Forevermore
Authors: Cindy Miles
T
hig crioch air an t-saoghal, ach mairidh gaol is ceòl.
The world will end but love and music endure.
SCOTTISH GAELIC PROVERB
T
he faint outline of my face reflects off the glass as I stare out the window of my stepdad’s pewter Jaguar. The cold outside seems to reach clear to my bones. My breath fogs the glass, and I wipe it with a finger and continue to watch the scenery flash by.
Stark, jagged cliffs of gray rock. Desolate moors. White signs written first in Gaelic, then English. Old stone houses, whitewashed, pop up every once in a while. The sky is dramatic, with enormous swirling dark clouds. Everything actually looks cold. Or dead. Maybe that’s because I’m from Charleston, South Carolina, and I’m used to the sultry weather there. I already miss it, too. The constant warm sea breeze, the palm trees and ancient
oaks draped in moss, the old plantations. Funny how I took all that for granted when I lived there. Now that I don’t have it anymore, I want it back.
Like I still want my dad back. He died the week after my thirteenth birthday and it’s been just me and Mom for the past three years. Until now.
“Oh, honey! Look at the sheep,” my mom says excitedly, and points out the window. “Look at their little black faces. They are so adorable!”
I don’t answer, because
honey
is an endearment reserved for my stepdad, Niall. He chuckles and lightly grazes Mom’s cheek with his knuckle. I bet he doesn’t find the sheep nearly as adorable as my mom does. Neither turns to ask my opinion.
I glance over anyway and, sure enough, there are the adorable black-faced sheep, standing in a white downy cluster on the side of a hill dotted with purple-brown heather. I’d Googled heather before we got here, and saw that in June and July, the lifeless clumps would turn into gorgeous lavender blooms. But now, in October, those blooms are so dead.
Pulling my legs up, I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. So much has happened lately, it’s
strange to think of it all in sequence. It’s even stranger to think this is my life now. Before my dad died, I was your typical kid — except for being freakishly excellent at playing the violin. I hung out with my friends, had sleepovers, watched hours of classic scream fests, like the old
Halloween
and
Nightmare on Elm Street
movies. And since we lived only two blocks from the beach, my friends and I gathered there nearly every weekend. I had a big poster of Zac Efron from his
High School Musical
days hanging on the ceiling above my bed, so I could stare at him as I went to sleep.
But after my dad died? I don’t know. Things just didn’t seem to have the same appeal to me anymore. I withdrew. Where I had been loud and silly and voracious before, I became quiet, and I wanted to be alone more often. My circle of friends grew smaller and smaller as I became more reclusive. Callie, my best friend, hung on the longest. But even she began to distance herself, growing closer to other girls. By the time I left for Scotland, it just … wasn’t a huge deal that I was leaving. We hugged, said good-bye, and promised to keep in touch. Maybe to even see each other over long breaks. I doubt it’ll happen, though. And honestly? It’s okay. I became a major downer for a long
time, and didn’t expect my friends to be dragged down with me.
Hopefully this move will make things better. Maybe I’ll meet some cool people at school, make new friends who will like and accept me for who I am now.
I rest my cheek against the cool glass, scroll my iPod to another playlist. I’m feeling a little old-school today, so Madonna’s “Material Girl” plays through the earbuds as I continue to stare out at the wispy ribbons of mist.
I still enjoy many things that my dad and I shared, especially books, movies, and music. Dad started me on reading old mysteries, like Nancy Drew and Sherlock Holmes, which I still love. And because of Dad, I am one serious ’80s music fangirl. Dad always said I was an ’80s girl trapped in a twenty-first-century body. AC/DC, Whitesnake, Cyndi Lauper, Madonna — you name it. It definitely inspires the violin music that I compose and play.
Which brings me to the most important thing that my dad introduced me to: the violin. I’ve been playing since I was three years old. My dad gave me my first instrument — a miniature working violin that he found at a yard sale, of all places. I still have it, too. It almost looks like a toy, but it really plays. And as young as I was,
I totally remember my dad putting that violin in my hands, adjusting my fingers over the neck, and squeezing my other little hand over the bow. I don’t know why I didn’t do what other normal three-year-olds would’ve done with a violin — which is whack something with it — but I just … played. And I haven’t stopped since. It’s a part of me. And when my dad died, my mom picked right up with the support of my music. She makes sure I never slack on my strings.
