Chapter 11 Katie
Chapter 11 Katie
I woke up early on Saturday morning because I forgot to pull the curtains closed the night before. And with a sunrise at some
ungodly time, like five o’clock, the happy golden beams created a brilliant wake-up call.
I shrugged off the initial frustration and shot a smile heavenward. There were worse ways to wake up in the morning. Howler
monkeys have their name for a reason.
And today was a free day for me, so why not take advantage of exploring, catching up on writing, and just enjoying the world
of Mull. So I stayed in my comfy “modern” pj’s and edited another article Dave sent me, wrote up my notes from yesterday,
sent the latest article (“Thievery Most Fowl”) to my editor, and wrote a few thousand words in my middle reader story, all
before even changing out of my pajamas.
I wasn’t 100 percent sure where I wanted to visit on Mull, but I planned to do some research after breakfast and pick my spot.
Pulling on some jeans and a T-shirt, I plopped down on my bed just as a knock came to my door.
At my welcome, Emily entered with a tray of Scottish goodness. Seriously, I don’t know if the Scots are in competition with
every other country to make their breakfasts bigger and better, but from my first night staying in Inverness to today, the
Scottish breakfast proved massive... and eclectic.
Of course there were typical breakfast items like sausage, bacon (called rashers), and eggs. Even a bowl of fruit. But then there were the additions of potato scones, called tattie scones (which makes me smile to think about), baked beans on toast (which doesn’t make me smile to think about), fried tomato with cheese, oatcakes, and the traditional blood sausage and haggis.
I tried both of the latter.
I only liked one, and I chose not to learn the contents of either.
“And I collected these notes for you that were under the door when I entered, Miss Campbell.” Emily handed me two folded pieces
of paper—one card stock and the other looked as if it had been torn from a notebook.
Once Emily left and I sat down in front of my plate, I opened up the first, thicker paper. In almost calligraphic beauty,
a schedule for the upcoming week marked the page.
Monday—a cooking class and lawn tennis
Tuesday—guest’s choice: day visit to Dervaig or a free day
Wednesday—the Language of Fans, dancing lesson 2, dining outdoors early
Thursday—a special surprise event, to be revealed the day of
Friday—a morning at the beach, archery
Mrs. Lennox certainly offered an experience. Language of fans? I grinned. Archery? Well, at least on that one I wouldn’t embarrass
myself too much. Lawn tennis, however? I wish you got points for playing passionately, if not accurately.
I propped the card against the nearby lamp as a reminder of my upcoming week and readied to open the second paper, when my
phone buzzed to life.
Mom: I hope you’re enjoying Scotland.
My entire body stiffened. She never started texting like that without an ulterior motive. And what was she doing up at five in the morning in the States? I racked my brain to recall her schedule. Morning tennis at the club?
I slowly picked up my phone, and the screen blinked again.
Mom: I saw your latest video, Katherine. Don’t you think you ought to do a little something more with yourself before you make
those? Candace at the club barely recognized you in that ball cap. And were you even wearing makeup?
I lowered the phone back to the desk. How did she always seem to wound me no matter how far away I was?
Mom: You know, you’ve always liked the color pink. Maybe you could wear that little dress I got you for Christmas and make a new
video.
Pink? Pink was my least favorite color. And depending on the shade, it looked horrible on me.
But it had been Sarah’s favorite.
And I’d never measure up to her, no matter how hard I tried or how far I went.
And I had to respond to Mom, because if I didn’t, she’d extend her texts through the rest of the day until I replied.
Me: Grandpa was right. Scotland is beautiful.
I waited, muscles tight in preparation for some other sting I couldn’t stop. I’d tried. So had Brett.
And she wouldn’t stop, fueled by the need to have the world view her family as perfect or the desire to keep Sarah’s memory alive in unhealthy ways. Or maybe a combination of both?
When she didn’t respond for a few minutes, my body began to uncoil from flight mode. Grandpa came to the rescue again, even
from the grave, creating a safe buffer between me and my mom’s criticism. He’d been the only one who held some sort of ability
to redirect her stings or quiet her criticisms.
Heat rose into my eyes as I leaned back in the chair, running my palms over my face to get control of my emotions. Brett understood.
My gaze dropped to the time on my phone.
But it was much too early to call him.
I buried my face in my hands. “Please, help me.”
I’d been on my own for years, but for the first time in a long time, the gravity of being... alone hit me. God felt so
very far away.
