Doon (Doon Novel, A) (2 page)

“Sure, Punkin! Do we have any leftovers or anything?” she yelled as she wobbled into the kitchen on platform sandals. Bob watched me with narrowed eyes and a catlike smile as I positioned the blanket more strategically around me.

“Ah no, Mom. I haven’t been home much lately.”

“Oh, okay.” Janet stumbled out of the kitchen holding two glasses and a bottle of Arbor Mist. She squeezed into the same chair with Bob, and as he poured she stared at me critically.

Oh no, here it comes
.

“Dumplin’, I thought you were going to color your hair?” She took her glass and motioned with it toward my head. “Or at least get highlights or somethin’. Dark brown is just so dreary.”

I reached back and twisted the length of my hair behind my head. She’d been nagging me to dye it for years, even offering to take me to the salon. But I’d only recently figured out it was because my hair was the exact shade of deep chestnut as my dad’s. We also shared the same full mouth, and blue-green eyes. To Janet, I was a constant reminder of what she’d lost.

But she never seemed to remember that I’d lost him too. I still couldn’t think about the day he went to the grocery store and never came back without feeling like I was having a mini heart attack.

“I dunno.” Bob’s fingers started to roam across Janet’s mid-section as he stared at me. “I think her hair’s purty that way.”

I bit my lip. Bob had no idea what he’d just done. Janet drained her glass in one gulp and slammed it on the table. I needed to get out of there. Fast. “I’m really tired.” I half-yawned as I gathered my things and stood, the blanket slipping from one shoulder.

Bob stopped nuzzling Janet’s neck as his full attention shifted to me. His low whistle sent goose bumps skittering over my skin. “Well, well. Little Veronica, you’ve grown up rather nicely.”

Gross!

“Veronica! I told you to go put some clothes on!” She shoved against Bob and stood in front of him.

“No problem,” I threw over my shoulder as I clutched the blanket and stomped down the hall. Shouldn’t I be able to walk around my own home without some perv eyeballing me? Last time I checked, this was my house too.

But apparently this was my day for incorrect assumptions, because just as I reached my bedroom door I overheard Mom say, “That girl’s a selfish little leech, just like her father. I can’t wait until we have this place all to ourselves.”

Blindly, I pushed into my room, slammed the door, and threw myself down on my narrow bed. The sobs I’d been holding back since that afternoon crashed over me in waves, leaving me breathless. I cried until my head felt stuffed full of cotton, and my tightly held control lay shattered in jagged pieces around me. How had everything gone so wrong?

Maybe Eric was right about me. Since Dad left, Mom and I had lived in the same house, existing day by day, barely speaking. And with Kenna gone, there wasn’t a single person in Bainbridge I considered a friend. Freezing people out seemed to be my special power.

A sudden chill racked my body. Rolling onto my side, I pulled the covers up to my chin, shaking with a cold that radiated from deep inside me. I squeezed my eyes closed, and a vivid image of golden-boy flooded me with warmth.
“Don’t cry, lass.”

Clinging to the gorgeous figment of my imagination like a security blanket, I fell asleep to the lullaby of imaginary bagpipes.

K
enna and I strolled down the cobbled streets and crested a hill, me gawking like a tourist, which, technically, I was. Despite my weeks of research, nothing could’ve prepared me for the experience of actually being in this foreign land. From our elevated vantage point, Alloway appeared to be a cluster of whitewashed cottages and medieval stone structures nestled into an emerald landscape so vibrant it dazzled the eyes. Rooftops of every earth-tone variation and angle rose against an impossibly bright blue sky. It was like falling into an oil painting.

The softly rumbling Doon River flowed along the left side of the village. And just off the riverbank, the marble pillars and curved dome of a Grecian monument—dedicated to the poet Robert Burns—created a proud pinnacle that reached toward the heavens.

