To be continued
MAGGIE
The late-afternoon sun bathes the gardens of McGregor Castle in golden light, that uniquely Scottish summer glow that transforms everything it touches into a living painting.
The climbing roses scale the stone walls with a determination that reminds Maggie McGregor very much of the McGregors themselves, and the air carries that distinctive Highland freshness, even in the heart of July.
From the window of her private sitting room, Maggie surveys the gardens with the quiet satisfaction she allows herself only in private.
At eighty-six years old—though she continues to claim eighty-two in official conversations—she has lost none of her sharp mind or her ability to appreciate the results of her efforts.
And at this particular moment, the result of those efforts is traveling.
Maggie thinks about Cameron, who still looks at Clementine with that expression all McGregor men wear when they are truly, deeply, hopelessly in love: a mixture of wonder and gratitude visible in every glance and every gesture.
Hamish rarely leaves their side, acting like some sort of royal bodyguard. The sheep has definitively adopted the couple, and nobody at the castle would dare challenge that decision.
Maggie smiles and turns away from the window just as a knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” she calls, smoothing the lavender silk house dress embroidered with discreet Scottish thistle motifs.
The door opens to reveal Catriona Fraser, and Maggie’s smile widens instantly.
Her lifelong friend is wearing a perfectly tailored cream pantsuit that practically screams Paris from every impeccably French thread.
Her silver hair is arranged in an elegant chignon sophisticated enough to make half the women in the village jealous.
At eighty-two, Catriona Fraser looks exactly like what she is: a woman who spent her life between two cultures and chose to sacrifice neither.
“Maggie, my dear,” Catriona says. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Never,” Maggie replies, rising to kiss both her cheeks. “You’ve arrived just in time for tea.”
As though summoned by magic, Jamison appears in the doorway carrying a loaded tray. The fine china service—reserved by Maggie for special occasions—is accompanied by a steaming teapot and a plate of pastries fresh from the ovens of the castle cook, Mrs. Finley.
“Mrs. Fraser,” Jamison says warmly. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is mine, Jamison,” Catriona replies. “Those pastries look wonderful.”
“Mrs. Finley has outdone herself once again,” the butler says as he arranges everything on the coffee table.
Once he leaves, the two women settle comfortably into their seats. Maggie pours tea with the precision of a Japanese tea ceremony while Catriona studies the pastries with a trace of longing.
“Do you remember chocolate éclairs?” she asks with a touch of nostalgia.
“Of course. They’ve always been your weakness.”
“Ever since I ate my first one seventy-three years ago,” Catriona says delicately selecting a pastry. “Time moves quickly.”
“Far too quickly,” Maggie agrees.
They sip tea in silence for a while, wrapped in the comfortable quiet that exists only between very old friends.
“Our grandchildren are happy,” Catriona observes.
“They are.”
“Clementine called me yesterday. She said she signed a new contract with a publisher for her recipe journal.”
Maggie sets down her cup with a delighted smile.
“That’s wonderful. Cameron must be thrilled.”
“He is. But he’s being very careful not to turn it into social media content. Clementine told me he’s honoring his promise exactly.”
“Good,” Maggie says with satisfaction. “He learned his lesson.”
Catriona takes a sip of tea and gives Maggie a mischievous look.
“Shall we discuss the subject?”
“Which subject, my dear?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Maggie McGregor.”
Maggie laughs softly and rises to open the drawer of her writing desk. She removes a leather-bound notebook and places it on the table between them.
Catriona pulls a similar notebook from her handbag, though hers is bound in burgundy leather.
The two women exchange a look and burst into laughter.
Maggie opens her notebook to a page labeled:
Operation Cameron
Every item has been crossed out with a bold, satisfied line.
Identify ideal candidate (Clementine Fraser — French, overworked, perfect)
Create “professional” introduction (Fraser Manor + real estate agent)
Romantic obstacle to overcome (to be determined)
Strategic family intervention (village support + social pressure)
Let them figure it out themselves (the hardest part)
Beneath the list, she has added:
Mission accomplished with invaluable assistance from Catriona.