The second piece of paper—the one that looked like it had been torn from a notebook—caught my attention on the desk, so I
opened it to find only one scrawled sentence.
If you want stories, visit Iona.
My breath froze, and I reread the note.
No signature, but from the warmth spilling through me, my body knew.
And the stinging in my eyes became nearly unbearable.
Graeme showed up at the right time even when he didn’t know it.
I sniffled and rubbed at my nose, allowing his unintended sweetness to settle into my hurting heart. Only for a second.
I knew the idea of dipping into this attraction was ridiculous. But I grinned down at the paper anyway, our last few meetings
flipping through my mind like a movie reel. The loch rescue was one thing, but dancing with him yesterday and the unexpected
note today only secured the very real idea that Graeme MacKerrow was dangerous.
Highly dangerous.
I could have blamed the eyes, which were fascinating. Or the shoulders. I sighed in appreciation. Or the accent and the way his voice curled around the word lass . Honestly, those were dangerous enough to a single American woman who’d never really been in love. But then you add dancing
and banter and this weird sort of tug-of-war between sweetness and grumpiness?
The entire package gripped my unwritten list of Mr. Right qualities and dangled them in front of me like a carrot for a starving
rabbit. My lonely heart clawed at the possibility. My mind kept screaming, Whoa there, Katie-girl! (But in Mirren MacKerrow’s voice in my mind. Not sure why it was hers, but it was.)
I ran a finger over the words on the paper, imagining him taking the time to write it. What an anomaly he was. With his gruffness,
I wouldn’t have expected it, so what else was he hiding behind that devastating smile?
Whew. I fanned the paper in front of my face as my grin kept growing. I don’t think I’d ever been so attracted to a real person
so quickly before, and the idea sent another tremble to my terrified heart. Because of one very obvious thing: Scotland wasn’t
my home. And Graeme certainly didn’t have plans to leave. He owned a manor house, for heaven’s sake!
I was afraid all the way down to my walking shoes. Afraid I’d mess it up like I did so many other things, except I couldn’t
write my way into making it a funny happily-ever-after. I’d just get my heart broken all over again in a new way. Then what
would be left of me?
My thumb trailed over the words on the paper. They didn’t mean love. They were just a really nice sentiment from a hot Scot
who gave off hot/cold vibes and leathery cologne. But still, they hinted at a connection I didn’t fully understand.
I swallowed through the emotions rallying in my throat before they could turn into tears, a skill I’d almost perfected from years of practice. Tears didn’t help. They didn’t change things. They didn’t make me feel any better or smarter. They just dripped down my nose and turned my eyes red so my face resembled a leaking tomato. And how many people really want to love on something like that!
Love?
Silly idea for someone who was on her way to the next adventure.
But then I reread the simple sentence, and a vision of Graeme drawing me close to him during the dance made me smile all over
again. And caused an explosion of glorious tingles to travel up my arms. Then we’d chased the dreaded parrot through Craighill
with an entourage of a few other guests running behind us.
I’d offered a helpful pun as we skated around a doorway into a ballroom. “Isn’t this egg -citing?”
Graeme nearly stopped running to look over at me and then rolled his eyes, continuing the chase. But he did call back to me.
“If my ancestors were here right now, we’d be eating parrot for supper.”
As we raced up a flight of stairs, he asked, “Why would a parrot need a hairband?”
To which I replied, “Well, it doesn’t look like much of a bird en at the speed he’s flying.”
It took Graeme a second, but then he did stop and turn all the way around on the landing of the stairs. “You’re a bampot,
you are.”
Which then made me smile even more because of how hard he fought to hide his smile. He really didn’t like to smile. What was
that about?
“I’ve been called worse.” I shrugged a shoulder and shot him a wink. “At least you didn’t call me quackers .”
His eyelids pinched closed along with the battle he kept having with his lips. And then the thought of a battle between his
lips and mine sounded way too distracting and exhilarating and positively perilous, so I rushed past him on the stairs after
the feathered felon.
When we finally found the bird’s hoard of pinched items, sans Merlin, we distributed the findings to a very flustered Mrs. Lennox and everyone was sent off to ready for supper.
I probably should have tried to ignore Graeme the rest of the evening for no other reason than to preserve my blood pressure.
But he cut such a fine figure in that butler’s uniform, poised at the corner of the room to serve, I found my gaze constantly
moving in his direction.
Me, my lips, and my blood pressure were in so much trouble.
