Doon (Doon Novel, A) (3 page)

“Absolutely. One tiny adjustment and
voilà
”—she rolled her hands with a flourish—“more time.”

I knew her ambition stemmed toward Broadway and not quantum physics; but there were so many things wrong with that statement, I couldn’t help but respond. “Uh, you know time’s not really adjustable, right?”

“Sure it is,” she replied as she scooped up an armload of socks and dumped them into my middle drawer with my shirts and sweaters. “Haven’t you ever heard of leap year?”

I shook my head with a laugh, chalking it up to Kenna’s special brand of logic. After removing the rest of my books, I zipped my suitcase and then shoved it under the bed, nearly hitting my head on the four-poster frame as a knock sounded on the bedroom door. I peeked over the edge of the mattress as the door swung open.

“Hi there!” A girl with blonde, curly hair and a huge smile walked into the bedroom. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. My mum sent me over to welcome you to the cottage,
since we’re of an age
.” Her lilting brogue and open expression caused me to like her instantly as she extended her hand to Kenna. “I’m the caretaker’s daughter, Allyson Dell. Ally for short. You must be Gracie’s niece.”

“Hi. Call me Kenna.” The girl shook hands with my BFF, and I noted the sun reflecting off the silver and rhinestone piercings in her nose, upper lip, and left eyebrow. The sparkling jewels coordinated with her outfit, making her look less Goth and more chic. “And this is Veronica Welling.”

Ally turned her vivid green-eyed gaze on me and I waved from the other side of the bed. “Nice to meet you, Veronica. Would you girls be up for some local culture tomorrow night? I’d like to take you someplace special and buy you your first ale.”

“That sounds perfect.” Kenna clapped her hands together enthusiastically just as my cell vibrated from the nightstand.

Janet’s picture popped up on the screen. I didn’t want to answer—no sense ruining my first day in Scotland. But
maybe
she was worried and calling to make sure I arrived safely. Excusing myself, I snatched up the phone and walked over to the window.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Punkin, you aren’t going to believe what’s happened!” She was practically jumping through the phone with excitement.

No interest in how I’d survived my first flight
ever
—across an ocean, no less—or what my plans were in a foreign country. Typical Janet. “What’s that, Mom?”

“Bob asked me to marry him and I said yes!” All the blood drained from my head and I gripped the phone so hard I heard a cracking sound. “We’re getting married as soon as we can get the license, and then he’s takin’ me to the casino for a whole week! Can you believe it?”

“Uh … uh,” was the only response I could manage, since my vocal cords seemed to have dried up and turned to ash. No way would I live in the same house with my new
step-daddy
.

“Well, is that all you’re going to say?” A hard note crept into her voice.

I swallowed, stiffening my spine defensively. “Congratulations?” It was more of a question than a statement.

“Thanks, darlin’! When you get back all your stuff will be waitin’ for you in the shed. Bob’s boxing it up now, so he can use your room for an office.” Bob the redneck pervert was boxing up my stuff? Including my underwear? I clenched my teeth with a snap.

“Since you got the Purdue scholarship, darlin’, we figured you would want all your stuff boxed up anyway.”

It was only a partial scholarship and she knew I’d had to defer until I’d saved up enough money to cover the rest of the expenses. We’d agreed I’d live at home while I taught extra classes at the dance studio—a plan she’d conveniently forgotten in lieu of her own self-centered interests. “I gotta go, Mom. I’m losing the signal.”

“Okay, bye.”
Click
.

I stood absolutely still and stared out at the swaying trees, every muscle in my body tensed against the emotion ballooning in my chest. Was it possible that anyone on this earth would ever love me enough to care about what I wanted, instead of plowing ahead with their plans and leaving me behind to pick up the pieces?

“Vee, what is it?” Kenna asked.

I glanced over my shoulder, realizing that Ally was still in the room. She didn’t need to see how pathetic my life was—if she hadn’t figured it out already. Trying to sound nonchalant, I answered, “Mom’s getting married and it looks like I’m homeless.”

“Oh no! Not Bob the Slob?”

