Chapter 7 Graeme
Chapter 7 Graeme
I took the wood-burning knife and carefully detailed the intricate feathers of the European roller I’d carved for my latest
commission, allowing my fingers to trace the familiar path along the wood. The slope of the bird’s head and neck awaited more
detail, but the glass eye was already set in place, staring at me to ensure I gave appropriate attention to my task. The tiny,
detailed scapulars required some of the most intense concentration as they were the smallest feathers on the bird, but the
lengthy, crouched position required of me was worth the results.
After all, over the past five years this little hobby had taken on a life of its own. Not enough to take it on full-time—so
taking on other carpentry jobs along the island proved necessary—but it had, at least, allowed me some cash to add into my
family’s collection to purchase back Craighill.
In fact, it had taken everything I’d saved, so I’d cut back on a few purchases the last several months just to make ends meet. And unless I could increase
my sales or get more carpentry jobs, I’d have to keep costs low for a while yet. Making renovations to Craighill in my free
time had cut into my sculpting, leaving less to offer potential buyers.
I adjusted my hold on the knife and glanced around my workshop as late-afternoon light bathed the room. Various wildlife sculptures hung or posed in different spots, either waiting to be purchased at the next local sale or awaiting shipment to their owners. An entire collection of creatures from Scottish folklore was positioned along a table by the back wall—my first attempts at anything other than the fowl I observed on Mull.
They’d sold well so far online. Selkies, mermaids, caoineag, Nessie, of course, and kelpies, faeries, the Ghillie Dhu, and
even a dragon. Seemed folks wanted their faerie-tale creatures in sculpted form, as well as written.
I rolled my shoulders and sat back, returning my attention to the European roller and envisioning the finished product. Bright
teal for the native bird’s head and stomach, complemented with brown and perhaps black tail feathers? This wooden sculpture
was much larger than the last life-size swallow I’d made for a professor in Edinburgh. I tilted my head, taking in the half-finished
fowl, seeing beyond the basswood color to envision a fully painted product. Hmm... and perhaps I could add a tiny bit of
darker blue to highlight a wing tip or curve of the shoulder.
Dark blue. Winter loch blue.
An image of Katie Campbell flashed to mind and my lips tilted in an upward curve. She was a pretty woman with her auburn hair
and large eyes. Even the freckles scattered across her nose seemed to call out for my attention. Ridiculous, really. Freckles
were commonplace enough. Even I had a healthy dose of them, generously handed down from Mum.
But whatever hid behind those eyes drew me. She was witty and, if I had to hazard a guess, fairly stubborn. My lips twitched
again. And the way she quickly apologized for bossing me around, then laughed at herself, came with its own appeal. Yet something
about our interaction pointed to carefully protected wounds. Wounds hidden behind her smile and humor.
I pushed my frown into place and gave my head a severe shake before standing and stretching my back. I’d barely made it to
my feet when my workshop door burst open.
“This is the fourth one, Graeme.” Mum stepped over the threshold waving a piece of paper. “You can’t keep ignoring the opportunities God’s clearly sending your way.”
The red header on the page flashed clearly enough for recognition. I sighed and turned back to my worktable, putting away
my tools to have something else to do with my attention than look at Mum. “Last I heard, the post was private, Mum.”
“I didnae pilfer your post, son.” She pointed the paper at me. “Lachlan collected the mail and”—she shifted her attention
away from me, clearly guilty—“I merely helped him carry the post into the house and noticed another letter from the London
Artisan Festival requesting your presence since...” With a flourish of her wrists, she flipped the paper in front of her
and began reading, “‘Your work has been reviewed by our esteemed artisans and found to be of excellent quality and craftsmanship.
We request the honor of displaying your work in our upcoming festival, as well as encouraging you to submit a piece to the
annual contest.’”
Her sudden quiet turned me around, and her look needled my conscience like a barb. Mothers had superpower stinging abilities.
“Weren’t you sent a similar invitation from Germany two months ago?”
I walked around her and turned off my band saw, hopefully communicating that I didn’t have any intention of talking about
this invitation, the last, or the two before it.
“What are you afeart of, Graeme?”
Afeart? “I’m not.” My shoulder tensed at the implication, and I pivoted toward her. “I just dinnae have a need to travel to those
places. My online orders are growing enough for now.”
