Chapter 14 Graeme
Chapter 14 Graeme
“We will be eating an early supper tonight so you can get to bed early.” Lennox’s voice traveled through the ballroom, echoing
off the oak-paneled ceiling and matching floors I’d spent part of the year repairing. “We leave by nine o’clock sharp for
our surprise outing, and you are encouraged to wear modern clothing.”
Surprise outing? Ah, right. As part of the experience, each set of guests would have the opportunity of engaging in a special
activity offered on Mull based on the time of year of their visit—Christmas festival, annual spring music festival, Mendelssohn
on Mull, flower show, or whatever Mull had to offer.
But in July? My stomach dropped a little. The only real option had to be the Highland games. And with a little help from Dad,
I’d gotten quick approval for a demonstration tent to show how my sculptures were made.
I didn’t have to leave Mull in this case.
But I was determined not to bury my life along with my sister. Mum and Katie’s words stuck like a splinter, and I had to work
it out.
This opportunity would prove a test.
And that was all.
My attention traveled back to Katie, who stood beside me as my dance partner, since Mark the Eejit had rewounded his ankle
by trying to slide down the stair railing.
He injured more than his leg. Men weren’t meant to straddle railings and slide down them.
However, it assured me of my solid building skills, because the new railing didn’t so much as shake.
Would Katie’s eyes hold the same fascination at watching me create the sculptures as they had when she viewed the completed
projects in my cottage? Holding her in my arms again was no hardship. This time we danced a quadrille, which I’d only seen
on YouTube last night after some subtle questions to Lennox about the dances for today. The waltz, I knew. Greer had taught
me.
Which made the idea of dancing it a little sweeter.
And she’d have gotten a laugh at the idea of me, dressed as an Edwardian butler, dancing it with an accident-prone American.
Actually, I could almost hear her laughing as Lennox droned on about the history of the dances.
Greer would have found the language of fans class humorous as well. The only two moves I cared to remember were the ones that
communicated “kiss me” and “I fancy you.” At one point, Katie’s eyes met mine as I waited by the door at my butler station
and her fan flashed wide. She began raising it to her lips in the signal for “kiss me,” when Miss Dupont slapped Mark the
Eejit because evidently he’d given off some rather unflattering message.
But had she fancied a kiss? Because the more I spent time with her—and with each dance—the kissing idea had grown into a full-on
need.
So as the next dancing lesson began, Miss Dupont was paired with Logan, and if my fan-reading skills proved acute (a thought
I actually hated to have floating around in my mind), she kept repeating the phrase “I fancy you.” Either that or she had
an itch on her cheek.
Logan appeared either unfazed or unaware of her message, but the too-serious man acted like he was long overdue for a date.
Miss Dupont might not prove to be the right choice, but someone needed to help the poor lad.
“For this dancing lesson, we will be learning the quadrille and the waltz.” Mrs. Lennox scanned the room, as proud as the peacock who gave up his feathers for her hat. “I see you’ve already found your partners.”
Katie raised a brow as if in challenge, so I sent the same look back to her, bringing on her smile. And fool that I was, I
wanted to keep seeing it again and again. The fact that I brought it out of her only made it better.
“Face your partners, everyone.” Lennox went around placing people in position. “Yes. That’s right. Now gentlemen bow and ladies
curtsy.”
I folded my arm across my waist and offered an exaggerated bow, while Katie dipped into a slight curtsy, her smile quivering
as if she wanted to laugh. “What a heroic bow, Mr. MacKerrow!”
“Only the best for my dance partner, Miss Campbell.”
Wake grinned at the other corner of the little box we’d made with the two couples. Maybe he saw something betwixt me and Katie.
Maybe not. At the moment, I didn’t care.
“Now, bow or curtsy to the person at your other corner,” Lennox continued. “No, Miss Dupont, not Lady Lennox. You will bow
to Lord Wake. Yes.”
And that was only the beginning of our muddled attempt at the quadrille.
We began with a few moments of stumbling since the partners crossed other partners over and over again. At one point, Logan
tripped over Wake’s shoe, hitting Miss Dupont and sending her off-balance. Katie lurched forward to grab the smaller woman
to keep her from crashing to the floor, which sent them both teetering. I was able to rescue them from actually hitting the
floor, but I heard someone’s clothing rip. I couldn’t figure out where, and I really didn’t want to know, but Katie’s wide-eyed
gaze shot to mine. She’d heard it too.
