Sweet Christmas Kisses (123 page)

As a far more pragmatic adult, her fantasies now centered solely on quickly settling her late aunt Maura's affairs, then a return flight to the U.S. and the harsh reality of continuing her search for new job before she defaulted on her condo lease.

This time, without an embezzler for a boss...and preferably far, far away from her ex-boyfriend.

On the British-accented orders of the GPS, she turned off the A9 onto a narrow, single-track road and headed deeper into the Highlands.  The road climbed higher and higher, offering breathtaking vistas and heart stopping curves where she had to pull into the lay-bys for oncoming traffic to pass. The stunning panoramas of pristine lochs and highland mountains faded into deepening gloom as the gray day turned to mist and then a steady rain.

At the bottom of a heart-stopping, steep drop into a valley, the GPS said to turn west, as did a small sign pointing to Deoiridh, but the narrow track looked barely wide enough for her compact car.  How could it be the main route to a town?

She resolutely drove over a cattle guard, past a hand-lettered sign warning of "Lambs at Play," then drove up into the hills for another five miles. 

Several sheep encased in thick, yellowed wool marked with red dye over the shoulders stood in the road ahead.  She slowed, expecting them to bound away in fear.  One idly glanced at her car, then buckled at the knees and lay down in the center of the road, clearly unconcerned and ready for a nap. Its friend wandered ahead towards a clump of grass, snatched a few blades, then lay down as well.

Lucy tapped her horn.

Both sheep closed their eyes.

She drummed her fingernails on the steering wheel. Edged closer.  Honked again.  Nothing.  A steep hill fell away from the road at the very edge of the asphalt on the right; a rocky bank rose on the left.

How did one herd sheep?  She'd always imagined them to be timid, defenseless creatures ready to flee from danger, but these were remarkably unconcerned by the threat of thousands of pounds of metal on wheels.

Grabbing her umbrella from the passenger seat, she climbed out of the car and waved it at them, then opened and closed the umbrella several times with a whoosh--an action that would surely frighten a horse. That earned a bored glance from ewe #1.

A low-slung black sports car rumbled up the road and pulled to a stop behind hers.

The city girl in her felt a frisson of unease when a tall, dark haired stranger stepped out of his car and studied her from behind his open door.  He was in his mid-thirties, maybe. Lean, with broad shoulders and a casual sort of grace that made her think of someone she'd seen in the movies.

"Can I gie ye a hand?"

She felt her stomach do a funny little flip-flop at the sound of his voice.  Oh, my.

Equally charmed by his Scottish accent and unsure of what he'd just said, she tipped her head toward the recalcitrant sheep.  "Road block."

He frowned and strode ahead, then flashed a quick grin when he spied the sheep  "Aw...the sweet lassies jus' need a wee bit o' urgin' along."

Surprised by his unexpected flash of humor, she laughed.  "I think they need more than that."

As soon as he approached them with a shout and a wave of his arms, they lumbered to their feet and wandered off the road.  He turned back to her and cocked his head. "You're a tourist?"

His rich, deep baritone rolled over each of his R's and sent a shiver through her. "Not exactly."

"American, though," he said decisively, his manner cooling.  He gave her a dismissive glance.  "Enjoying our beautiful Highlands, then?"

The view in front of her was particularly pleasant, with a handsome Scot in it.  If he'd been wearing a kilt it would have been even better.

"Wish I had time. I'm only here on family business, then heading back home soon as I can."

He flashed a brief, humorless smile and returned to his car.  "Guid day to ye."

"To you as well," she muttered under her breath. 

She'd felt nothing but open warmth and hospitality in Scotland thus far, from the woman behind the rental car desk at the airport, to the chatty waitress at the charming little cafe on Atholl Road in Pitlochry, where she'd pulled off the highway for lunch. Even the grizzled old man in the pub, a dozen miles back, had served her an early supper of fish and chips with a smile. 

So what was this guy's problem?   He'd been friendly one moment and curt the next.

She drove on, well aware of her cautious speed and the impatient sports car at her bumper, then pulled off into the next lay-by and waved him on to pass her.  He sped by and disappeared over the next rise.