Note: The Franco-Scottish grandmother duo is alarmingly effective.
Note 2: Hamish deserves a bronze statue in the village square.
Catriona opens her own notebook and reads aloud.
“Phase One: Arrange the manor inheritance so that Clementine cannot refuse it. Status: Successfully completed thanks to family guilt.”
Maggie laughs.
“Family guilt. The secret weapon of all grandmothers.”
“Phase Two,” Catriona continues. “Ensure Maggie McGregor suggests to her grandson Cameron that Fraser Manor represents a fascinating professional opportunity. Status: Maggie performed flawlessly.”
“I merely mentioned that the manor needed a competent real estate agent and that Cameron was looking for a challenge,” Maggie says modestly.
“And he took the bait immediately.”
“McGregors can never resist a challenge.”
Catriona turns another page.
“Phase Three: The sheep catalyst. Coordinate with Ewan so Hamish accidentally ends up at Fraser Manor at the precise moment Clementine arrives.”
Maggie leans forward, eyes gleaming.
“That was brilliant. How did you convince Ewan?”
“I didn’t. I simply told him his cousin needed a four-legged friend and that Hamish had always possessed a gift for appearing exactly where he wasn’t supposed to be.”
“And he volunteered?”
“Ewan knows me well enough to understand resistance is futile.”
The two women exchange a conspiratorial look.
“Do you know what’s funniest about all this?” Maggie asks.
“What?”
“Hamish exceeded every expectation. We only wanted him to create a few awkward situations. Instead, he became the manor’s true guardian and the silent witness to their love story.”
“He deserves a lifetime pension paid in apples,” Catriona declares.
“Two pensions. One from each family.”
Catriona laughs and takes another éclair.
“Phase Four: Social pressure. Subtly encourage the haunting rumors through our respective networks.”
Maggie nods.
“I may have mentioned to Moira MacTavish that the manor had a fascinating history. Moira being Moira, she handled the rest.”
“And I may have suggested to Ewan that old legends often contain a grain of truth. Ewan being Ewan, he spread the information through the pub.”
“The Grumpy Sheep is Glenfield’s central nervous system. If you want information to spread, that’s where you plant it.”
“You’re diabolical,” Catriona says admiringly.
“I’m efficient,” Maggie corrects. “There’s a difference.”
A familiar bleat draws their attention toward the open window.
Hamish has appeared in the garden and is heading directly toward the sitting room with the determination of a sheep on a mission.
“That one has a sixth sense,” Maggie mutters.
Seconds later, Hamish nudges the door open and enters with the dignity of an expected guest. He crosses the room and settles beside the unlit fireplace as though he has always known this was where he belonged.
The two grandmothers look at him with equal parts affection and respect.
“He deserves a medal,” Maggie declares.
“A statue,” Catriona corrects.
“Let’s settle for a sack of apples and our eternal gratitude,” Maggie concludes.
Hamish regards them with those impossible dark eyes, then lowers his head onto his front legs with a contented sigh.
Mission accomplished, he seems to say.
Catriona pours herself another cup of tea and gazes out the window.
“Do you know what fascinates me about all this?” she asks thoughtfully.
“No. Tell me.”
“They’ll never know the role we played. To them, it’s fate. Luck. Circumstances working in their favor.”
Maggie smiles.
“And that’s exactly how it should be. The best conspiracy is the one that looks like coincidence.”
“We’re terrible people,” Catriona replies without the slightest trace of remorse.
“We’re effective people,” Maggie corrects. “And benevolent. Let’s not forget benevolent.”
“Of course. All we do is create opportunities. They’re the ones who do the rest.”
“Exactly.”
They drink their tea in silence for a while, savoring their shared victory.
Then Catriona glances out toward the gardens, spots Connor striding purposefully along the main path, and asks with perfectly feigned innocence,
“And what about Connor?”