And as I stared down at the note, realizing the grumpy Scot had taken my interests into account? Well, I kind of swooned.
Almost as thoroughly as when he rumbled the word lass by my ear.
Ach!
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of swoony encounters—encounters I happened to accidentally and thoroughly botch like a
pro. There was the time in Italy when a deliciously attractive native rode up beside me on his moped, lowered his sunglasses,
and winked. I must say I did look rather cute in the red floral dress I was wearing. Though it was the last time I wore that
dress, because instead of responding with the suave and alluring reaction I had in my head, I tripped over an overly excited
cockapoo and landed in the middle of a café table, sending a few bellinis flying in one direction and a few stradiottos in
the other, leaving me, the people at the table, and the cockapoo smelling like a winery and sufficiently splashed with enough
caffeine to run a cappuccino machine. The liquid explosion even made it to the handsome moped driver’s sunglasses. Needless
to say, he drove off without a glance back at me or my wonderfully stained floral dress.
And then there was the instance where I almost strangled a very handsome Parisian vendor with my purse strap. I blame the
pigeons. The only consolations to the fiasco were the excellent cream puffs and the fact that the vendor didn’t press charges.
There was also the time in Mexico with the scuba equipment and the sea urchins. The doctor said the swoony instructor should
heal without a scar.
I’ve clearly left a long trail of reasons (and hospital bills) to support my fear of romance. Not just for my own heart, but
for my possible leading man’s lifespan.
I rested my chin on my palm as I took a bite of my tattie scone. But Graeme looked like he could take the risk. If his massive
shoulders and steely eyes didn’t prove it, the six-foot-twenty rest of him should. Right?
What if he was my chance?
The possibility crept right back into my pulse, and like the coward I was, I packed my bag, scarfed down a few more bites
of my monster breakfast, wrapped the oatcakes in my napkin for later, and walked out the door.
It’s what I did.
Ran away.
From the note. From the attraction. From the possibility of seeing him today.
But I couldn’t quite shake the nudge that one day I’d run too far away and miss out on something extraordinary.
***
“You need to bring Jess and the kids here, Brett. Your artist’s heart would soak in the views and colors and essence of Scotland
like food to a starving man.”
“Touché.” My brother’s dry response pierced my conscience. His family was already financially struggling, and I had to go
and stick my foot in my mouth all the way to my hip bone.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He sighed—a painful sound. “We’ll sort it out, but Jess and I have been talking about options. Maybe moving away from the city. Cost of living is really hitting us hard.”
And maybe space to resurrect your art? A talent recognized by Gran and Grandpa, if not the rest of the family... except me, of course. Because “painting” and
“photography” didn’t make a real job. Brett had second-guessed his gift since we were kids, and his insecurities became worse
after Sarah died. Everything became worse after she died.
“So, this holy island. What’s it called again?”
Deflection. Our primary language. “Iona, and there’s just something about it. A feeling. I don’t know if it’s because we heard
about Scotland our whole lives from Grandpa, or maybe I’m hormonal or whatever, but there’s something about this place. As
weird as it sounds, it does have a strange sort of holy sense to it. Like God is very close.”
“Which I hear He is, no matter which island you’re on, sis.”
I sighed loud enough for him to hear through the phone. “You’re so funny.” The water rushed up to my shoes in an uncommonly beautiful shade of blue. “Well, it’s nice” came my lame response.
Even as a writer, my words sometimes failed.
“So, how goes the Edwardian Experience?” Kudos to his horrible impersonation of my impersonation of Mrs. Lennox.
Dancing with Graeme popped to mind, unbidden. “Unexpected, that’s for sure.” I stood on the shore of Iona, glancing the short
distance across the water to Mull. A four-minute ferry ride from one island to the next. “Where have platter-sized hats been
all my life?”
“We always had them. Mom wore them to the beach, remember?”
I snorted at that image, scaring a seagull who’d just landed a few feet in front of me. A mist fell. Not really rain, but
certainly not dry. And the entire place conjured up thoughts of King Arthur and Merlin—not the parrot—and valiant knights.
Graeme pulling me out of the loch emerged in my head, so I turned back toward Iona Abbey to get my mind back on higher things. There was no shaking the otherworldly, almost sacred feel of this place, even more so than Mull. Mull—and Scotland as a whole—carried some sort of internal draw to linger. Iona somehow encouraged me to... pray.
“So in answer to your unvoiced question...” My brother’s voice called me back to the phone. “What if Scotland is the place
you’ve been searching for?”
