull was more
McClean territory than Campbell but had hoped the conflict between the two clans died down a few hundred years ago.
Grandpa always said memory was long in Scotland.
Suddenly Lachlan dipped his chin as if he’d made some sort of decision. “If you want to be catchin’ fish, you need to go on
the other side of the hill.”
The other side of the hill? I raised my gaze to the green and rocky separation between where I was sitting and what I supposed
was the other side.
“Come on, now. I’ll show ye the way.” He jerked his head toward the hill. “I don’t think you’re fit to find it on your own.”
His ready confidence and adorableness had me picking up my flimsy fishing pole and following the boy up the hillside to who-knew-where.
But that was one of the perks of travel writing. Many times the best stories came in the most unexpected ways, and following
that hunch had defined my career.
So off I went, trailing behind a boy named Lachlan and his dog named Wedge over a hillside on an island called Mull, wearing
my vegetable wellies and carrying my fishing pole with carvings of the summer goddess of love. It sounded exactly like the
makings of a Monty Python movie... and a perfectly quirky excerpt for my travel blog.
I didn’t have to find weird. It always seemed to find me.
And an hour later, the only thing I’d truly caught was a sunburn and a dozen Scottish tales from my new buddy and his dog,
before he headed on “aff to home” and I returned to Craighill with my heart surprisingly full and a story or three tingling
my fingertips.