And I almost laughed. This entire production needed a solid laugh. Lennox took it much too seriously for anyone with half
a brain. We were a mess.
As if for proof—and never one to allow the ridiculousness to pass her by—Ana “tripped” over the air and landed quite decorously in Wake’s arms, adding a hand to her forehead in a swoon. Wake looked at Lennox for help.
The woman quickly clapped her hands together. “I believe we shall move on to the waltz, everyone. Perhaps it will prove less...
injurious.”
Now this one I’d been hoping for because, unlike the quadrille, where Katie left my arms in the dance, the waltz was meant
for two. The same two. In fairly close proximity.
“I havenae danced the waltz in a long time, so I’m giving you fair warning.” My palm slid to the waist of her yellow gown
well before Lennox encouraged pairs to take their positions.
The slightest hitch in her breath at my touch sent a little uptick to my heartbeat. This woman was driving me mad, and I was
willingly along for the ride.
She kept her eyes on mine as she slid her palm over my shoulder, causing my own breath to falter. There was no denying the
draw between us. It glared as brightly as Ana Lennox’s pink dress.
With a raised brow, Katie leaned close, filling my lungs with honeysuckle and sea. “It’s a good thing I’ve danced the waltz
regularly for the past few years then.”
Ah, a bit of competition? She wanted to play this game, did she?
I tightened my hold, drawing her deeper into my embrace, and her smile slowly faded as she stared up at me, her increased
breaths pulsing her chest. Her height brought her lips temptingly close, and the rest of her filled my arms in a perfect fit.
“I imagine I’ll remember the steps quickly enough.”
Watching her response to me nearly undid every logical thought in my head and sent me breaching the distance to claim those
parted lips of hers. I’d never known anyone who needed rescuing more than her or offered so much with her personality, and
I kept wanting to show up for it. For her.
I was mad.
And fascinated all at the same time.
“So should I let you lead, or do you need me to show you the ropes first?” Her rasped question added a little extra heat to
our nearness. Heaven and earth! “Until... until you remember the steps?”
My arm slipped from the side of her waist fully around her back, nearly bringing her flush against me. “I’ll remember.”
Her breath stopped altogether. Perhaps mine did too, especially when her attention dropped to my lips. And then I nearly did lose all sense and give her a thorough smuirich in the middle of the ballroom.
“Mr. MacKerrow, that hold is much too close for a proper waltz.” Lennox tapped on my arm, and I drew out of my trance, pulling
my attention from Katie’s lips to Lennox’s pinched expression. “Only arms are touching. We are not in a taproom.” She gestured
toward Wake and Ana. “See there. Ana has always excelled at waltzing.”
Because Wake knew how to lead.
I drew back from Katie into a “proper” hold, garnering Lennox’s nod of approval as she walked back to the center of the group.
When I looked back down at my partner, my gaze fell on her crooked smile. “I have a feeling you were a wee bit of a troublemaker
when you were young.”
“Aye.” She made it too easy to flirt. Too easy to enjoy the banter. “Perhaps more than a wee bit, especially when I had a
goal in mind.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she lifted her chin in defiance, taking my challenge like the lass I knew she was. “And what about
you? Do you have a goal in mind?”
“Oh, aye!” I wiggled my brows and leaned closer. Her breath hitched all over again. “Leading you in the waltz.”
She released a chuckle, regaining her composure much too quickly for my pride. “That remains to be seen, Mr. MacKerrow.”
With her challenge spurring me forward, I took the first step. Now, I’m not too stubborn to admit that she graciously followed and even pressed a hand here and there to keep me in the right direction until I found my rhythm. We worked well as a team. I imagined we’d match in many other ways too.
And then, well, I started wondering just how long I could convince Katie Campbell to stay in Mull.
***
Katie
Some things in life you’re prepared to witness and remain somewhat composed. Weddings. Scuba diving (lesson learned). Middle
school musicals when your oldest niece dies as Juliet.
But watching Graeme MacKerrow compete in the cannonball throw competition discombobulated me entirely. I mean, I resorted
to some teen version of myself, cheering and occasionally swooning from the sight. I think I may have drooled a little, but
I wasn’t ready to admit that yet.
The Mull Highland Games brought an ambience of festivity and cultural pride. From the processional led by chieftains in their
traditional dress to the parade of dancers, bagpipers, and a few dozen brawny-looking men in T-shirts and kilts, the entire
experience showcased the pride and love of the Scottish heritage I was beginning to understand a little more every day.