“Yeah—the one and only.” I glanced at Kenna only to see my own hurt and betrayal reflected in her face. I attempted a smile but failed miserably. “I’ll be all right, but I’m really tired. Think I’ll lie down for a bit.”

Allyson’s honey brows scrunched over her perfect nose as she clucked sympathetically from the doorway. “You poor thing. A good rest is exactly what you need. Tomorrow you’ll be right as rain. You’ll see.”

With a nod at Kenna, she added in a lower voice, “I’ll just show m’self out.”

We listened in silence as Ally’s retreating footsteps echoed down the stairs and out the front door. The cottage suddenly felt oppressive, tainted by Janet’s selfishness despite the ocean between us. Why had I thought coming to Scotland would change anything?

When Kenna finally spoke, her voice trembled. “Vee … you know you can always come to Chicago with me.”

I held up my hand to stop her words before we both ended up bawling like babies. “Can you give me a few minutes … please?”

“Sure thing, sweetie.”

Watching the sun’s retreat across the unfamiliar landscape, I waited until Kenna left before letting my head rest against the cool pane of the window.

I felt like a beach ball tossed around by the whims of everyone around me. Eric decided when our relationship was over, Mom packed up my crap as if it’d been my choice to move out, Dad left without asking if I would’ve rather gone with him, and although Kenna asked me to go to Chicago, that was her dream, not mine. I was sick to death of other people dictating my future.

When would it be time to find
my
destiny?

The sun had nearly set, and I squinted to discern the view against the fading light. Past a clump of overgrown trees, the sapphire river flowed through the lush, green valley and disappeared under a sliver of arching gray stone.

As I stared, the awareness of a presence in the room raised goose bumps on my arms. Icy cold shot down my spine, followed by a rush of hot blood to my face. Someone stood inches behind me. The boy who’d been haunting my every waking hour was with me—I could
feel
him.

A shadowy reflection materialized above mine in the window—dark, intense eyes, golden brows, and strong, full lips. Fighting the urge to turn around, I stood petrified—afraid he would actually be there, and terrified he would not.

“Verranica.”

My eyes widened in shock as the deep timbre of his voice flowed through me. His mouth hadn’t moved.

“Ye dinna need to be afraid of me.”

Afraid? I wasn’t sure what I felt, but I didn’t fear him. “Who are you?” The words escaped my lips in a strangled whisper.

“James Thomas Kellan MacCrae.”
White teeth flashed in
a cocky grin as his image became clearer.
“Or ye can call me Jamie, if ye like.”

“Are you … real?”

“Aye.”

Slowly, I lifted my trembling fingers to the cool glass. In our reflection, his large hand moved to cover mine. And I felt it—a whisper of energy against my flesh.

“Verranica …”
His soft brogue stretched my name into a caress laced with longing.

Suddenly, his image began to recede toward the river, and he reached for me as we drifted farther apart. Swirls of mist enveloped the stone path beneath his feet, winding their way up his body.
“Come to me …”

I stumbled forward and pressed against the glass. I could no longer feel him. “Wait!”

The door swung open behind me, breaking the spell. The boy vanished. I whirled to find Kenna walking into the room.

“Are you searching for something?”

My pulse fluttered like hummingbird wings, and I gripped the window ledge behind me as I swayed on my feet. What the heck had just happened? If I
was
losing my mind, it was a pleasant way to go. But a deep instinct told me I hadn’t invented Jamie MacCrae in my head. He might be a ghost, perhaps, but definitely not a psychotic delusion. Wait, I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Did I?

Remembering Kenna had asked me a question I grunted, “Huh?”

“I thought you might’ve been searching for the bridge.”

“What bridge?”

“The Brig o’ Doon.” Kenna drew out the last word with a perfect Scottish brogue, sending tingles skittering over my shoulders. “It’s Alloway’s most famous landmark.”

The gray arch I could see from my window was the Brig o’ Doon? I spun around and strained my eyes through the looming darkness … wondering if it resembled the stone pathway from my vision. “Can we walk down there?”

“Sure, but not tonight. There’s a trail from the backyard, but the caretaker, Mrs. Dell, warned me before we arrived that it’s badly overgrown. No sense breaking a leg our first night here. Get it? Break a leg?”