Maggie follows her gaze and smiles mysteriously.
“Connor? Oh, I haven’t had my final word where he’s concerned.”
“Really?” Catriona exclaims, delighted.
Leaning forward eagerly, she asks, “What have you planned for him?”
Maggie’s gaze drifts into the distance.
She suspects something changed in Connor after he rushed home from his most recent trip carrying that particular look men wear when their convictions have been thoroughly shaken.
“That mission is still in progress, so I wouldn’t dare reveal the details,” Maggie evades.
“Have you already identified the candidate?” Catriona asks, her curiosity fully engaged.
“Perhaps. There’s a young woman who’s an excellent match, but I’ll need to be even more subtle than I was with Cameron. Connor is far more suspicious.”
“More suspicious or more intelligent?”
“Both,” Maggie admits. “He’s watched my maneuvers with his brothers and cousins. He believes he’s immune.”
“They all think that,” Catriona observes.
“Exactly.”
Silence settles once again.
Then Catriona places her teacup down and looks directly at Maggie with unusual seriousness.
“Tell me, my dear friend... are you going to do this for all your grandchildren?”
Maggie doesn’t answer immediately.
She takes another sip of tea.
Studies the gardens.
Then carefully places her cup back onto its saucer.
“I don’t know yet,” she finally says.
Catriona waits.
She knows there’s more coming.
“Mary once told me that sometimes you have to let life run its course,” Maggie continues thoughtfully. “That I should rest and enjoy my victories instead of searching for new ones.”
“Do you agree with her?”
A mysterious smile curves Maggie’s lips, revealing nothing and promising everything.
“I’d say I’m... semi-retired.”
“Semi-retired,” Catriona repeats skeptically.
“Exactly. I no longer intervene systematically. Only when absolutely necessary.”
“And Connor requires intervention?”
“Oh, absolutely. But I’ll say no more.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Maggie replies, closing her notebook, “I’ve learned there’s a difference between orchestrating a plan and forcing fate. Cameron and Clementine needed a little push. We gave it to them. Everything after that was their doing.”
“That’s very wise.”
“I’m getting older,” Maggie says with a smile. “It happens, even to the best of us.”
A few minutes later, Catriona rises to leave. She smooths her jacket, picks up her handbag, and heads toward the door.
But before stepping out, she turns back with a perfectly innocent expression.
“By the way... if you need help with Connor, I have a niece in Lyon. Brilliant. Independent. Stubborn as a mule. Exactly the sort of woman who would drive a McGregor completely insane.”
Maggie immediately looks interested.
“Really?”
“Really. She works in finance. She’s thirty. Refuses to get married because she claims she doesn’t have time for ‘romantic complications.’”
“She sounds perfect.”
“She is.”
Maggie smiles and rises, crossing toward her desk.
“Well, we’ll see what the future has in store for them,” she says simply.
Catriona laughs and leaves.
Once alone, Maggie picks up her notebook but merely studies it, feeling the worn leather beneath her fingertips, thinking about all the plans drafted within those pages and all the victories celebrated there.
Then she rises and opens the drawer of her writing desk, placing the notebook inside.
Callum and Jane.
Keira and Alistair.
Lachlan and Emma.
Mary and Finn.
And now Cameron and Clementine.
Five operations.
Five successes.
Maggie smiles and closes the drawer.
For now.
Because yes, she’s semi-retired.
Yes, she intends to enjoy her victories.
Yes, she intends to let her grandchildren live their lives.
But if Connor happened to need a little push...
If that niece from Lyon happened to find herself in Glenfield entirely by coincidence...
If circumstances happened to align in exactly the right way...
Well.
Wouldn’t it simply be her duty to give fate a helping hand?
And Maggie McGregor, legendary strategist of the Highlands, would observe it all from her window with a perfectly innocent smile and a cup of tea in hand.
In the meantime, she has a sack of apples to order for Hamish.
It’s the very least she can do for her most effective accomplice.