It reminded me so much of my own Appalachian heritage and the way my grandparents celebrated the rich history, lore, and people
among the Blue Ridge.
The same confidence and grounding of the soul was interwoven through the people participating in the games, as well as through
the spectators hovering on a nearby grassy field.
And I was definitely taking in the view.
Of one Scot in particular.
Unapologetically and, perhaps, a little slack-jawed.
After the waltz and a conversation in the hallway later about his sister, Graeme MacKerrow took up more and more space in
my mind.
Dave and Brett kept sending me texts teasing me about the growing hashtag use of #katieshotscot. And then there were the hundreds
of comments on my posts matching me with the Scot over anyone else in the comedy Clue movie of my life. And the Clue theme
had worked in my latest post, introducing the “characters” in Craighill without using their names or real photos. Only fun
descriptions to give readers and followers the chance to get involved in choosing their favorite “actors” in the Edwardian
Experience and to draw positive attention to Craighill.
My consistent readers usually left tips and comments, but this response well exceeded anything I’d seen so far. In fact, I
had a few rather bossy readers giving me their directives about “The Scot.” In short: “ Marry him! ”
I couldn’t even think long-term like that. I shouldn’t even have been contemplating short-term. But I loved spending time
with him.
I’d run my post ideas by Mrs. Lennox first, and she’d approved, with the caveat of no photos of people or real names, except
my own, of course.
So now I had a massive online conversation happening about the “fictional” folks of Craighill, an adorable little ginger-headed
boy, and a hot Scot. I mean, he is hot, so it makes sense to refer to him that way. In my head.
And as I watched him throw some galleon cannonballs from a historical shipwreck while wearing a blue T-shirt, kilt, and a
broad smile, well... I may have started envisioning a lot of things about my future I hadn’t thought about before. Especially
when paired with his teasing, gentleness, and the feeling of his arm around me during the waltz.
Have mercy, what would a hug from him feel like? I sighed like the hopeless romantic I rarely acknowledged in myself.
I pushed down a swallow of my egg roll sandwich with a big swig of the “fizzy juice” I’d bought at the nearby food tent. Graeme MacKerrow was pure kryptonite for a girl who was running away from home. I should steer clear of him.
My attention landed on his shoulders and skimmed down to his kilt.
With a sudden rush of volcanic heat in my cheeks, I looked up to the sky and offered God a silent apology for ogling like
the Scot-struck gal I was. But really, Lord. You made him that way.
And I’m really sure you said, “It was good.”
“Katie!”
I turned to the sound of my name and caught sight of Lachlan and another boy running toward me, Wedge leashed at his side.
Lachlan limped only a little, as proof of the quick healing of youth. A sweet warmth replaced the spiked heat from only a
moment ago. How could this little boy wiggle his way so deeply into my heart already?
Kind of like his uncle.
And his grandma.
I was surrounded by people who were becoming important to me, when I usually left everyone behind. Stop being ridiculous, Katie. Attraction and friendship did not warrant changing one’s entire life! I kept in contact with several friends I’d met along
the way as I traveled. Family members too. None of them had given me reasons to consider altering everything I loved.
Yet the dimpled grin on Lachlan’s face, the way I cared about what happened to him, sent me into pondering the what-ifs like
never before.
I met him at the bottom of the hill, near several of the other tents. Some held food, some sold handcrafts, one offered to
find your Scottish heritage, a few were empty, but all proclaimed the pride of this heritage.
“This is Jamie.” Lachlan thumbed toward the boy as they neared. “I told him how good you are at getting lost.”
The smile on my face stilled and then... nearly turned into a laugh. I coughed instead. “That’s true.”
“But you’re good with bandages.”
Jamie crossed his arms, examining me with a pair of brilliant green eyes. Next to that disheveled dark hair, he gave off his
own kind of faerie vibes. Maybe one of J. M. Barrie’s lost boys?
“And you don’t like Irn-Bru.”
Both boys stared at me, shaking their heads as if beyond disappointed.
“Maybe the taste will grow on me.” I shrugged. I mean, what do you say? Probably not “It tastes like bubble gum.” I got a
good tongue-lashing from Maggie of the Stories and Stitches book club when I mentioned my thoughts to her on Irn-Bru.
“But I do like fishing.”
That won a small grin from the boys, and without hesitation Lachlan grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. “Granny told me
to bring you to see the sword dance.”
