Secret Garden (7 page)

But as he watched his grandmother shakily reaching into a cabinet, it struck Colin that she didn’t seem well. He’d thought her ancient years ago, but now he realized that she’d actually been so much younger and healthier than she was now. She moved slowly, setting up a French press, her way of making coffee.

“Do you see Rhiannon often?” he asked instead, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.

“Well...” Jessie drew the word out in the manner that Scots sometimes did, so that it sounded like
wheel
. “She takes her walks early in the morning. I used to meet her with a wee cuppie, but I’ve been feeling tired of late.”

She
did
look tired. Maybe that was why she’d left the restaurant last night instead of waiting for him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“Nonsense.” She waved her hand. “I don’t mean to talk about me.” She gazed at him, and her face brightened. “Sit down. Let me feed you some breakfast.”

She rolled the
r
on
breakfast
in that delightful way that he used to emulate when he got home to Texas. Jessie’s brogue was so thick and enchanting that Colin had to sometimes stop and tilt his ear to catch it all.

“Sure,” he said, and pulled out the same chair he remembered using as a boy. “I’m starving.” The discussions about the funeral could wait.

His grandmother beamed. She’d always loved to feed him. He loved her big Scottish breakfasts.

He grinned back at her as he sat at his place in her cozy kitchen. Nothing here had changed—except maybe the appliances were modernized.

“Do you still like your eggs poached?” she asked.

He nodded. “You know I do.”

“And grapefruit juice, not orange?”

He nodded again. She knew all his quirks. He
was
starving, actually.

She bustled about at the stove, opened the oven and checked on his blood sausage. But he only noticed one place setting at the table—his.

“Won’t you eat with me, Jessie?”

“I’ll sit with you, yes.” She set down his juice, along with a bowl of oatmeal. “And here’s your porridge. Jamie and I already had our wee bite.”

As though summoned by the sound of his name, Colin’s grandfather stomped in from the front room. He must have been upstairs. By the scowl on Jamie’s face, and the tuft of white hair that was standing upright from having his hands through it so often, Colin saw that his mood hadn’t improved.

Jamie addressed Jessie, pointing at Colin as if Colin weren’t there. “There’s something you need to tell him, woman.”

She waved her hand at Jamie as if dismissing him.

Jamie made an exasperated noise. Colin averted his gaze.

“Please, Jamie,” Jessie pleaded. “Let me enjoy the morning with my grandson. I don’t want any unpleasantness.”

Jamie glowered at Colin. There was nothing Colin could say to make this easier for Jessie, so he just remained silent, waiting.

Finally, Jamie snapped a coat from a peg on the wall and then limped toward the back door. “The sooner he’s back to Texas,” Jamie said, pointing to Colin again, “the better off we’ll be.”

His grandmother cringed and Colin’s heart went out to her.

But after the door had shut, Jessie just smiled sadly and looked at Colin. He could see the tears she was doing her best to blink away.

“Don’t pay him any mind,” she said. “He has the gout. It’s painful for him.”

“Is that why you left the restaurant early last night?” Colin asked.

“Yes,” she said, looking relieved and turning back to the egg she was cooking. “I’m glad you understand.”

He sighed and sat back in his chair. “Nana, I should’ve called to tell you we were running late. I’m sorry.”

She waved her hand. “Don’t fash yourself.” It was a Scottish phrase that meant “don’t worry about a thing.” His grandmother said “don’t fash yourself” the same way he said “keep it light.”

Chuckling, he picked up his spoon.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” he said. “We’re more alike than I’d realized.”

She reached over to pat his hand. “I do wish I’d tried harder to reach you when you were younger.”

Tried harder.
Maybe she
had
called. Maybe Daisie Lee hadn’t wanted her to talk with him. “My mother wasn’t keen on phone calls.” He glanced at her.

Jessie waved a hand. “Say no more.”

He nodded again. She didn’t want to revisit the past any more than he did.

Still, he felt guilty. “My manager told me that you sent some emails to my website. I’m sorry I didn’t read them.”

