CHAPTER EIGHT ~ ABBY ~ FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
When Graeme and Brodie told us their parents lived in Canongate, the name didn’t mean much to me. I had heard of it, along with various other neighbourhoods in Edinburgh, and knew of a dozen or so things I wanted to do in the city, but didn’t know many specifics about the different areas.
So when the taxi from the airport turned onto the famous Royal Mile a couple of minutes ago, I assumed it was simply one of many streets on what I knew was a half-hour drive to the MacKinlays’ place.
From my seat in the back between Drew and Fern, I have a perfect view out the windshield as well as the windows on either side.
The others laughed at me when I confessed I had a crick in my neck from swivelling my head from side to side, taking in as much as possible since the moment we left the airport.
Now, the car pulls to a stop in front of a five-storey building made of ancient-looking stone.
I glance around, wondering why we’ve stopped, then do a double-take when Brodie unbuckles his seatbelt and pays the driver.
Movement outside catches my eye, and I turn to see Graeme stepping out of the large wooden door of the building we’ve stopped at.
His flight home was already booked to align with his visa expiring, and the rest of us weren’t able to get on the same flight, so he arrived a few days ago.
He opens the taxi door and beams in at us, his gaze lingering on me.
He hugs Drew when she steps out of the car, then offers me a hand to help me out.
“Welcome to your home for the next two weeks.” He kisses my cheek and squeezes my fingers before releasing me to greet Fern and then help Brodie with our luggage.
Drew slings an arm around my shoulders as she peers up at the building.
The building the MacKinlays own. Graeme and Brodie have always referred to their Edinburgh home as MacKinlay Tower, which I assumed was an affectionate joke or maybe even a Scottish thing.
I always suspected they were well off; I was aware the family owned property in both the Highlands and Edinburgh, and had sent their two sons to Canada to attend one of the most prestigious universities in the country.
And yet it never occurred to me they were truly wealthy.
I’m rubbernecking again, this time between the building and my best friend. Fern is on Drew’s other side, doing the same.
“Did you know?” I whisper-hiss.
“That the MacKinlays are big rich?” Drew says under her breath.
“I had some idea, but...I was not expecting this.” A high-pitched giggle erupts from her throat, the kind she often releases when she’s surprised or nervous.
Within seconds, the three of us are cackling and leaning on each other for support.
The taxi is gone now, and Graeme and Brodie are standing in front of the door with our luggage, watching us with twin expressions of amused indulgence. After almost three years, they’re used to our antics and don’t even question it anymore.
Graeme opens the door, and as I step inside the low-lit entryway with a curved stone staircase to the right, I get the feeling this trip is going to be even more interesting than I originally anticipated.
* * *
The wind whips my hair in front of my face, momentarily obscuring the screen of my camera. I angle myself so the breeze is at my back, and peer once more at the astounding view in front of me before returning my attention to my camera.
We’ve been in Scotland for five days, and I’m officially, one hundred percent in love with this country.
From the very first day, I felt a sense of rightness here.
I adore Kingston and the life I’ve had there these last four years; if there were better opportunities to work in publishing, I doubt I’d have even considered moving to Toronto.
But as much as I love Kingston, being here is a totally different feeling.
It’s something visceral—a tugging sensation deep in my gut and behind my ribcage.
It’s as if part of me has been asleep my whole life, and it woke up five days ago and started whispering in my ear that this is where I belong.
Laughter draws me from my thoughts. I glance over my shoulder to where Drew is sprawled on a tartan blanket, tossing grapes at Brodie and laughing as he attempts to catch them in his mouth. At the same moment I register that Graeme is no longer with them, he appears at my side.
He motions to the large, flat rock I’m sitting on, and I make room for him to join me. “What are you doing over here all by yourself?”
“I’m...marvelling.” I glance at his profile—ruddy cheeks, strong jaw dusted in a light layer of stubble, and hair mussed from the wind.
He turns his head, a questioning look in his eyes, and I jerk my gaze back to the view in front of us.