"Good day to you, too," she muttered under her breath as the tension melted from her shoulders and she settled back in her seat to enjoy the wild beauty of the Highlands.

The only surly Scott she'd met this far could now be arrogant to someone else, but at least she wouldn't need to deal with him again.

****

The village of Deoiridh appeared over the next windblown rise, nestled along the shore of Loch Killiveen.  Lucy pulled off into another lay-by and stepped out of her car for a better look.

Thick stands of hardwoods and pine surrounded the village, obscuring her view of the residential areas, but she could make out a long main street lined with the typical gray stone and block buildings that crowded the highway on either side.

An unexpected sense of loss and loneliness swept through her as she studied the village and made out a scattering of people on the sidewalks.

Her mother had always claimed she had no living relatives back in Scotland, and had hinted at bitter memories of her childhood.  And now, Lucy's mysterious Aunt Maura was dead, and apparently all of her other relatives were long since in the grave.

There was no one left to share tales of the family's history.  No one left to explain why her mother had fled to American when Lucy was a baby, kept secrets about her past and had never looked back.

And now Lucy was truly alone.

At the center of the little village, the voice of the GPS ordered Lucy to turn right on an unmarked lane that looked more like an alley, and drive another half-mile along the loch.

Minutes later, she stared open-mouthed at an imposing two-and-a-half-story, gray stone house rising above a neatly manicured lawn surrounded by a waist-high stone wall.

A wrought iron walk gate embellished with a swirly letter C faced the road, with wild rose vines climbing over the wall at either side.  There was no other house in sight.

She'd expected a little retirement cottage. This surely couldn't be the right address...could it?

She fumbled for the envelope on the passenger seat next to her and unfolded the solicitor's letter once more. 

He'd written Rosethorn, sure enough.  And when she studied the front entrance, she could just make out a plaque with that name on it plus a string of Gaelic words below.

But maybe there'd been a mistake. 

Even after an exchange of emails, the solicitor had been vague about the estate, though he'd said Maura stipulated that as her only remaining relative, Lucy's round trip airfare was to be paid for, but she would receive nothing if she didn't come to Scotland to claim her inheritance.  He'd alluded to a few items of value that might be worth Lucy's while, and perhaps some family mementoes, though the rest she might want to simply donate to charity donation bins.

It had hardly been encouraging enticement to lure her into a transatlantic flight. 

And yet...she knew it could be her last chance to ever find out more about her family. If she didn't go to Scotland, Maura's things would be given away and there'd never be another opportunity.

A gravel lane led around to the back of property, and beyond that lay a small meadow rimmed with a heavy stand of trees that followed the water's edge.

Like a pretty little dollhouse, a stone cottage stood at the edge of the water. White lace curtains hung at its mullioned windows.  A curving stone walk led to an arched doorway framed with rose trellises at either side.

It was straight out of the coffee table book of Scottish landscapes and historic homes that she had at home.  It was even more than she'd dreamed.

Maybe Maura had lived there?

Lucy drove down the lane to a small parking area with two cars and a couple of empty spaces.

She felt a pang of regret and loss, imagining the fragrance of fresh baked breads in that little house.  A cheery fire in its fireplace.  Cozy chats with a buxom, friendly and comforting auntie she would never meet.

Then again, maybe Maura had been just like her estranged sister in America--increasingly bitter and silent as she passed middle age.

With a heavy sigh, Lucy stepped out of her car and hit the locks out of habit despite the isolation of this place. 

Fingering the house key that she'd received in the mail, she wavered between heading straight to the cottage, or starting at the house to let the residents know she'd arrived.

A curtain fluttered at one of the windows of the house.  A moment later, a fluffy white snowball burst out of the back door, jumped off the covered porch and raced to the back gate to greet her, its little stump of a tail wagging furiously.

A short, round woman with frowsy gray hair appeared on the porch.  "Don't ye mind wee Maxie," she called out.  "He wants to greet all our lodgers proper like.  Come on through."