I didn’t fully comprehend his words because the sweetness of him taking my hand and guiding me somewhere lodged in a special
place in my mind. A new significant memory to press back some of the less favorable ones.
“Sword dance?”
“Aye, you’ll have to see it to know,” Lachlan answered. “Uncle Calum’s books are in the book tent too, but you cannae tell
anyone he wrote them.”
My brows rose. How did that work? And wasn’t Calum Graeme’s brother? And there was a younger one too, if I recalled. Peter?
Who was away at college or something?
“It’s a secret. He likes to be mysterious.” Lachlan nodded as if repeating something he’d heard before. “But you must see
the sword dance first.”
“My sisters are ’bout to compete.” This from Jamie, who trailed behind. “They’ve been taking Highland dance in a club after school for years.” He lengthened the last word as if his sisters were about a thousand years old.
“Ah, Katie-girl.” Mirren greeted me and ushered me forward near a set of tents where an upraised platform stood. “With your
love of stories, I thought for certain you needed to see a bit of traditional Scottish dance.”
She linked her arm through mine, as if I belonged right there with her, and drew me closer to the platform near another small
group, one of which looked familiar. Lori, another of the knitters—the sweetest of them, besides Mirren—said, “Oh, Katie,
good to see you, dear. Isn’t this lovely?”
And again, I was embraced into this community as if I fit. As if... they wanted me here.
Me! With all my troublesome... ness.
“I’m telling her about the history of the sword dance, Lori.” Mirren gestured with her chin toward the platform.
“Oh, aye.” Lori nodded. “It has stories back to Macbeth even.”
“Macbeth?” I laughed.
“And is a long held dance done before battles,” Mirren continued. “Battle swords would be laid on the ground, and the warriors
would dance around the sword, trying not to step on it as they danced. If the warrior’s feet touched the sword, it was considered
an ill omen for the upcoming battle.”
I lifted my gaze to the platform where two young girls in colorful dresses and ballerina-like slippers took their positions.
Sure enough, large swords were laid at their feet. I whipped out my phone to video a little.
“Uncle Graeme says it all started when Scot warriors took the swords of the opponents they’d defeated, placed their own sword
at their opponent’s sword in the sign of the cross, and danced around them in victory,” Lachlan added. “See there.”
Lachlan pointed, and Jamie added, “Mum can’t watch them perform. She gets too nervous they’re going to fall, and I’ve tried to remind her that they’ve danced it dozens of times without dying, but she doesnae listen.”
Mirren and I exchanged smiles, stifling our laughter. Gah! I loved kids.
I spent over an hour of the four-hour-long festivities with Mirren, Lori, the boys, and Wedge, watching everything from Highland
fling dancing to hammer throws and bagpipe competitions. I’d always expected the bagpipes to grate on my nerves, but instead,
they grew on me, creating a background of sound ingrained in the life and culture of this world. Fresh air, laughter, accents,
and bagpipes.
“And how are you liking your first Highland games, Miss Campbell?”
I turned from my first bite of a jammy cream doughnut to find Graeme approaching in full and glorious... Scottishness.
Kilt, tight T-shirt, wind-tossed hair. I don’t think I’d ever thought knees could be sexy, until now. Heaven help me.
Needless to say, as I bit down on my doughnut, the massive amount of cream inside squirted around the edge of my mouth in
perfect middle school embarrassment fashion—basically giving me twin trails of cream down the sides of my chin.
I was an accident-prone, redheaded, cream-toothed walrus.
Excellent way to impress a guy.
It’s a real wonder I’m still single.
I attempted to catch the dripping cream with my hand as Graeme rushed forward, pulling a handkerchief from the top of his
kilt and... laughing? More like a rumbly sort of sound, like the percolation of a coffee machine, but it still almost made
me smile.
Which would have been a very bad idea because... cream.
“First jammy cream?”
There was no way I was taking the bait and answering him with my mouth as full as it was. I narrowed my eyes, only to have his percolating chuckle take on more volume. “Did no one warn you about the size of these things?”
“I can nearly cram a whole one in my mouth if I try,” Lachlan said, wrinkling his nose and looking from Graeme to me.
Graeme caught some of the cream dripping off my chin that my palm missed.
Stellar romantic moment, Katie. The stuff to relive for decades to come with sweltering embarrassment and the desperate desire
for the ground to swallow me whole. The humored expression on his face had me snatching the handkerchief from his hand and
taking care of the mess myself.
