18. Chapter 18 #2
A deep Highland brogue carries through the house, and I make my way to the kitchen. “Where’s the American?”
“Right here, Mr. Ramsay,” I say, coming around the corner.
“Call me Callum,” he says, reaching out his calloused hand for me to shake. “And ceud mìle fàilte. Means a hundred thousand welcomes in Gaelic.”
“Taing,” I say, thanking him in the same language. “Happy to be here.”
He’s my height with a sturdy build, kind gray eyes, and brown hair streaked with silver. Despite the differences in their appearance, I can see where Torin gets his good looks.
Movement catches my eye, a black-and-white border collie waiting patiently beside him, tail sweeping the floor in slow hopeful thumps, sea-blue eyes watching me.
“And who’s this?” I ask, kneeling and offering the back of my hand for a sniff.
“That’s Flick,” Callum tells me. “She’s the best worker on the farm.”
“Howdy, Flick,” I say as she sits and offers me a paw. I laugh and shake it. “Well, aren’t you polite?” She leans forward, pressing her head into my hand, shameless about what she’s after.
“You really know what you’re doing, don’t you, girl?” I say, scratching her behind the ears.
“Aye, she’s a ham,” Callum says fondly. “Try not to give in to her too often.”
“She’s going to be hard to resist,” I say as she rolls over and presents her belly for a rub.
“She’s counting on it,” Torin murmurs.
I wake early Christmas morning feeling refreshed. The bed in the guest room is incredibly comfortable, and I don’t remember waking up once in the night. I don’t hear anyone moving around yet, but we’re on a farm, so I suspect I’m not the only early riser.
After my usual morning routine, I head to the kitchen and find Margaret and Freya making tea and coffee in companionable silence, both in their pajamas.
Freya’s shirt reads first of all, i'm a delight in bold lettering, which feels entirely accurate, and Margaret has on a flowered dressing gown tied at the waist. Their outfits suit them.
“Good morning, Beau,” Margaret says, crossing the room and giving me a hug. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a stone gathering moss,” I say. “It’s been a while since I’ve slept so well.”
“Well, you must’ve needed it then, dear,” she coos.
“And I’m guessing you probably need coffee,” Freya says, handing me a mug.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a sip.
Margaret begins bustling about again, pulling bowls and ingredients onto the counter. “Do you need any cream or sugar, dear?”
“Black is fine,” I say. “No need for the extra calories this early in the morning.”
Freya shoots me a look over the rim of her cup. “I hope you won’t be saying that once breakfast is on the table. I’m counting on you to do some serious damage to the giant stack of blueberry pancakes Mum is preparing.”
“Are blueberry pancakes a Christmas tradition around here?” I ask, my mouth watering.
Margaret pulls her head out of the pantry and says, “No. Torin mentioned you liked pancakes, and I thought you might like a little taste of home.” She hesitates. “I hope that’s alright.”
Torin remembered my granny’s pancakes.
“Yes,” I tell her, heart warming at the gesture. “More than alright. That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Ramsay.”
“Good,” she says, her smile returning. “I learned the American way to make them from a video by someone called ‘The Pioneer Woman.’ I think she’s from somewhere in or around Texas, like you, and has red hair like me, so I figured she would be the best guide.”
“Ree certainly has never led me astray when I’ve followed her recipes,” I say with a laugh. “I’m sure they’ll be great.”
“Good,” she says. “And I told you to call me Margaret.”
“Of course,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to help with breakfast, Margaret?”
“How do you feel about frying eggs?”
Freya and I play sous-chef while Margaret mixes batter and pours perfect circles onto the hot griddle.
The pancakes puff up almost immediately, their edges turning golden as the kitchen fills with the warm smell of butter and blueberries.
Breakfast is almost ready when the back door opens, and Callum calls out a hearty, “Happy Christmas, all!”
We return the greeting as Flick comes bounding in ahead of him, tail wagging.
Something stirs in me when Torin enters the house dressed in heavy brown overalls and gray wool sweater, the collar of a green flannel shirt just peeking out, his hair mussed from his cap.
A tentative smile crosses his face when he sees me staring.
I smile back, holding his gaze another moment before turning back to the eggs.
“This looks delicious, my jo,” Callum says, kissing Margaret on the cheek as we sit down at the table.
