Читать книгу Secret Garden - Cathryn Parry - Страница 12
ОглавлениеSMOOTH MOVE, WALKER, Colin thought as he watched Rhiannon run away. Obviously, she’d been appalled by him. How dumb had he been, hitting golf balls into the woods? He was a trained professional and he should have known better. That was what driving ranges were for.
Thankfully, she wasn’t hurt. Still, the broken camera in his hand rattled—he needed to replace it for her. Maybe his grandmother would be awake now and could help him make arrangements for that.
Blowing out his breath, Colin headed back to the cottage. The rain had stopped, but there was still no hint of sun, just gray, overcast skies. This place was about as different from Central Texas as he could imagine.
Under the overhang to the porch, he tossed his club and glove into the golf bag.
“Colin?”
Colin froze. He’d know that voice anywhere—Nana. Instinctively, a lump rose in his throat, and he turned to see her.
“Oh, Colin.” Tears glistened in his grandmother’s eyes. She was thinner and sadder looking than he remembered. He’d come to Scotland still harboring anger, but somehow, seeing her in person, that seemed to disappear.
Jessie’s arms shook as she reached for him. He pulled her close and gave her a hug. She wore an apron that smelled like black pudding. He hadn’t eaten black pudding—the Scots name for blood sausage—in ages; it had always been a favorite of his when he’d visited in the summers, because the boy in him had loved that it was made with real blood.
She stood back and held him at arms’ length. “I’m so proud of you.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I watch you on the telly. But you look bigger and taller in person. So handsome.”
Colin couldn’t help smiling. “You’re looking good, too, Nana.” He winked at her and lifted up her chin. He didn’t want her to be so sad.
A light seemed to come on inside her, and her face appeared less tired. “Come in, dear.” She opened the door and led him into her cottage.
He followed her and took his canvas bag with him. The clubs would be fine under the overhang.
The front room was as he remembered it, but the contents had completely changed. The stuffed furniture was new. The TV was a silver flat screen, and though relatively small, it dominated the space. The old childhood pictures of him and his parents weren’t on the wall anymore. A large landscape oil painting hung in their place.
He tilted his head, trying to figure out why the scene in the painting felt so familiar. “Is that the clearing where Rhiannon and I built a fort?” He’d climbed those oak trees and hauled old loose boards into the limbs. He and Rhiannon used to sit and swing their feet there.
“Aye, that’s Rhiannon’s work.”
“She’s a painter?” he asked, surprised.
“She’s known the world over,” his grandmother said with obvious pride, and pointed to Rhiannon’s small signature on the bottom right. “She paints scenes from the estate. Wealthy collectors buy them, but this was a gift to me and Jamie.”
The painting was seriously professional work—to Colin, it looked museum quality. “I had no idea,” he murmured, though maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised.
Rhiannon had always been creative, and she’d even sketched people with her pencils. Like him, she hadn’t been disciplined then—he remembered them more as running free like wild, unsupervised children. The memory made him smile again.
His grandmother gestured for him to follow her. “Come into the kitchen and tell me about everything you’ve been doing.”
Colin nodded. Now would be a good time to tell her how he’d seen Rhiannon in the clearing—and that he’d pissed off Jamie by talking about her. Also that he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with his father’s funeral on Sunday. Not at all.
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.
* * *
COLIN 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.
“If you’ll allow me to lead you out.” Paul tilted his head, signaling the end of Colin’s visit.
But it bothered him that Rhiannon was avoiding him. Something was wrong. “Will she be coming to my father’s funeral?” he asked Paul. “Or maybe her parents or brother?” What was his name? “Malcolm,” Colin said, remembering.
Paul frowned, but Colin didn’t move. He needed to know. “The funeral is on Sunday,” Colin said stubbornly. He didn’t know what time, though. Now he wished he’d asked his grandmother.
It made him feel terrible, still.
“Excuse me while I check for you,” Paul murmured.
Colin waited, for twenty-two minutes this time. He exchanged text messages with Mack—his friend had set up a tee time for them at a nearby course, at Colin’s request—to pass the time. When Paul at last returned to the small anteroom where Colin sat on the couch, watching the birds flit outside, he carried a tray with a formal tea service. Pot, teacup, bone china, the works.
Colin stared. He’d expected none of this. Rhiannon’s family had always been more formal than his, but this was just excessive. He’d spent a good portion of his childhood living in a trailer, eating off mismatched plates and drinking out of jelly glasses.
He stood while Paul set down the tray. There was only one cup.
“Mr. MacDowall will be arriving shortly to speak with you,” Paul said.
“Rhiannon’s father is coming?”
“No, sir. Mr. Malcolm MacDowall.”
Rhiannon’s brother? Colin just felt confused. “Why did you call him?”
“Because you asked about him, sir. And since he is at his company’s Byrne Glennie facility today, and is therefore available locally, he has decided to stop by and speak with you.”
Colin sat, his hand on his forehead. All he’d wanted was to apologize to Rhiannon. He had the feeling he was missing something important.
Paul poured tea into a cup. “Cream or sugar?”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t drink tea.” When had this gotten so complicated?