Kenna’s drama club pals back home would’ve appreciated the joke, but I couldn’t even muster a chuckle. I shoved my hands in my pockets to hide their shaking, and turned from the window to see Kenna analyzing me, her head cocked to one side. “Are you okay?”

I stared at her for a moment, considering if I should tell her about the visions … or hauntings … or whatever. Instead, my brain circled back to the arch of ancient-looking stones I’d seen and the possible connection to the actual bridge outside my window. “So, why is the Brig o’ Doon famous?” I was pleased my voice only sounded a few octaves higher than normal.

“Uh,
Brigadoon
!” At my lack of recognition, she added, “The musical by the immortal Lerner and Loewe?”

She hummed a haunting melody as she ran her fingers along my stack of books, knocking them over like dominos, and then turned to me expectantly. “Surely you recognize ‘Almost Like Being in Love.’”

“Nope.” She’d made me watch so many musicals over the years … I certainly couldn’t remember them all. I pressed my lips together and shook my head as I walked over to the dresser and righted my precious tomes, glancing at my copy of
Oliver Twist
. That musical I remembered, due to its grievous omission of the character Monks.

Kenna rolled her eyes. “You researched Alloway, right?
Robert Burn’s poem,
The Tam o’ Shanter
, is set on the Brig o’ Doon. That ring a bell?”

“Of course. I just didn’t realized that the Brig o’ Doon was so close to the cottage.” It’s not like any of the roads we’d traveled had been straight. However, the more I thought about it, I did remember her telling me something a long time ago about a bridge near her aunt’s and a dark-haired boy with a brogue that used to call to her. “Didn’t your imaginary friend live under that bridge?”

Kenna snorted. “Not under the bridge—he wasn’t the troll from
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
. Finn lived on it. I can’t believe you remembered that.”

It was a random thing to remember … or was it? What were the odds that both she and I imagined Scottish boys standing on an ancient stone path and calling for us to come? One in a million?

“Vee …” Kenna stalked toward me with narrowed eyes. “You’re doing that twisty thing with your hair. I can read you like a script, remember? What’s really going on?”

Not realizing I’d been tying my hair into a knot, I lowered my hands and pushed out a loud breath. It had always been hard to keep secrets from the girl who knew me better than anyone on the planet. “Remember when I asked if you’d seen that hot blond guy in the kilt earlier?”

“Yesss …”

“Well, I … ah … keep seeing him … everywhere. The same gorgeous boy in a kilt. Even once in Bainbridge, right after I broke up with Eric.” I slumped back against the dresser and stared at my cuticles. It sounded even more insane when I said it aloud. But if I was going to tell her, I might as well tell her everything. “He was here just now. Before you came in, and he … ah … talked to me.”

“Really? You know what my dad would say, don’t you?”

I shook my head. Kenna’s dad taught undergraduate psychology. Growing up, he’d had a psychological reason for everything, even why my dad walked out on us. Kenna crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, staring up at me with grave eyes. “He’d say ‘Kilt Boy’ is your anti-Eric.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s your knight in shining armor. The perfect boy. Someone heroic who’d never choose their own interests ahead of yours.” Her fingers absently brushed the quilted fabric of the comforter as she continued. “Think about it. He conveniently shows up after Eric dumps you, then again after your mom chooses Bob the Slob. Doesn’t that seem a little bit convenient?”

She had a point. He had a knack for appearing just as my life was turning upside down. “So I’m crazy? That’s the explanation?”

She stood and bridged the gap between us in a couple strides. “Actually, you’re one of the sanest people I know. You’re probably just hungry, sweetie. And tired.”

As if on cue, my tummy growled like a ferocious animal.

“See?” Kenna patted me on the arm. “I’m sure you’ll feel better with a full belly and a good night’s sleep.”

Maybe … but that place deep inside of me that insisted I wasn’t delusional didn’t buy into the imaginary hero theory either. But to convince Kenna that I wasn’t cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, I needed some kind of irrefutable proof.

As I followed Kenna down the back stairs to the kitchen, my inner Nancy Drew went on full alert. I’d noticed tons of books in the library downstairs on Scots folklore and history. It seemed like the perfect place to start researching the mystery of the Vanishing Golden Boy. Besides, with the image of
Jamie’s
pleading eyes as he faded away burned in my brain, getting any sleep was highly doubtful.