Lucy stepped through the gate and shut it behind her, then knelt to cup the little dog's furry face in her hands for a quick hello.  Maxie wiggled with ecstasy and bounced up to lick her cheek, then pulled back to cock his head as he studied her.  In a flash he was off to race in circles before bounding back up on the porch.

"He's quite an ambassador," Lucy said with a laugh. 

"That he is, but he's also still looking for his Maura to come back.  Poor dear just won't give up.  Watches the back door day and night." The woman cocked her head and studied her with frank curiosity.  "Let me see, now.  We have a couple checking in today from France, and one from London.  Who might ye be?"

So this was a B&B, then.  That made sense.  Lucy had passed dozens of them while driving through villages in the Highlands, ranging from the size of small hotels to much smaller houses.  "I'm Lucy Davis.  Maura Campbell was my aunt."

"Oh, my." The woman paled and took a step back, her hand at her throat. "Why didn't I see it?  Ye look so much like her--in her old photos, anyway."

"I...I'm sorry about your loss, if you two were close."

"That we were.  She was a fine woman, your Maura. This past few years, she often spoke of a niece in America." The faint hint of censure in her voice was unmistakable. "I know she wished she could have met ye."

"I...I really wish I could have met her, too. Things in our family have been..." Lucy struggled for the right words to share with this stranger.  "Complicated."

"I suspect they were." The woman extended a gnarled hand. "I'm Sorcha Gilfillan."

Lucy grasped it gently, then tipped her head toward the cottage.  "I don't mean to take up your time.  I have a key and a letter from George Simpson--my aunt's solicitor.  I've come to take care of her...um...things, and do whatever I can to settle her affairs."

"You'd be thinking it's just the cottage, then?"  The woman braced her hands on her well-padded hips and laughed. "I'm afraid ye'd be surprising our professor if ye trotted in.  He lives in the cottage, but all of this property was hers.  Simpson didn't tell ye that?"

"All of this?" she whispered. "Really?"

"Ye don't seem none too pleased."

"I...I'm stunned.  I just had no idea."

Sorcha snorted.  "That old fool shoulda warned ye, dearie.  I expect there's a lot ye don't know."  She turned and beckoned for Lucy to come inside.  "You could use a bit o' hot tea and some biscuits after your drive, aye?"

The back door opened up into a large kitchen with a black and white tiled floor, white cupboards, and a cozy breakfast nook furnished with a lace covered antique table and a pottery vase of colorful wildflowers.

Lucy settled into a chair at the table and watched Sorcha bustle about preparing a pot of tea.  "Are you the housekeeper?"

"Ach, no. That would be a village girl, but she's just here early mornins' to cook the guests' breakfasts--such as they are--and do up the rooms. We've two of us old widows living here long term.  Our home for nigh on ten years, it's been." She directly a steely glance at Lucy as she set a tray of cookies to the table, then brought the tea.  "And we both plan to stay 'til we die."

"But...it's a B&B," Lucy said faintly.

"That it is.  Maura kept two rooms open to let by the day or week.  Steady reservations near year around. But she set us up with a special rate for long term.  There's no retirement homes within hours of here, ye know.  This village has always been home.  It's the only way we could stay."

Lucy blinked as the enormity of the situation grew clear.   She'd expected to clean out a small home at best, take her aunt's possessions to a charity donation bin of some kind, and then list the place with an estate agent or end the lease if Maura wasn't the owner.

A week or two of work.

A fast flight home, and done.

Now she was starting to see the weeks mounting up, starting with a pair of elderly ladies who had no intention of leaving.

"The professor is here long term also," Sorcha added as she briskly stirred honey and milk into her steaming cup of tea. "A one year lease, with some sort of option after that."

"A whole
year?"

"Iron clad, or so I understand.  His mother was a great friend of Maura's. " The older woman looked at her over the rim of her cup.  "But I'm sure Simpson will have all those details for you."

She hadn't been able to sleep during the red-eye flight to Amsterdam.  Then she'd been rushed catching her connecting flight to Edinburgh, and driving for hours today in a foreign country after no sleep had further frayed her nerves. 

And now, there were growing complications and delays, and potentially expensive legal problems that could make her financial troubles back home even worse.