There’s ample chatter as plates are passed and food piled high. The pancakes are perfect, and I abandon any earlier talk of restraint, stuffing my face with large amounts of carbs and fat. After all, everyone knows calories don’t count on Christmas.
I watch Torin when no one is looking. He’s always been sexy to me, but this version of him, the one I’ve only heard about until now, is something else entirely.
The hardy farmer in the rugged clothes, working outside with his strong, calloused hands.
Another layer of him revealed, another part of him to admire and adore.
I must stare for too long because when I finally pull my eyes away from her brother, Freya is smiling at me as she chews.
“So, are there any specific Christmas traditions in Scotland?” I ask, hoping to cut her off at the pass.
“There are a few,” Margaret pipes up, “but Christmas was banned in Scotland for over three hundred years. It was only reinstated as a public holiday in 1958!”
“Mum, he’s studying Scottish history,” Torin says. “He knows.”
“I’m just making conversation,” she chides.
“No, I’m interested,” I tell her, setting my fork down and giving her my full attention.
“I know the ban came as a result of the Reformation, but I honestly don’t know much beyond that.
” I do know more, I know a fair bit, but I want to hear the story from someone who grew up here, not just from a book.
Margaret blushes and goes on. “Well, back in the seventeenth century, you know that the Kirk of Scotland was staunchly Presbyterian and did not like any Christian celebrations that were not explicitly stated in the Bible, so they convinced the Parliament of Scotland to place a ban on Christmas. For centuries, it was treated as a normal day. Nothing was closed, no special services were held, and even taking time off wasn’t permitted. ”
“I think I read that certain food items were banned?” I ask.
“In a way,” she says, considering. “Since feasting wasn’t allowed, there were things that people avoided in order to stay out of trouble.
Things like yule bread were obviously not acceptable any time of year, but even eating sugar or spices on Christmas Day could bring down the Kirk’s wrath and lead to fines or imprisonment.
Most families intentionally ate bland meals on Christmas to keep from violating ambiguous laws. ”
“Then the ban was repealed in the 1950s?” I ask, enjoying her enthusiasm for the topic. Torin mentioned before that his mother encouraged him in his passion for Scottish history, being a teacher herself, but her voice tells me she has her own interest in the subject.
“It was.” She nods. “Though it still wasn’t a big holiday for a long time. When I was a child, it was very much in the shadow of Hogmanay, which had become the dominant winter holiday. But Christmas is a much bigger affair than before, so there’s ongoing revelry as the new year approaches.”
“Well, thank you for telling me about it. And for having me here to celebrate.” I smile and raise my mug toward her in a toast.
She smiles back. “Of course, dear. Now eat up before it gets cold.”
Freya, undeterred by my attempt at distraction, is looking back and forth between me and Torin. When he makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, hers get a gleam in them before turning and oh-so-innocently asking, “So, Beau. What’s your sign?”
Torin’s groan is immediate. “Oh God, Freya, we talked about this.”
“What?” she asks. “I’m just trying to make conversation with your classmate.”
Torin’s face goes red, so I deflect from him by answering, “I’m a Sagittarius.”
“A fire sign, eh? Interesting. You know Torin is, too. He’s an Aries. Things could get pretty hot with the two of you in the same room.”
Torin’s fork clatters to his plate as a surprised laugh bursts out of me. “Can you please make her stop talking?” he begs his mother, but Margaret is giggling into her napkin.
Freya feigns innocence. “What did I say? We’re just talking about astrology! It’s all good fun.”
“And it’s all bollocks,” Torin retorts, returning to his plate.
Freya tilts her head and pastes on an angelic smile. “Oh, I don’t think we should be talking about your bollocks in front of our guest, do you?” The whole table erupts in laughter this time.
Torin’s head is in his hands, so his voice is muffled when he says, “My Christmas wish is to be an only child.”
Callum pulls himself together enough to say, “Alright, Freya, you’ve had your fun. Leave the poor lad alone,” but his face is red with mirth.
Everyone settles into the living room after breakfast, and I hand out flashing reindeer antlers and shortbread while Margaret serves everyone mimosas, which she calls Buck’s Fizz.
I have a seat on a small, worn, and incredibly comfortable sofa by Torin and angle myself so I can watch the Ramsays as they chatter away with each other.
A pang of longing nestles deep hearing their Highland accents become more pronounced when they aren’t speaking directly to me, reminding me of the way my Southern accent gets thicker when I visit my own family.