“Searching for?” I knew what he meant but didn’t want to say it.
“Home, Katie. We’re all trying to find it.” His familiar voice relaxed my shoulders, and I breathed in the clean, salty air.
“Sometimes it’s a place. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s both.”
He sounded just like Gran.
Silence followed his words as I stared back up at the Abbey, which was half shrouded in fog. I was a little afraid to ask
God if Scotland was home. Afraid He’d answer yes, and then I’d have to figure out what home looked like exactly, how it would
work, and how not to screw it up.
“Stop it. I can practically hear you beating yourself up about how you’d ruin your life.”
I huffed. “My thoughts were not that loud.”
“It’s been a recurring theme for a long time, sis.” His sweet endearment, so intimate between us, brought tears to my eyes.
It never got old. That one connection to my family that felt natural and real and good. “You call me out on my insecurities
too.”
“Touché right back atcha.” I wiped my eyes and started following the path up the island toward the abbey. For a July day,
the island looked pretty empty, except for its colorful array of shops at the ferry drop-off point.
Whether it was my own thoughts about prayer, my brother’s voice, or the place—or all three—a calmness settled over me. It was so easy to feel alone when I hopped from one place to the next. So easy to forget the important things that grounded me. So easy to convince myself I wanted this solitary dance of adventure.
But if you deflected your heartfelt thoughts long enough, maybe you’d convince yourself you were fine... when you weren’t.
“By the way, did you know you’re trending?”
I came to a complete stop on the path beside some beautiful stone ruins. “What?”
“The article ‘Falling for a Scot’ started this entire social media phenomenon of people predicting the future love life of
Miss Adventure. ‘Kelpies or Oyster Cage: Saving the Sassenach’ just came out this morning, and it’s already gotten millions
of hits.”
Evidently those night classes on marketing were coming in handy for Brett... and me. So glad he managed those things for
me, and definitely a skill to add to his many, in order to find the right job that would allow him to pursue his art. Wait?
Did he just say ‘Sassenach’? “Ugh. Dave changed the title again! My original title was just ‘Kelpies or Oyster Cage.’ And
I’m not a Sassenach! Sassenachs are English!”
“Well, it’s only increasing your numbers. If you were hoping to make some changes to your travel schedule, your performance
the last two years has given you leverage. Maybe Dave’s offer isn’t such a bad thing to think about. Travel and home? Haven’t
you always said that if someone could magically give you the best of both worlds, you’d settle down a little?”
Now why did he have to go calling me out like that? Brothers!
But he was right. I didn’t think a possibility of both existed. And I still didn’t, but what if... what if I found it?
My diet had consisted of a healthy dose of wanderlust for so long, my brain didn’t even compute “settle down.”
I resumed my walk up the path, a little faster. Change could be good.
Change could be terrible.
“I’m going to send a few more photos to you, but you really need to come here in person, Brett. This place would inspire you.”
“Katie.” His tone lost all humor, bringing me to a stop again. “No matter where you run or how fast or far, you’ll never outrun
your own heart. Maybe it’s time to stop trying.”
***
Graeme
There was only one benefit to becoming a pretend butler.
A benefit I hadn’t counted on and would probably lead to heartbreak later.
But everywhere the guests were, so was I. Which meant I had the opportunity to observe Katie Campbell in a not-so-natural
habitat. However, despite the charade and faux-Edwardian atmosphere, the real Katie kept showing up because, to be perfectly
honest, I don’t think she knew how to pretend.
Though she tried.
But her inability kept me looking in her direction too much for my own good. Adding the fact that she’d jerked off her shoes
to help me chase after the pinching parrot while wearing her Edwardian gown and then proceeded to make devastating puns along
the way, well... I don’t think my brain fully knew what to do next.
Perhaps I just wanted to sort her out. She didn’t fit my expectations or any mold I knew. Simple curiosity, it was. But the
way my body came alive when our eyes met didn’t match “simple curiosity” at all.
There were wounds behind those eyes. Perhaps even fear. All mingled together behind an innocence, intelligence, and—I pinched
my lips against a smile—glaikit humor to create the most curious creature.
My gaze took in the simple white gown she wore, something Lennox called a sporting dress, but with her hair piled in curls atop her head, she resembled an elfish beauty. And then she shot me a grin as she came to stand beside me while the other two couples played the first lawn tennis round.
“I hear we’re partnering up for lawn tennis.”