As we entered the village proper, the sidewalks teemed with people. Store owners propped open doors to let in the fresh breeze. Residents hurried down the crooked lanes, focused on
their destinations but smiling. The torrential rains that had been present since we’d first arrived in Glasgow had finally stopped, leaving behind an iridescent coating that reflected the sun like beveled glass. Every light pole, glossy leaf, and brick storefront sparkled, reminding me of something from Narnia.

We followed a curve in the road, and a hint of fresh-brewed coffee wafted through the air to settle on my taste buds.

“Poet’s Corner should be just ahead.” Kenna tucked a strand of crimson hair behind her ear and pointed down the street. She’d wanted to stop in town before heading to the cottage so we could visit her favorite coffee shop. She claimed they had the best cinnamon hot chocolate on the planet.

Walking down this beautiful street with my BFF by my side, an entire summer in Scotland stretching before us, I had to suppress the urge to dance. And, as if to make the moment even more perfect, a tall, well-built boy wearing a kilt strode toward me. I noted the dark-blond waves of his hair, broad cheekbones, and strong nose. He radiated restless power.
Wow
. He was beyond gorgeous.

He drew closer, his gaze never leaving my face, and his mouth slid into a slow smile.

As he passed, his dark eyes bored into mine, and I tripped over a bump in the sidewalk. Recognition clicked into place and my heart cartwheeled into my throat. It was him—the boy who stood outside my car the day Eric and I broke up! What was
he
doing here?

I regained my balance, spun around, and almost slammed into an old lady. Apologizing, I stepped around her and searched the people on the sidewalk—a tall man in a knit cap, a young mother with two small children, a short middle-aged man grinning at me, but no beautiful boy in a kilt … anywhere.

“Veronica?”

Kenna walked up beside me and touched my arm, but I couldn’t speak. What were the chances of him being in Bainbridge, Indiana, and now in Alloway, Scotland? And what was with the vanishing act?

“Ken, did you see where that hot guy in the kilt went?” I searched the other side of the street.

“Um … what?” I met Kenna’s wide gray eyes, her brows arched in surprise.

“Come on, you couldn’t miss him. Tall, blond, gorgeous—”

She was shaking her head in denial before I even finished. “I haven’t seen anyone in a kilt, let alone a hot boy. And believe me, I’ve been looking.”

I blinked several times as if recalibrating my eyes. I was totally losing it. Pain throbbed through my head and I paused to massage my temples.

“Are you okay?” Kenna waited patiently for me to finish.

Had I imagined him?
Again?
Maybe it was jetlag—or a brain tumor. Or maybe he had followed me from Bainbridge. Then why did he keep evaporating into thin air?
Just like the handkerchief in the parking lot
. I kept my eyes closed for several seconds, struggling to gain control, before opening them and focusing on my friend’s concerned face. “Just tired. I could really use some caffeine right now.”

“Then you’re in luck.”

She looped her arm through mine and led me down the walk to an adorable whitewashed building, a tiny oval sign announcing
Poet’s Corner Café
. We squeezed past two round tables with sun-bleached umbrellas and entered the shop, a tinkling bell announcing our presence. The sharp scents of spices, rich coffee, and fresh baked goods swirled around us.

After getting drinks and scones, we camped out at a table by the front windows. I watched the street, letting the hot, rich
liquid soothe my frazzled nerves. Kenna was right—best cocoa ever. But it didn’t stop me from staring at every person who passed, searching for
him
.

Something in my gut told me my kilt-boy sightings weren’t tumor related. Maybe I just needed a fantasy—to believe a better world existed for me than the one waiting back in Bainbridge. To have someone special in my life who wouldn’t cheat with my rival or leave me … so I was conjuring up the perfect boy.

Wait. Escaping into fantasy was a symptom of schizophrenia, wasn’t it?

Kenna tapped her foot impatiently. “Are you going to tell me what’s eating you?”

“Nothing.”

“Reeaally?”

I pulled my gaze away from the window long enough to see her prop her chin in her hand to stare at me. “My Veronica would’ve already wolfed down that strawberry scone and gone back for seconds.”