Her silence hit harder than her nipping. We both knew money was tight. And I refused to take any from Dad or Mum, not when they already did so much to help me care for Lachlan. “But this, Graeme...” The hope in her voice, the faith, urged me far out of my comfort zone. “This will not only get your work out to more people, but it’s what your sister, your brothers, your dad, and I had hoped all along. That others would see your gifts.”
Though my family talked about Greer often, the reference to her in this context hit me in the chest. Parents weren’t supposed
to lose their children, and one twin wasn’t meant to lose the other.
But cancer was not a respecter of persons.
“I’m needed here and I want Lachlan to have consistency.” The excuse kept growing weaker with each month after Greer’s death,
but the idea of expanding the dream we’d shared didn’t feel right without her. Besides, she’d given me custody of Lachlan
for a reason. She knew I’d keep him near the family, raise the boy as my own in this world he’d always known.
I didn’t need to leave.
The realization ground even deeper. I didn’t want to leave.
I looked over at Mum as she followed me to the door, but she didn’t press the issue. She recognized the weakness in my argument
too. Part of me knew it would be good to step back into a life beyond this island, as if Greer hadn’t died, but the other
part... well, I wasn’t certain. What held me back? What part of Greer’s death and Allison’s leaving grounded me here?
“Exploring possibilities”—Mum’s voice came soft behind me, almost a whisper—“doesnae mean you love her or her memory any less.”
I pinched my eyes closed for a second, then crossed the small distance from my workshop to the blue front door of the cottage.
Was I afraid? And if so, of what?
I opened the door for Mum to enter before following her inside, but she didn’t continue the conversation. The question still
waited in the air for me to answer, mixed in with the perfume of wild orchids wafting through the open windows and the scents
of coffee and breakfast rashers.
I breathed it in. The blending meant home.
Greer’s spirit still touched this place. Every time I stepped into the cottage, she met me in each corner.
She’d redesigned this house when Lachlan was born, intending to keep some independence while remaining close to family as
she raised her son on her own. I’d moved in when she got her diagnosis, to help manage the heavy lifting of caring for the
house and Lachlan and... her. Dad and Mum assisted with medications, transportation, and meals.
Calum and Peter pitched in too, as well as various members from Glenkirk and especially our church.
Family extended well beyond blood kin on Mull.
And those were the people to trust, the individuals to pour back into instead of spending my time gallivanting to London or
Germany or wherever else.
“Where is Lachlan?”
Almost as if called, the lad walked through the kitchen doorway with an old fishing rod in his hand, Wedge trailing behind
him as always.
“Have you been in the storage shed for the likes of that?” I gestured toward the pole, more to keep Mum off topic than about
any real curiosity.
“Aye.” My nephew, strawberry-blond hair in all directions, nodded. “I’ve caught myself a lass.”
“With a fishing pole?” My brows raised, and the boy’s eyes glistened with a hidden smile. “I dinnae think you want that type
of lass, lad. She’s the sort to eat ye or return to the sea once she’s found her skin.”
The boy’s grin peaked with slow comprehension.
We’d grown to know each other even better since Greer’s death. Relied on each other.
And there was no one in the world I loved more than that lad.
“I dinnae need to catch her. She’s no mermaid or kelpie. They’d know better about the island than the likes of her.” His grin finally brimmed. “I found her at the pools, and she plans to meet me again next week to practice fishing.”
At the pools? Sounds like the making of a faerie story.
“Does she now?” This from Mum. “Do you suppose she’s one of the fey then?”
“No, Granny!” He contorted his face into a grimace. “The pools are too close to the sea for the likes of them.”
I sent Mum a wink, thankful for the detour of conversational topics. “Did you search for a seal skin then, lad? Just to be
sure. Selkies are known to swim into these parts.”
Lachlan rolled those pale blue eyes, his grin falling into an expression that let me know I’d not mastered my humor well enough
for him.
“She talks fine, Uncle Graeme, and in English, so she cannae be a selkie.” He sighed, his narrow shoulders falling a little
as he seemed to reconsider. “Though she did seem to have trouble understanding when I talked, so... maybe she was a selkie.”
I pinched my lips to keep my smile hidden.