All right. An elfish beauty and a pixie spirit. And she was slowly ensnaring me.
“That’s what I hear too.”
Mark, the eejit, sat nearby, cane at his side. Though he’d joined in the morning cooking lesson, his twisted ankle meant I
had to step in as Katie’s partner again.
This time with lawn tennis.
And surprisingly, I didn’t mind my volunteer job as much as I ought, especially since Lennox gave me some slightly more comfortable
clothes to wear than the uniform. A white linen suit. But how anyone could play a solid round of tennis in this without staining
it from ankles to chin, I had no idea.
“You look”—Katie scanned over me and I sat up straighter—“classy.”
“Classy?”
“That was a compliment, by the way. It’s okay to smile at those.”
I narrowed my eyes instead. “Lennox said the winner gets their choice of the desserts you made in the cooking class.”
“I know.” Her nose wrinkled with her smile. “Great incentive.”
“So, are you any good at lawn tennis?”
“No,” she answered without hesitation and then sighed. “I and most sports have a love-hate relationship, but especially sports
involving running and hitting something at the same time.”
Which ruled out 75 percent of them. And yet, I grinned.
And she noticed.
“Ah, I see my ineptitude charms you more than compliments.” She dusted off her hands as if finished with a task. “If you find
that charming, Mr. MacKerrow, by the end of this game, you should be downright in love with me.”
My heart plummeted. Love. Even if she teased me, I shouldn’t feel a twinge of panic at the idea that she held some sort of ability to wrestle me into
actually... caring for her. But I was starting to doubt my head... and my self-control. So I decided to redirect the
conversation. “Mum said she let you borrow her car to drive to Iona on Saturday.”
“Iona was amazing.” She turned her body to face me, smile in full bloom. “There’s something spiritual about it.”
“Aye, there is.” I nodded, watching her emotions flash so openly over her expression. Her authenticity offered a surprising
and refreshing change from what I’d known with Allison. Perhaps I’d allowed my hurt to discolor my idea of relationships.
That realization nipped at my assumptions.
Perhaps it had discolored even more?
“But I’m pretty sure driving there and back improved my prayer life.”
I coughed to hide my chuckle. “Did it?”
“Don’t get me wrong. The overall hallowed feel of the island turned my mind and heart toward heaven, but driving along these
narrow roads with little stone bridges the size of toothpicks?” She shook her head, eyes wide. “Definite prayer-inducing times,
especially when I didn’t want to add a dent to your mom’s car.”
Who would notice? She already had aplenty.
And Katie’s open talk of prayer? Certainly not a common occurrence among most new folks I met. Interesting.
Too interesting. Especially since I was attempting to keep my interest as tamed as my smile.
And failing. At both.
When our turn came for lawn tennis, Katie’s action proved her declaration true. Despite keeping step on the short walk from
the village to Craighill, when it came to sports, she showed no athleticism at all. Half the time, her hits didn’t even fly
toward the net. The other times, she missed the ball altogether.
But I had to give her cheers for effort.
She swung at anything that came remotely near her, fumbling, falling, sliding, and ultimately laughing about it all.
“You are rubbish at this game, aren’t you?” I reached down to help her up from her latest nosedive.
She wrapped her fingers around mine, and I pulled her to a stand. Her hair, which was once on top of her head, now fell in
wild directions around her pinkened face. “You really know how to serve up the compliments, Mr. MacKerrow.”
Her brows rose in expectation of me getting her pun, and my chest nearly burst with a restrained laugh. For over a year, life’s
wounds had been hard, smiles more difficult, and laughter almost nonexistent. My family’s faith and love for one another had
softened some of the edges of the grief and offered small steps back into a world where my heart didn’t feel as shattered.
But within one week, the stiff muscles around my heart, the ones in need of this joy, began to work loose again, one pun,
one conversation, one smile at a time. “Next time I’ll try a backhanded one.”
Her bottom lip dropped open with her smile, and she released a laugh. “You’re not challenging me to a pun war, are you? Because
I can tell you right now, you’ve just met your match .”
My grin crooked the slightest bit. Met my match? “I’m willing to court trouble in that case then.”
“Trouble?” She got back into position for the next serve and batted those eyes with a mock look of pure innocence. “Are you
calling me trouble?”
“Aye,” I said under my breath. “A great deal of trouble.”
Despite her being an American travel writer and me a well-grounded Scot, was it possible her pun held a little truth? Mad,
barmy, completely insane truth?
Had I met my match?