“It’s not important now,” Jessie insisted. She took a plate from a cabinet and arranged toast, two eggs and his black pudding on it. As she put it down at his place, he had a thought.

“You’re afraid to fly,” he said. “That’s why you never came to Texas.”

“Eat your breakfast.” She sat across from him and urged him to pick up his fork.

He ate most of it; he was ravenous and it was delicious. But as he contemplated the last blood sausage, he stared down at his plate, feeling ashamed.

He was able-bodied and had enough money to pay for plane tickets. He could have flown to Scotland and visited his grandmother. His mother wouldn’t have needed to hear about it, or even known what he’d done. It wouldn’t have been disloyal to her.

“We’re together now, better late than never,” Jessie said, rolling her
r
in that delightful way.

“Aye, better late than never,” he mimicked.

She laughed, swatting his hand.

“I
am
sorry,” he murmured to her.

She picked up the French press, but he shook his head because he didn’t need any more caffeine in his system. He was wired from the flight, from the night of drinking, from staying up late.

From hitting Rhiannon with a golf ball.

He put the heel of his hand to his head. He just wanted to make up for...everything. His father was dead, and it was too late to do anything about that, but Colin was tired of regrets. There were things now, today, he could do.

“How do you apologize to a woman?” he said aloud to Jessie.

“Oh, no. You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“It’s for someone else, actually.”

She peered at him. “What have you done?”

He stabbed his blood sausage with his fork. “I hit a golf ball and broke Rhiannon’s camera, and then I inadvertently insulted her.” He shook his head. “Why would Jamie tell me that she’s married with kids if she isn’t?”

“Oh,” Jessie murmured. “Your grandfather, he’s...” She waved her hand. “Never mind about him. You let me handle his temper. Now, are you saying that you want to apologize to Rhiannon?”

“I do.” He thought of the landscape on the wall, the one that Rhiannon had painted. Then he gazed at his grandmother. “I don’t want bad blood between us,” he said meaningfully. “Not anymore.”

Jessie clasped her hands and put them to her mouth. Then she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with a tissue. Smiling at him, she stood and padded to a drawer, then came back with an old-fashioned box of notepaper and a pen.

The notepaper had a sketch of a bird on it.

He laughed. “Seriously?”

She just raised her eyes and gave him a look.

“Right.” He pushed aside his empty plate and took the pen and paper from her.

So much could be said in a simple letter. He should have written. Rhiannon should have written. They all should have written.

“So...if I tell her I’m sorry, do you think that’ll help?” he asked.

Jessie tilted her head. “My rosebush has budded. Cut a nice stem and strip off the thorns. That can’t hurt, either.”

He nodded. “Women like flowers.”

“Is there no one special in your life? Another young woman, perhaps?”

“No.” He clicked the pen open and then shut it. He’d never given anyone flowers. He’d also never written a personal letter.

This should be interesting.

He blinked, rubbing his fist against his eye. His vision was getting scratchy with lack of sleep.

Jessie noticed. “Aye.” She picked up his empty plate. “Have you slept yet?”

He shook his head.

“I’ve made up a bed for you. Get some sleep, and then worry about the rest of the day. After you rest, everything else will come easier.”

She was right. He really wasn’t functioning well. His brain was messed-up like a zombie’s.

He grabbed his bag and followed her into the front room, though he didn’t need to follow her because he knew this place by heart and always would, until the day he died. He walked behind his grandmother up a creaky, steep length of stairs that she didn’t navigate as well as she used to.

Inside the modest guest room was an ancient, wrought-iron twin bed, a scatter rug over a painted wooden floor and a set of drawers that had seen better days. He dropped his canvas bag on a metal chair.

“You know where the bathroom is,” his grandmother said. “I’ve put fresh towels on the table for you.”
Fresh
had that same wonderful rolled
r
.

He smiled at her, feeling like a kid again, but in a good way. In a naive way of trusting that all would be better in the morning.

She closed the door and let him sleep.

* * *

C
OLIN WOKE WHEN
he heard the loud whine of weed-whacking directly beneath his window. Rubbing his eyes, gazing through the windowpane, he saw his grandfather attacking a patch of thistle, revving the motor and scowling to himself.