“She’s just enjoying it as she ought!” came Mirren’s encouraging response as she placed a hand on my back. “Jammy creams,
cream buns, and the like aren’t meant to be eaten without a mess. It makes them taste better.”
I smeared some cream across my face with the handkerchief to prove her point. It was tasty, but the mess I made didn’t improve
its flavor. It only increased my humiliation.
“A little warning would have been nice,” I murmured after a swallow or two. “But it’s delicious.”
“Aye.” His gaze dropped to my lips before dragging back to my eyes. “It is.”
My face flamed for a whole new reason, and I forgot about my walrus appearance, the smeared handkerchief, and maybe even my
name. I needed distance from this man just to protect my IQ.
With powers Superman should envy, I pulled my gaze away from his and turned back to Mirren, who stood sporting her own massive
smile. Maybe she was trying to hide her laugh too. “But”—I waved toward the field with his handkerchief—“in answer to your
question, this has been amazing. The dancing, the heavies, the piping.” I raised my half-eaten jammy. “The scran.”
He rewarded me with a wide grin I felt all the way down to my wellies. “You’re speakin’ like a Scot now, lass.”
Lass. That word from his lips and paired with such a look. Heaven above!
I glanced down with a loose hold on my composure and finished wiping my face. “Mirren has helped. Lachlan and Jamie too. Maybe
they didn’t warn me about the jammy, but they’ve given me lots of other information, from the types of dances to the songs
the pipers played.” I nodded over to Mirren, and the tender look in her eyes gave me pause for only a second.
She cared about me. And she’d sent Lachlan to seek me out so I could spend time with them. Me.
As weird and disastrous as I am. As tall and troublesome.
Without expecting me to be anyone else.
And Graeme had looked at my mouth as if—my face reheated enough to sizzle any residual cream—he were hungry. And it certainly
wasn’t because I gave off seductive vibes. Could he really be attracted to me ?
“Aren’t you meant to be off somewhere about now, Graeme MacKerrow?” Mirren’s question sliced into the stare linking my boiling
body temperature to Graeme’s eyes.
He hesitated before pulling his attention from mine.
“What?” He blinked as if the contact impacted him as much as me. And then he gave his head a shake and looked down at his
watch. “Aye.” The word shot from him, and he took a few steps backward, his gaze finding mine again. He even added a knee-weakening
grin, as if to hold me over. “Come see how well I am at taking advice?”
“You’d better see it now because it may never happen again,” Mirren shot back, receiving a frown from over her son’s shoulder
as he disappeared into the crowd at almost a run.
“What in the world is going on?”
“It’s a surprise.” Mirren linked her arm through mine and pulled me between the tents. “And you’ll want to have your camera ready because it’ll be worth givin’ folks a glimpse of your talented Scot, now won’t it?”
“ My talented Scot?” But my protest disappeared into the noise of the passing crowd as Lachlan took my other hand and pulled me
forward.
We stopped in front of a tent with a hand-painted sign that read: “Wildlife Sculpture Demonstration.” And beneath those words:
“Watergaw Sculptures Demonstration.”
Watergaw ? Was that some sort of family name?
“What sort of wood do you use?” The question came from an older man who stood among the group of observers facing the single
occupant of the tent.
Graeme?
My bottom lip dropped. He sat behind a table beneath the tent with a finished sculpture of a barn owl on one side of him and
directly in front of him an unfinished... puffin? Wait. Had he planned to show his work here? It didn’t sound like it from
our conversation at his house. Had he taken my words to heart?
Mirren pulled me among the throng, closer to the front.
“In answer to your question, Mr. Cane”—Graeme patted the puffin—“I typically use tupelo wood since it’s a soft timber that
still holds its strength.” He wiped his palms down the sides of his kilt. Was he nervous? I stepped closer, hoping to catch
his eye. Reassure him. “But if I’m not painting the work, I tend toward oak or chestnut. The wood is good for carving and
has some beautiful colors and grains.”
“You been doin’ this for years, have ye?” An older man waved toward the tent. “And we didnae know?”
“I began taking it seriously about five years ago, but... well, I... I’ve only been selling for about three years.”
He cleared his throat, his smile tight.
“What a wonder!” came an older woman’s response. “Your grandpa would be fair proud of you, lad.”
Graeme’s gaze shot up to the woman. “Thank you, Mrs. MacRay. I hope so.”