“No, she’s not.” He gave his head a firm shake. “But I dinnae think she’s been here before, so I took her to one of the best
fishing spots and mean to take her to the rocks next.”
Had a new family moved into Glenkirk and Lachlan met the girl at school? The island, and its natives, took some time to learn.
“If you take her to the rocks, lad, you’d best mind the cliffs down to the fishing post. Any new person won’t know the path
like you.”
He nodded at my recommendation. “And I’ve a feelin’ she needs a lot of help. When I found her, she was trying to catch a fish
in the pools. It’s a good thing I came along when I did, or else she might have been caught by a mermaid, and then where would
she be?”
I loved that the lad still nursed alive those folktales Dad and Mum loved recounting. Of course Greer did too. As a schoolteacher, one of her delights came from helping children fall in love with books, and specifically the books that celebrated our culture and country.
“True that, lamb.” Mum placed her palm on Lachlan’s shoulder. “And I know you’ve grown up on the cliffs and glens, but you
mind those feet and head of yours too.”
“I have Wedge with me, Granny.”
At his name, the dog perked up from his regular spot on the hearth rug.
“Aye, and though he’s clever enough to protect ye, he’s no good to keep you from falling, so”—she tapped her temple—“mind
your way, aye?”
“Aye.” He sighed out the word, as if his granny had no faith in him whatsoever.
I felt a little of his pain. The lad and I had grown a lot over the past year, but there was no doubt still a lot of growing
to do.
“I’ve got to start some homework.” Lachlan stepped close, knowing Mum would never let him leave without a hug. “I dinnae see
why Mrs. Leeds gave some. There’s only a week left of school.”
“She wants to make sure you don’t miss anythin’,” I offered, but Lachlan only shrugged his shoulders before stepping into
Mum’s arms.
“My head’s already full of the math she taught last week. I dinnae ken if I have room for more.”
“I imagine a good night’s sleep will make more room.” Mum shot me a look over Lachlan’s head as she held him in her arms.
“And are you at Craighill tomorrow?”
Lachlan dashed up the narrow stairs to his room and a twinge of jealousy twisted up through my chest at the thought of escape.
But Craighill was much easier to discuss than going abroad.
“Aye.” I walked to the kitchen with her following, which meant she wasn’t finished with her conversation. “The MacGregor boys are coming to polish the ballroom floor on Saturday, and I need to fix a few places in the floor before they arrive.”
I took the kettle and placed it beneath the tap.
“Will Mrs. Lennox need you this week since everything starts tomorrow? Perhaps to finish off a pair?”
Her reminder of my involvement in the Edwardian scheme did nothing to help me feel better about the conversation. I put the
kettle on and turned toward the cupboard for an opened package of oatcakes. “Last I heard, she has her three pairs set, so
I willnae have to take part in any of Lennox’s nonsense.” I leveled Mum with a look to detour the matchmaking thoughts before
they took off. I had only agreed to be an alternate this first time because I knew we needed the Lennoxes’ ridiculous plan
to be a success, but I regretted the agreement more with each passing day. Calum would have been a better choice all around.
Even Peter.
The glimmer in Mum’s eyes proved my attempts were in vain. “You’ve always been a good dancer though, Graeme. And I remember
you performed well in some of the theatrics at school.”
Now she was merely lying. I hated the stage. I pulled some cheese and jam from the refrigerator. “I doubt Lennox is teaching
cèilidh dances, Mum.”
“Some of our country dances aren’t too different than English dances of old. Where do folks think the dances came from, after
all?”
Mum readied the tea while I set out the food on the table, hoping the slim choices might keep the conversation slim too. I
had more wood crafting to do, along with helping Lachlan with the math he hated.
After a few moments of silence, we settled at the small table and chairs with Mum pouring out tea for us.
“Katie Campbell seems to be a lovely lass.”
“Och, Mum.” I’d just taken a bite of oatcake and proceeded to push the contents through a hard swallow followed by a drink of tea to wash it down. “Can you stop with the matchmaking? I’m thirty-two years old and can manage my love life on my own.”
She took a drink of her tea, brows rising as she looked at me over the rim of her cup. “Where? When you rarely leave our village,
let alone this house?” She reached for an oatcake and wagged it at me. “Which means, all the more, you have to make do with
who God brings your way.”
I shoved the rest of my oatcake in my mouth with a growl.