I glanced down at the calorific pastry on my plate and then back out the window. “I—”

A tall blond figure rounded the corner across the street. I shot out of my chair, hot chocolate sloshing onto my fingers as I pressed my face to the window. The man turned toward us and … he was old enough to be my dad.

I sunk back into my seat and pressed a napkin to my stinging fingers. This was ridiculous. Chancing a glance across the table, I found my normally verbose BFF wide-eyed and speechless. I knew I had to start talking, but I couldn’t explain what I didn’t understand myself. “Would you still love me if I were crazy?”

A tiny smile lifted one side of her mouth. “I already do.” The
waves of her vibrant hair caught glints of light as she tilted her head. The sun reflecting in her dove gray eyes reminded me of when we’d first met, and I’d asked her if she was an autumn fairy. She’d said yes and that I could be one too. We’d been best friends ever since. I knew I could tell her anything, but right now the words wouldn’t come.

So I forced my thoughts away from Golden Boy, took a sip of cinnamony chocolate, and changed the subject. “Was your dad still acting weird before you left?”

“Oh yeah, he kept hugging me and telling me how he’s proud of me and knows I’ll make the
right
decision.”

“He didn’t try to have the sex talk with you before you jetted off to the land flowing with legal ale and hot boys in kilts, did he?”

She snorted, causing several customers to turn in their seats and stare. “No. It’s a little late for that anyway.”

“Wait. What?” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Did you and your leading man from
Seussical
… you know?” I wiggled my eyebrows.

“Me and the Cat in the Hat? No way—he doesn’t even play for my team. I was talking about Weston.” My blank stare prompted her to clarify. “The hot associate director from my internship.”

Her audition in Chicago had happened months ago. I knew she thought the associate director was cute, but she’d never said anything about hooking up with him. “Ummm. Did you guys—”

“No—I mean, not yet. But who knows? We totally shared a moment after my audition.” She rummaged around in her bag, pulled out her phone, and shoved it under my nose. “Here’s Weston’s picture. Talk about tall, blond, and yummy. And he included a handwritten note in my acceptance page about how
he couldn’t wait to start working with me in August. His penmanship was so …”

I didn’t hear the rest; the image of my own golden-haired dream boy filled my head, eclipsing everything else.

“Earth to Vee … Did you hear what I just said?”

“Sure. The pedophile director was hitting on you … yada yada yada.” I pinched off a piece of scone, the buttery layers and sugary-yet-tart strawberries melting on my tongue. “Mmmm! This is amazing.”

“Even better than Mrs. Russo’s, right?” She slapped a hand over her mouth, no doubt realizing she’d mentioned Eric’s mom. Her voice filled with apology. “Sorry. It just slipped out.”

I tightened my stomach, bracing for the wave of pain—that never came. Instead, a lazy, enigmatic grin filled me with an overwhelming yearning that I’d never felt for my ex. Maybe Golden Boy was my subconscious’s way of helping me move on?

“It’s no big deal. I mean, Eric’s betrayal was … a big deal, but …” I sat up straighter as I struggled to put my thoughts into words. “What I mean is, Eric’s ancient history. He has nothing to do with Scotland or my future.”

“What you need, my amiga, is a rebound guy. Some totally random Scottish hottie to get you over Eric.” Kenna clapped her hands and bounced enthusiastically in her seat, having no idea how close her comment was to my fantasy.

She pointed, not so discreetly, toward the dark-haired boy wiping down the counter. “What about that cute barista? When I gave him my order, he couldn’t tear his eyes off
you
long enough to even acknowledge me.”

I scrunched up my nose, resisting the urge to count his numerous visible tattoos. “I don’t know …”

Kenna noticed that her exuberance had drawn the attention of the other patrons, so she leaned forward and whispered,
“Commence Operation MacHottie. I am sooo gonna be your wingman.”