E
very truly happy memory from my childhood involved an old woman who dressed like a rainbow and the house she adored. I’d come to stay at Dunbrae Cottage the first time when I was six, right after my mom died. I remember living in a world enshrouded with grief, all drawn curtains and mourning clothes. Then Dad put me on a plane—alone—which was terrifying, except I did get as much soda as I could drink. After landing, I emerged from the breezeway to find an old lady wearing an emerald green dress and a fuchsia turban. Clutched in her hands was a sign that said “Welcome Mackenna” in pink glitter.

She hugged me tight, smelling like lavender and arthritis cream, and whispered, “I’m so glad you’re here, sweetie.” Then she took me to the airport gift shop and bought me a pink plaid dress. Mostly, I remember laughing with her as we left my black clothes in the airport bathroom trash. That was the first of many joyous summers, filled with wonder and sparkles … Special Scottish seasons of love.

As I walked through my aunt’s beloved cottage with my morning coffee, I indulged in my cherished memories—mornings spent journaling at the kitchen table, our afternoon sing-alongs in the dining room, and high tea in the living room, which Aunt Gracie always called “the parlor.”

The wildly overgrown English-style garden, complete with croquet lawn and a bronze wall fountain in the shape of a lion’s head, held a particularly special place in my heart. After breakfast, my aunt would sketch while I picked armloads of fresh lavender for her special green vase. The one she kept in the library and claimed came from another world.

As Gracie arranged the fragrant, purple flowers, she would tell the most amazing stories. My favorite was about an enchanted kingdom hidden away from evil witches in the mists of Scotland. Now as I admired the chaotic garden from the library windows, I questioned the wisdom of sharing Gracie’s stories with my best friend. My aunt always indulged my imagination, going as far as setting a place at the table for my imaginary guests. But what Vee needed was less fiction in her life, not more.

I’d seen the haunted look in her eyes as she talked about Kilt Boy. Which made my decision as easy as an Andrew Lloyd Webber melody. My duty was to keep her from traveling farther down the yellow brick path of delusion … one that I knew from experience would inevitably end in misery and heartbreak. So I would not share any family tales of noble knights or fantastical kingdoms. I’d stick to practical traditions. Filling Gracie’s vase with lavender, minus the story of its origins, would still be a fitting tribute to the woman whose love had shaped the direction of my life and a perfect start to our epic summer.

“Jamie—”

Holy Hammerstein!
I spun toward the noise, ready to scream
as my vision focused on Vee fidgeting in her sleep in the oversized chair in the corner. She was surrounded by books—legends and histories of Scotland, and biographies on the local poet Robert Burns. Apparently Sleeping Beauty had a restless night. Whereas I’d slept like the dead.

“Brig—Jamie. Stay.”

Okay … that was random, and a little weird.

Vee made a tiny mewling sound, like an anxious kitten. Concerned, I crept closer. Other than the noises, she looked fine. More than fine—she was flawless, even asleep. Dark, sleek hair framed her heart-shaped face. Black, fluttery lashes—the kind you only see in mascara ads—daintily rested against the curve of her cheeks. Vee was petite, too, with porcelain skin. Stuff all that into a size-too-small cheer skirt and she was a teen dream. She practically screamed popularity, while I was an ex-Goth, theater-geek Amazon voted most likely to have ketchup on my boobs. But I guess that’s what made the friendship unbreakable—counterbalance, not ketchup.

As if she could sense me staring like some kind of deranged stalker, Vee’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal her confused, yet still brilliantly dazzling, turquoise eyes.

She bolted to her feet, brushing silken strands of dark hair away from her face. How did she get it to look so shiny? Even in the midst of night terrors, she still looked like she’d stepped off the cover of
Teen Vogue
. I, on the other hand, was in jeopardy of being mistaken for an iconic hamburger clown.

Vee turned in a disoriented half circle, blinking at the pile of books around her chair. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“Ya think?” She stilled and regarded me with a narrow gaze that dared me to continue cracking smart remarks.
Geez, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the Atlantic
. Taking a
more serious approach, I said, “You must’ve been having some dream. You were talking in your sleep and everything.”