I shift in the seat and tug the sleeves of my oversized sweater down over my hands. A light rain has started to fall from the charcoal sky. It seems even darker than before.
In the driver’s seat, Niall announces, not so much to me, but aloud, that we are
verra
close. That’s how the word
very
sounds when he speaks it and it’s one of just a handful of his words I can now understand.
Two months ago, my mother married Niall MacAllister, a Scottish laird. A laird is equal to something sort of like a a duke. He’s rich and lives in a castle in the Scottish Highlands. That’s where we’re headed now. To a freaking castle. I still can’t believe I’ve left my home in Charleston and crossed the Atlantic to come here.
Niall is good-looking, for an older guy: tall, with sandy hair and blue eyes. And I can see how some might find his Scottish accent charming. But he and I haven’t exactly clicked yet. With me, he’s short, abrupt, and not very conversational. He has no kids himself, so maybe he just doesn’t get teenagers. Mom picks up on the chill between me and Niall, but she doesn’t know what to do about it.
I know my mom deserves to be happy, though. She’s worked as an ER nurse for as long as I can remember, and raised me by herself after Dad died. She did a pretty good job, being a single mom. But Mom and Niall have only known each other for less than a year. He could be a real jerk, or a serial killer or something. I guess we’ll soon find out.
Mom and Niall say that it must have been fate that led him to Mom’s emergency room. He was in Charleston on real-estate business, and had nearly sliced off his thumb with a tire iron while changing a flat. Mom’s beautiful, with thick, wavy blonde hair and a bubbly personality. She told me Niall couldn’t keep his eyes off her the entire time the ER doc sewed his thumb up. Sometimes I’m surprised it took my mom as long as it did to find someone else. But Dad was a pretty hard act to follow.
Everyone says I look just like my dad, with fair skin and gray-blue eyes. My long blonde hair is as straight as hay, but recently I had a pink streak put in and I love it. It reflects my violin music, which is part punk, part Victorian. I like to think I’m part punk, part Victorian myself. Part Victorian because, despite my standoffish manner, I’m truly a romantic. No one, except maybe my old friend Callie, really knows that side of me. I prefer to keep it that way, too.
We’re passing a sign that says “Glenmorrag,” and Niall points down a side road.
“That track there will take you straight to the village,” he says in his thick accent. He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Smaller than what you’re accustomed to, I suppose, but you’ll get used to it. There’s a grocer, a library, a baker and butcher, and the fishmonger. And a petrol station. We’ve one chip shop, one restaurant and pub, and one inn. The high school is in the next village.”
I tense up. Today is Friday. I’ll be starting at that high school come Monday.
Niall turns his head to Mom and smiles at her. “A chip shop is where they sell fresh fried fish-and-chips. ’Tis the best in the Highlands. You’ll love it, Lady MacAllister.”
It’s crazy to think Mom is officially a “Lady” now. What does that make me? I’m not sure. I shake my head and stare down the path, but all I see are tall, thick pines half swallowed up by the mist. I shiver. Are there wolves running through the forests?
“It looks pretty dark in there,” Mom says.
“Aye,” Niall agrees. “But once you get closer to the village, it opens up to the sea.”
Mom turns around to peer at me. Her eyes are wide. “Isn’t this exciting, Ivy? We’ll have to go into the village together soon, okay?” She wiggles her brows. “They have a library, did you hear?”
I smile at that. It’s hard not to smile at my mom’s enthusiasm. “We can get membership cards, huh, Mom?”
“Absolutely.” She grins and turns back around.
Now we’re on a narrow gravel road lined with thick brush and tall pines. We start a slow climb, the Jag’s tires crunching against rocks. The mist has grown so heavy that visibility can’t be more than a few feet in some places. It’s like looking through chowder.
“Hold on, love,” Niall says to Mom. He laces his fingers through hers. “Almost there.”
The Jag peaks and levels as we reach the top of the
hill. Looming ahead is something straight out of the pages of Bram Stoker or Edgar Allan Poe. Mom gasps. I nearly do, too.
A massive medieval fortress made of gray-and-black stone stretches before us and hugs the edge of the craggy sea cliffs. Four imposing towers, one on each corner, rise above the estate grounds. We come to a stop in front of the heavy black wrought-iron gates, and my heart begins to pound. I’m going to
live
here? It isn’t a stuffy, manicured castle. Instead it’s … menacing. Barely a notch above ruinous. And it completely fascinates me.