“His grandpa ?” Another man called out. “The lad’s done us all proud with such work. The owl looks so lifelike I’m tempted to go hide my chicks.”
The crowd laughed and Graeme’s expression grew a little more relaxed.
“There’s no greater compliment to Graeme than that,” Mirren whispered. “But Mr. Cane is right. My father couldnae have come
close to the skill Graeme’s shown.”
Silence settled over the group crowded around the tent, and Graeme shifted a little, obvious discomfort growing with each
extra second. I knew this feeling. It happened the first few times I interviewed people. The awkward shift from what I knew
in my head to actually engaging with the person. All I needed at the time was a little boost to get started. A question here.
A comment there. A smile from someone in the crowd.
I stepped forward, gaining his attention, holding his gaze.
“So, how do you get started? Do you have a picture in your mind already, or do you create as you go?”
His shoulders dropped a little with his growing grin. Relaxing, I hoped. “I... I usually have a type of creature I want
to know more about and start by researching photos of my subject and take a few of my own, if I can.” Graeme reached for a
paper on the table. “And then I’ll sketch out my design.”
The paper showed a beautiful pencil sketch of a puffin standing on a rock, reflecting what the unfinished wood already revealed
in rough form. Amazing.
And he drew as well?
“I rough out the design first, usually using my chisel, and then refine the piece with more detailed tools.” He took a seat
in front of the puffin, a small tool set scattered atop the table.
“You sell them, do ye?” a lady asked.
“Aye,” he answered, taking up a small knife-like tool.
“Do you just sculpt birds?” another man queried.
His gaze found mine again, eyes lit, before turning to answer the man. “A few other things, like sheep, foxes, rabbits, but
birds mostly.”
“Have you done a gull?” someone asked.
“Aye. Several.”
“What about doves and starlings? Those are near my house,” a young lady asked.
“I’ve carved a few,” he answered. “And some mistle thrush, sparrows, even a golden eagle.” He raised the knife to the wing
of the puffin. “And for my demonstration, I’m going to show you how I create the finer parts of a wing using my burn pen.
It’s very effective.”
A murmur went through the crowd as he lifted the strange knife for everyone to see, then began detailing the wing.
“Look at him. He’s getting comfortable now,” Mirren said. “And see how proud he is. All he needed was a little nudge in the
right direction, Katie-girl.”
I still couldn’t believe I’d been that nudge. That he’d valued my words enough for them to... matter. My throat closed
up, my heart shook. Something inside me gave way to a feeling I tried to ignore, teasing a hope I didn’t fully trust, so I
decided to go for what I knew.
Distraction.
“What does watergaw mean?” I whispered down to Mirren, and the way her eyes softened at the edges hinted at her answer.
“’Twas one of my daughter, Greer’s, favorite old Scottish words. She was always finding old words to revive in our vocabulary because she loved the language so much. No wonder she loved unique words. She and Graeme had their own twin language for so many years, and none could understand except the two of them.” Mirren sighed with a smile and then gestured toward the sign. “Watergaw means a part of a rainbow. Only part. A broken piece one might see through clouds. Greer garnered hope from it as a way to search for beauty, even within brokenness.”
A piece of rainbow. Shattered light but still beautiful.
“Life is filled with broken pieces, and we’re bound to have more hurt and brokenness along the way, but she always searched
for the small pieces of beauty and held on to them.”
I was choked up and couldn’t respond with anything but a nod, so I looked back at Graeme. His hands carefully and gently moved
over the wood. My eyes burned. Watergaw. He was making something exquisite out of a broken piece of wood.
I was broken. Down deep. In places I couldn’t touch. But was it possible someone like Graeme or his family found me...
beautiful? Enough to care about me in all my fractured past and chaotic present?
How many times had I missed finding out the answer to that question because I ran away? Because I never stayed long enough
for relationships to take hold?
And what would I do now with this knowledge? What if this attraction and interest proved truer than I could imagine and knocked
all my fears to the curb? What if I’d convinced myself that I didn’t need what my heart truly wanted or needed most?
Would I run away like I always did?
Before I messed things up worse. Before I didn’t meet expectations.
Before all the charm and delight of the newness of a place and relationship dulled with familiarity and reality.
Because the very real fear lay between wanting to believe in the beauty but seeing only the brokenness. Maybe that beauty was worth being brave for.
And if Graeme MacKerrow and this little world on Mull proved to be all the wonderful things I feared it might be, would I
be brave enough to trust them with my brokenness... and choose to stay?