“I was?”

“Yep. So who’s Jamie?”

Her face paled as she sagged against the back of the chair for support. “Have you ever had a dream so real you weren’t sure if you were asleep or awake?”

Vee’s voice sounded hollow, and I wondered what kind of crazy messed-up nightmares plagued her. “You mean good real … like when I’m playing Glinda in the Broadway revival of
Wicked
? ’Cause I dream about that at least once a week. Or bad real, like that time I got caught in the zombie apocalypse in my underwear?”

Vee’s already pale face blanched ghostly proportions as she answered, “I don’t mean a dream exactly … More like a vision you see during the day—so rich and colorful, the person so real that you feel like they’ve been there all your life, only you just couldn’t see them before.”

“Wait. Are we talking about Kilt Boy again?” When she nodded, I shoved my coffee into her trembling hands. She obviously needed it more than I did. What I needed was to tread carefully. Vee had the same haunted look from the previous evening. It was eerily similar to the phase where she saw her MIA dad around every corner and driving every passing car. “I think some people have more vivid imaginations than others. Aunt Gracie was like that. She used to capture all her dreams in a journal. Then in the margins, she would scribble all kinds of crazy notes.”

“Journal? What did it look like?” She drained the coffee in one long gulp, set the mug on a nearby table, and crouched down to dig through the mound of books.

“You expect me to describe it? I was eleven the last time I was here.”

“Like this?” She stood, holding up a thick book of worn, dark brown leather. In the center, a Celtic knot-like heart bore the letters G. L. for Gracie Lockhart. Vee flipped it over, regarding the rawhide tie that fastened the flaps. “Wow, it looks really old.”

“It might be.”

Vee stood and walked over to the bay window, cradling the book like a wounded bird. “I could go through it … if you want. See if it contains anything important … give you the CliffsNotes … like when we were in school. I know how much you hate to read … unless it’s for a role. Which this isn’t.”

I didn’t have to
read
her face to see through her act. She’d been a terrible liar when she’d tried the dog-ate-my-homework excuse on Mrs. Trimble in the third grade, and age hadn’t improved her performance skills. The babbling was a dead giveaway.

She thought the journal had something to do with Kilt Boy. If I didn’t find some way to distract her from her new obsession, she’d spend the whole summer with her nose buried in my aunt’s journal and we’d never meet any actual boys in kilts. Feigning indifference, I held out my hand until she surrendered her treasure and made a show of flipping through the pages. “I’ll look through it. But I doubt it will make any sense—Gracie cornered the market on cryptic. I used to think she was wonderfully mysterious, like Norma Desmond.”

“Who?”

“Norma Desmond. From
Sunset Boulevard
?” My bestie shook her head blankly as I readied a smart remark. But the reply died on my lips when I realized she wasn’t paying attention to our conversation. Instead, she stared at the
seven-by-five-inch volume of leather and paper like it contained the cure for cancer.

The front bell chimed, causing Vee to leap into the air like a very nimble, and very startled, cat. She pressed one hand to her heart and then raked the other through her hair. “That’s probably the caretaker, right? Ally’s mom?”

“Adelaide Dell.” Using my best
Mary Poppins
accent to loosen her up, I added, “Ally said her mum would ‘pop round’ today to see how we were getting on.”

Still clutching the journal and humming, I stepped in time to the door and wrestled briefly with the deadbolt before opening it. The woman on the other side was … surprisingly modern. With a name like Adelaide, I’d pictured a matronly, middle-aged woman with wisps of graying hair escaping from her bun and spectacles hanging from a chain across her bosom. This woman was reminiscent of an aging runway model. Her pale blonde hair brushed her chin in an asymmetric style. And her designer ensemble—wedged pumps, pinstripe suit, and flared navy blue raincoat—reminded me of something I’d seen recently in a Saks Fifth Avenue window. Despite the overcast skies, she didn’t carry an umbrella.