The perverse old dude. Colin chuckled softly. But then his grandfather glared up at his window in a manner that made Colin wonder if he was trying to disturb his sleep on purpose. The laughter died in his throat.

Jamie probably didn’t even have gout. If he did, shouldn’t he be resting the foot, not hobbling about on it? Colin was pretty sure that Jamie’s anger had more to do with him—and his presence in Scotland—than it did with any ailment Jamie might have.

Colin couldn’t think of anything he could say or do to make his grandfather feel differently about him. He was trying to be laid-back about it, but the facts didn’t lie. He felt lousy. He needed to get out of here.

First, he had to apologize to Rhiannon.

After rooting in his canvas bag for his shower kit and a set of clean clothes, he took a long, hot shower, ducking his head in the low stall. When he went back to his room, he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the sloped ceiling. Still, he took more care than he usually did with his routine. Colin was a casual guy, not big on combs or razors, but this time he was sure to make himself as clean-cut as possible for Rhiannon.

He didn’t know why—and maybe it was crazy—but it suddenly seemed critical to get her on his side again.

He sat on the bed with the notepaper for ten minutes, pondering what to say to her. How to get across to her that he was really sorry for his rudeness.

In the end, he just wrote from the heart. Downstairs, his grandmother handed him a pair of scissors. He went to the side of the house and clipped a few of her roses. If one was good, then six were better.

It was a slow twenty-minute hike to the castle. He passed through a small copse, around a spongy moor with pale green grass and alongside a creek—“burn,” they called it here. Nature had changed little except for some trees that were missing since his last visit; others were taller and fuller. It was funny—Colin couldn’t specifically remember most people he met, but he’d remembered this land. The outdoors was a big part of what sustained him. Probably no accident that he’d chosen to become a professional golfer.

Colin came to the front of the castle and stood for a moment, marveling over it. A huge, gray stone facade. Still the same turrets, the same circular gravel drive. The same short, wooden drawbridge that had once fascinated him so much.

He had to clear away cobwebs before he could ring the bell, but he heard the noise echo in the great hall, so he knew it worked.

A man dressed in a black suit answered the door. “Yes?” He had a bland voice and an expressionless face.

“I’m here to see Rhiannon,” Colin said.

The man coughed into his hand. Colin had no idea who he was. “May I ask who is calling, sir?”

“Colin Walker.” He shifted on his feet, transferred the flowers to his other hand.

The man bowed his head slightly. He opened the door and gestured for Colin to enter. “Please wait on the couch while I phone her.”

The whole thing was strange. Colin followed him inside. The first detail he noticed was that the interior had been renovated. The great hall didn’t look as much like a dank and drafty laird’s castle, but a modern home with all the comforts.

Colin was led to a small anteroom he didn’t remember, with a couch by a window that looked out over the front drive. At the entrance was the guard station where his grandfather worked. Colin wasn’t even sure if he still worked there anymore or if he’d retired.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” the man said.

“Who are you?” Colin asked him.

“I’m the MacDowalls’ butler. You may call me Paul.”

Also surreal. Had Colin wandered onto the set of
Downton Abbey
? Rhiannon’s parents hadn’t had a butler the last time he’d been here.

“Ah, will you please take these to Rhiannon?” Colin handed Paul the rose bouquet. The letter, too, just in case she wasn’t inclined to see him.

Paul was gone for five minutes. Colin knew, because there was a clock on the wall and it ticked, loudly. He stood and walked out of the holding area and into the great room with its tall ceilings, about thirty feet high, and the stone fireplace with the baronial swords and shields on display. That display had been Colin’s favorite part of the castle. His gaze moved to the staircase where he and Rhiannon had once hidden. The staircase had been completely rerouted now, and their hiding place was gone.

Paul’s throat cleared. Colin turned.

“I’m sorry, but Rhiannon isn’t seeing anyone today.”

“Did she take my letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know if she read it?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t say.” Paul took a step and then paused, waiting for Colin to follow him to the door, but Colin stood rooted.