“Marvelling at the fact we’re literally on top of an extinct volcano right now.
Marvelling at this ancient city that’s been our playground for the last few days. ”
Marvelling at the fact I get to do it all with the people I love most. The threat of tears stops me from saying that last part out loud.
After a jam-packed morning of sightseeing, Fern suggested we hit up a grocery store for picnic supplies and then hike Arthur’s Seat.
We wanted to make the climb on our second day here, but Graeme pointed out that between the wind and the forecasted rain, we risked pulling a Mary Poppins and flying off the hill, umbrella or not.
I’d laughed at the imagery, considering I’d already learned the umbrella I packed was basically useless.
Graeme said while some Scots use them regardless of the wind, most know a sturdy, well-made waterproof jacket—also known as a mackintosh—is your best bet against the unpredictable Scottish weather.
The point gets driven home on a daily basis as I encounter frustrated people with bent or inside-out umbrellas.
“Let’s see, then,” Graeme says, jerking his chin toward my camera. I inch closer to him, and he shifts so his arm is around my back with his hand planted on the rock we’re sitting on.
I scroll through the photos I took on the hike, anticipating the smile on Graeme’s face when he sees the ones I took of the gorse along the way.
I’ve found myself strangely fascinated by the shrubs, with their prickly spikes and bright-yellow flowers that perfume the air with a coconut scent.
Graeme and Brodie think it’s hilarious, considering gorse is so common here and is often considered a nuisance due to being an invasive species.
There are also multiple shots of the city from various heights, mixed with candid shots of the group as we hiked, plus photos of magpies and jackdaws, both of which I had to have Graeme identify for me on our first day, since I’d never seen either.
Graeme gently takes the camera from me when I reach the series of group photos we took before we began our trek up the hill.
Drew surprised me the other day with a tripod and remote, saying the group selfies we took on our phones were nice to have, but didn’t show enough of whatever we were posing in front of, especially in a place with views as dramatic as Scotland.
It came in handy over the last two days on our road trip through the Highlands, and again today when we stopped in Holyrood Park for an impromptu photoshoot.
The extinct volcano made the perfect backdrop, complete with a few fluffy clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky, a sight that’s been a rarity since our arrival.
Graeme laughs under his breath as he looks at the dozen or so group photos. About half of them are of the five of us looking at the camera and smiling, while the rest are ones I snapped while we were talking and laughing as we got into place.
Graeme looks at me with an affectionate smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I want to frame every single one of these.”
“Me too.” I glance at the photo he’s paused on.
Brodie is staring off into the distance with a hand shading his eyes, while Drew and Fern lean into each other, their heads thrown back in laughter.
Graeme and I are standing slightly apart from them, our eyes locked as we grin at each other like we’re sharing a secret.
I don’t remember the moment this photo was taken, but this isn’t the first time I’ve captured an unconscious, almost intimate moment between us.
Being here in Scotland isn’t the only thing that’s elicited a visceral reaction from me.
Something has been slowly shifting between Graeme and me over the last few days.
I can’t put it into words, but it’s that same tug deep within, the same sensation of rightness.
“We should probably join the others,” I say, hopping up from the rock so suddenly Graeme looks startled. He stands slowly, his eyes never leaving my face as he loops the camera strap around my neck.
As we approach the group, I snap yet another candid shot, this time of Brodie gazing adoringly at Drew as she tells him something, her features animated, and her hands gesturing wildly to illustrate.
Fern is packing up the remnants of our picnic, and offers me the last shortbread cookie.
It feels as if we’ve been eating non-stop since we arrived, with regular snack breaks being a must. Our first couple of days here, the girls and I bought nearly every snack food we’d never heard of, both sweet and savoury.
When Mr. and Mrs. MacKinlay found out, they stocked the kitchen with all kinds of treats and told us to save our money for souvenirs and experiences.
“I knew that blue sky wouldn’t last long,” Brodie says at the same moment a shadow falls across me and the temperature dips.