Niall presses a button and the gates swing open with an ear-piercing creak and groan of metal against metal. As Niall drives through, I turn in my seat and watch those iron gates slowly close, locking us inside. An unfamiliar feeling of dread grips me.
A flock of ravens rises like a black cloud out of an ancient-looking tree. Most of the orange, red, and yellow leaves have already fallen off the trees and they lay scattered about on the ground. I think about the fact that Halloween is in a couple of weeks.
As soon as Niall puts the Jag in park, I grab my violin case and shoulder it, open the door, and slide out. It’s
stopped raining. The icy wind stings my cheeks, and I pull my red knit hat farther down to cover my ears. Mist slips through the air in front of my face, and I drag my hand through it and watch it swish around my fingers. The mist is almost alive, the way it’s constantly shifting, drifting.
The air smells clean and sweet, a mixture of something that reminds me of clover with the salty tang of the sea — an odd and striking contrast to the gloomy doom of the estate. Other than the crackle of dead leaves, the rubbing of dead branches, and the occasional caw of a raven, it’s eerily still. If I strain my ears, I can hear the sea bashing against the base of the rocky cliffs.
“Spooky, aye?” Niall says to Mom, and the two stand in front of me while they take in the view. My stepfather is ridiculously tall, especially compared to Mom’s short five feet three inches. And I’m an inch shorter than her. Niall points toward the top of the castle. “Up there’s our fierce gargoyle watchmen. You can barely see them through this blasted mist. Quite frightening up close, and there’s a different one on every eave.” A lighthearted chuckle escapes his throat. It makes me wish he could be more like this all the time. “I loved playing here as a wee lad. Loads of fantastic hiding places all over the estate.”
I shudder. The gargoyles do look freaky — like creepy, distorted little stone men, crouched and watching. Waiting to fling themselves down at you and grab you.
“Oh, Niall, it’s amazing!” Mom cries, and throws her arms around him.
Niall hugs my mom fiercely. “I’m happy you’re here with me. My verra own family.” He gives me a quick, uncomfortable glance. “You too, Ivy.” I bite my lip and stick my hands in my pockets. Niall tries to break the awkward moment. “Right,” he says, the
r
rolling from his tongue. “You two should go in and get settled. I want to introduce you to my grandmother and the staff.”
With a heavy sigh, I brace myself. New people. New home. Totally different country. A little overwhelming to say the least.
Before we make it to the enormous wooden doors, they open. A petite elderly lady comes forward, followed by a man and woman in servant uniforms, who head to the car to get our luggage. But it’s the old woman who demands attention. Even at twenty feet away, I can tell she’s not one to mess with. With her nose tilted upward, her sharp chin jutting out, and her white-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, she carries an air about her that is
unmistakable. Wealth. Snotty wealth. And boy, she wears it proudly. I’m instantly annoyed.
“Grandmother!” shouts Niall, and hurries forward to embrace her. “I’ve a verra special girl for you to meet,” he tells her.
The old lady’s gaze lands straight on me. Her mouth draws tight and her eyes narrow. She glances from the case I have slung over my shoulder to my Converse All Stars to the holes in my jeans, the pink streak in my hair, and then back at my face as though smelling something putrid. I hold my ground, set my jaw, and stare right back. A weighty silence suspends between us.
“Julia,” says Niall, draping an arm over Mom’s shoulders, “this is my grandmother, Lady Elizabeth. Grandmother, my wife, Lady Julia MacAllister.” He clears his throat. “And this is her daughter, Ivy.”
Which, to me, translates to “And this is her baggage, Ivy.”
Elizabeth’s gaze grows even colder, and then slowly slips over to Mom, who gives a polite nod.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Elizabeth,” Mom says in her sweet Charleston drawl. “Niall speaks so highly of you.” Class. My mom definitely has class.
A forced smile stretches across Elizabeth’s mouth. “My grandson has spoken quite highly of you as well.” Her accent is more clipped, more polished than Niall’s. She glances at me. The fake smile disappears, replaced by another pinched look. “Come. Supper awaits us.”
With that, she turns on her little black heels and glides through the double doors.