“You don’t have to marry her to get to know her, Graeme.”
“She’s passing through.” I drew in a calming breath, only to choke on the remains of my oatcake.
Mum quietly refilled my teacup while I coughed out a lung. “None of us knows for certain the choices we’ll make to change
our futures. I lived in Inverness and had no plans to even work at the restaurant on the day your dad came in for a bap. I
wanted to move to Yorkshire where my beau lived, you ken?”
The story she’d recounted a million times. Dad chatted her up for two hours, both sharing a love for family, faith, books,
and animals. By the time they parted ways, she’d ended things with her current beau and Dad had her phone number. I washed
down my cough with a drink of tea. “She’s a travel writer, Mum. You know what that means?”
Mum’s eyes narrowed at my implication. “She travels and writes about the stories she uncovers.”
“Aye.” I took another swig of tea. “She travels . It’s her job.”
“And evidently she’s good at it, if Mrs. Lennox has brought her to Craighill.”
“Which means, she hasnae plans to stop traveling and settle down.” I raised my mug to her to emphasize my point. “Does she?”
“Are the two things mutually exclusive, son?” The way she voiced the endearment held very little “dear.” She studied me with
her X-ray vision and slowly lowered her mug to the table. “I see the way of it. You have the same mindset you had with Allison.”
Allison . “What on earth—”
“I love you, Graeme. And I’m not sayin’ Allison was right in all her choices, but you gave little room for compromise.” She
stood, firing shots but unwilling to see the damage her bullets made. “Just because your heart is tied to Mull doesn’t mean
everyone else’s will be.” She took a step back, holding his gaze. “The point is that her heart is tied to you .”
“Allison chose someone else. Someone who fit her career.” I pushed back from the table. “Right when our family”—my throat
burned—“was going through so much. Greer had just gotten her prognosis, Mum.”
Death sentence. Maybe a year.
And it had been. Almost to the day.
“Aye, but Greer’s cancer wasn’t Allison’s fault.”
I looked away.
“Allison was wrong in her choices too, and I’m glad you saw that before you tied yourself to her for good. Her love for you
wasnae the same as your love for her.” Mum’s expression softened. “But loving her job and wanting you to go with her to the
mainland wasn’t a fault; it was a difference. One you both chose not to work out.”
I started to argue, but she raised her palm, stilling my rebuttal. She, of all people, knew the pain Allison left behind,
and the only reason I’d healed as well as I had was because of this place. These people. Not Allison.
“The real problem isnae out there, Graeme, wherever there is.” She waved toward the window. “We live in a broken world where people leave and the ones we love die. In our modern times,
death is skirted off the stage where we don’t see it with such clear eyes as our forebears did in these bràigh and glens,
but we saw. We lived it, and living through death changes us. It can make us afraid of the oddest things, like... the unknown.
The risks. Maybe even our own dreams.”
“I’m not afraid.” I stood. “I’m angry.”
“Don’t you ken, son. Your anger looks more like fear with its feet dug into the ground. You’re the only one who has the power to release the grasp you have on it.” She tilted her head, studying me. “We’ve had to come to terms with this out-of-order death, with the grief of it all, but don’t let what happened with Greer or Allison or anyone else steal what you have now. To nick your dreams. You’re stronger than that, whether you believe it or not.”
She turned and walked from the cottage. Leave it to a mum to dress down her bairn and leave them in the wake. I slid back
down into my chair, fighting against her assessment. Allison had been wrong.
A flicker of doubt twinged in the back of my mind. But had I been wrong too? Had I been so afraid to trust our relationship
that I’d “dug in” my heels to my way instead of giving her freedom? Had Allison been one of the casualties of me holding so
tightly to keeping anything in my chaotic world that I’d blamed her—blamed anything—as a way to manage my grief?
The edge of London’s The Art Newspaper wavered in the breeze coming through the window, sliding across the table a little from where Mum left it. Likely for an
added barb in her argument.
Had I limited my dreams out of... fear? I flinched at the notion. I’d been justified in my anger toward Allison. Lachlan
and this community warranted me staying close to home.
My palm tightened around my mug as the burning in my throat intensified. I raised my gaze to the window, where wisps of cloud
floated across the blue sky, hinting of evening rain. What if, in some small way, Mum was right?