“Good mornin’ girls.” The woman stepped into the foyer and waited for me to close the door before extending her hand. “You must be Mackenna. I’m Addie Dell. Well now, you’ve grown into a lovely young woman.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t remember meeting her during my previous visits, but it had been seven years since the last time I’d been to Alloway. When I shook her hand, I complimented her on the renovations. “Everything is even more amazing than in the pictures.”

“I’m ever so pleased the upgrades are to your liking.” Addie’s
regal smile faltered slightly as her sharp green eyes slid past me. “And you, of course, are the friend.”

Following Addie’s gaze, I noticed Vee was still in her candy-striped sleep shorts and pink tank that read EAT SLEEP DANCE REPEAT. Of course, I was no better in my sweat pants and oversized
Les Mis
T-shirt. Feeling fifty shades of awkward, I hastily introduced my bestie to the woman who’d taken such meticulous care of my late aunt’s legacy.

Addie clasped Vee’s hand in both of hers and gave it a shake. Rather than let go, she lingered, staring with narrow, speculative eyes. “Allyson didn’t tell me you were so …
passionate
.”

The way she said it—almost like another word had been on the tip of her tongue—made me wonder what she meant. She finally let go of Vee’s hand and focused on her shirt. “You’re a dancer, I see.”

Vee nodded but crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously as I stepped between them. “Sorry, you caught us in our pajamas.”

Addie nodded politely, as if wearing pajamas instead of real clothes was a valid life choice. She pulled a sleek black binder from her designer bag and extended it to me. “Then I’ll just leave this paperwork with you and scoot to my next appointment.”

The “paperwork” was to transfer Dunbrae Cottage into my name. As Addie handed me the documents, her eyes widened. “Is that your aunt’s journal?” When I nodded, she covered my hand, and the book, with her own perfectly manicured fingers. Her touch, cold but gentle, zapped me with a shock of static electricity. “I could’ve sworn that it was boxed up in the attic with the rest of your aunt’s personal effects. How
ever
did you come across it?”

Vee stepped forward. “I found it in the library. With the books on Scotland.”

Addie arched a thin, perfectly sculpted brow. “Did you now? How very peculiar. I must say, that is a most fortuitous discovery.”

Since we were on the subject of my aunt’s belongs, there was another item I needed to locate. I cleared my throat and Addie turned to me, unleashing a bright smile the exact replica of her daughter’s. “Yes, dear?”

“Uh, my aunt had a green vase that she kept in the library. Do you know what happened to it?”

“I expect you’ll find it in the attic with the rest of Mrs. Lockhart’s personal effects.” She cast a quick glance in Vee’s direction before continuing. “However, if you don’t, I’d consult wee Veronica here. She seems to be particularly clever in the area of finding hidden things.”

With a friendly wave, Addie strode away on her stylish shoes. The minute her candy apple red Mini Cooper roared down the lane, the skies opened up. Cold droplets of rain pelted the earth in an angry staccato, making me anxious to get back to the sanctuary of the library.

As I closed the door, Vee asked, “Do you still want to go down to the Brig o’ Doon today?”

“In this monsoon?” I shook my head. “We’ve got two whole months to play tourist. What I really want is to find Gracie’s vase before we meet Ally tonight.”

“What a coincidence.” Her eyes flicked away and back, but not before I noticed her tracking the journal. “Because I was just thinking you might want to go through your aunt’s things sooner rather than later.”

Although Vee’s words made sense, and my aunt’s belongings did need to get back in their proper place, I worried her
suggestion was some kind of ploy to separate me from the journal. I wouldn’t keep it from her forever, just long enough to read it myself and determine if the contents would help or hurt her obsession with Kilt Boy. But in the meantime, I needed her out of the way so I could hide the book. “While I’m doing that, maybe you should take a shower?”

She hesitated, her eyes flicking again to the book in my hand. “I think I might try to take a nap first … I feel like I’m still suffering from jetlag.”

A nap would work as well, but I wasn’t kidding about her needing to bathe. Tucking the journal into my waistband, I replied, “Get some rest then. I’ll wake you up in plenty of time to get clean and pretty for our first evening out in Alloway. Unless you want to show up at the tavern smelling like Stinking Beauty. But if you do, I can guarantee no kilt-wearing hottie is going to come within fifty feet, let alone kiss you.”