I stuffed the rest of the scone into my mouth before answering. “Just because you’re saving yourself for Weston doesn’t mean you can’t have a summer fling too.”

“Right. I can just picture exotic boys falling at your petite feet, while I get pity dates with their ogre sidekicks. No thanks.”

I marveled at how clueless Kenna was to her appeal. She’d been turning heads since fourth grade, yet she acted as if she was invisible to guys. Like that was remotely possible.

“Next to your curves and coloring, I look like a member of the Lollypop Guild.” I pursed my lips to the side and squinched up one eye.

She hooted a laugh. “Keep making that face and they might make you an honorary munchkin.” She grabbed her bag and fished a tip out of her wallet. “We should go. The caretaker, Mrs. Dell, will be meeting us at the cottage soon.”

I licked my finger and dredged it through the crumbs on my plate before popping the sweet morsels into my mouth. “Sure. Just let me get a bag of those scones to go.”

“That’s my girl.”

When I was six years old, my dad took me to see a rerelease of Disney’s
Snow White
. Every day for weeks afterward, I searched the woods behind our house for the seven tiny men and their little cottage, all while evading the evil queen and her huntsman. With childlike conviction, I knew my prince would come and that good would ultimately triumph over evil.

Dunbrae Cottage, with its rounded gables, thatched roof, and wild English garden, was surrounded by the same sense of magic, and it made me long for the girl I’d once been, the one
who believed fairy tales could be real. But that naive faith in happily-ever-after had been ripped from me long ago.

Removing a pile of pajamas from my suitcase, I crossed the bedroom to the antique cherry dresser and placed them inside. Kenna had slipped into the hall to talk to her dad; he’d called to make sure she’d made it safely to Alloway. For some reason, that simple, loving gesture hit me hard. Maybe it was because I hadn’t heard a peep from my mom in the last twenty-four hours.

“Seriously, Vee. You do realize these come in movie form?”

I whirled to find Kenna sitting on the bed, sorting through the books covering the bottom of my suitcase. “Besides, when are you going to have time to read these anyway? We’re on vacation.”

I walked over and gathered a stack of paperbacks topped by a tattered copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. They were my most prized possessions, procured from yard sales and thrift stores over the years whenever I had a few dollars to spare. No way was I leaving my treasures home with Janet. They’d end up as kindling in the backyard fire pit.

With the care of a mother tucking in her babies, I lined the volumes up on the dresser in alphabetical order. “Reading helps me fall asleep.”
And not feel so alone
. But I didn’t say that as I turned back to the suitcase and found Kenna bouncing lightly on the bed, clearly over the book conversation.

“So, what do you think of the place?” She stilled, expectation widening her eyes.

“You were right. It’s just like a fairy tale. A better setting than anything you and I ever dreamt up for our plays.” I scooped up a few more books and placed them on the nightstand, making sure the spines were perfectly aligned.

“The Reid-Welling Production Company! I totally forgot.” Kenna’s storm-colored eyes glittered with remembrance.

As kids, we’d fashioned costumes from the old clothing and junk, creating our own world of make-believe. “You were quite the little drama queen, even then,” I teased, remembering how she would jump up and down and clap her hands in excitement every time I’d tell her about a new play idea, no matter how simplistic or sappy it was. I’d been content to take the supporting role—male lead, ugly stepsister, wicked witch, or whatever was required—as long as she liked my stories.

“And you were quite the storyteller. Must be all that
reading
you do.” She waved her hand and spat the word out like it disgusted her as she walked over to the dresser and picked up a small, antique-looking clock. She turned it over and began to fiddle with the back.

“What are you doing?”

She flashed me an expression of impatience. “Setting the clocks ahead, silly.”

“Why?” I had to hear this.

“So we won’t be late for anything. You know how I hate being late.”

I loved my friend but sometimes her logic confounded even me. “You could just try getting ready earlier.”

Cutting me off with a shake of her head, she set the clock down. “Doesn’t work.”

“And this does?”