“Try this, sir.” Paul used a pair of silver tongs to drop a sugar cube into the cup and then added a small amount of cream from a tiny pitcher. He passed Colin the delicate cup and saucer, but Colin just stared at him. He didn’t dare touch the damn thing. What if he dropped it?
Paul cleared his throat, then placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. Straightening, he said formally, “Mr. MacDowall requested that I serve you tea, as it will be another ten minutes before he arrives.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” Colin said.
Paul turned, his brow raised. Honestly, Colin just hadn’t wanted to be left waiting again.
“Ah... Malcolm...he’s the CEO of Sage Family Products now?” The major body-care corporation that his mother had talked about. The one that gave endorsements to professional athletes.
“No, he’s the president,” Paul explained patiently. “Mr. John Sage, Rhiannon’s uncle, is the CEO.”
* * *
RHIANNON SAT ON the stairs, observing Colin and Paul. Ironically, she’d curled up near the spot where she and Colin had peeked through a lattice screen. The staircase had been renovated with modern railings, and now a restored tapestry concealed her from view. But there was one threadbare place in the material that she could peer through.
She’d never expected Colin to return, or to ask to see her. She’d thought she’d scared him away. Part of her had hoped that he would stay away; that would be for the best, after all.
But then she’d been informed by the guard observing the cameras that Colin was approaching the castle. And now, watching him in person...
She put her hand to her lips, filled with amusement by his sweet but bumbling reaction to Paul’s stiff formality. Her family hadn’t used the services of a butler all those years ago, and it seemed that Colin wasn’t sure about how to react to this foreign ritual. But he was gamely trying to put himself in Paul’s good graces.
And what about the funeral he mentioned? She hadn’t been aware of anything happening to his father. Then again, she hadn’t spoken to Jessie in a few weeks. Jamie, either. She’d been wrapped up in finishing her painting.
“Poor Colin,” she murmured. It must be terrible.
She was answered with a peeved meow. The cat in her arms had followed along behind her, more dog than catlike in his behavior. She’d been petting him when Paul arrived with the tea cart.
Now the cat struggled; he knew that the tinkling of china meant fresh cream, and Colin the cat lived for fresh cream. But she normally didn’t let him have much, because he tended to get gassy. Rhiannon stood, intent on sneaking off, carrying her cat back to her painting studio with her, but he jumped down with a loud thud.
“Colin,” she whispered at him.
Colin veered from her and darted off on his short legs as best he could—admittedly, not quickly these days—down the staircase, across the tartan carpeting and toward his namesake.
Rhiannon groaned and covered her head. Below her, Colin the cat sat by Colin the human’s feet. The cat posed in a regal position and begged for cream with his most entitled meow.
“Colin, stop that!” Paul scolded.
“Excuse me?” Colin the human said.
“Colin,” Paul said to the cat, and he bent to pick him up. “You know you don’t belong here,” he admonished her pet in a singsong voice.
“Wait a minute,” Colin said. “Did you just call that cat by my name?”
“No,” Paul said stiffly, drawing himself up. “You share a name with Rhiannon’s cat.”
“Rhiannon’s cat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here, pretty baby.” Colin patted his lap, and her cat obliged, jumping up on him. Again, as best he could, given his age. The little devil would attempt anything to poach cream.
“How old is he?” Colin asked Paul.
“He’s twenty-one, I believe,” Paul said.
Colin was silent for a moment. Then he drew his hand along Colin’s fur, petting him. “I never knew about him.” Maybe Rhiannon imagined it, but she thought Colin looked misty-eyed.
Rhiannon sat again. Colin’s letter was in her pocket. Quietly, she opened the envelope and unfolded the note inside. In a careful hand, he’d written:
Rhiannon, I’m sorry I offended you this morning. You were once an important friend of mine, and I don’t want to lose that. Please forgive me. Colin.
Rhiannon touched it lovingly. Oh, what she had wished for—a letter from him—and never thought would happen.
She’d been utterly shocked when he’d come back this afternoon. Part of her wanted Colin here—but not the part that was in charge. The panic attacks trumped everything, and with them, she could never be normal around him.
More than anything, she needed her control. To be in charge of herself. Colin threatened that control. It was sad, but that was the way she was. To meet with him would be cruel, for both of them. It was best for everyone that he leave as soon as possible.
But what about his father’s funeral? She would have to say something about it. She couldn’t just ignore it, or him.
Just then the castle door opened—Malcolm had arrived, bringing in the smell of the early-summer air. He was dressed in his workday suit, his sunglasses on. Her older brother was a handsome man—always had been—but when Colin stood, the cat still in his arms, he managed to take her breath away.
Colin had changed clothing since she’d seen him earlier, and now wore khaki trousers and a collared shirt. He was shaven, tall and full of life, and he looked so appealing to her that she all could do was stare at him.
“Hi, Malcolm. It’s me. It’s Colin.”
But Malcolm’s jaw tightened. Slowly, he hooked his car keys on a peg beside the wall. “What’s going on?” he asked in his gruff, deep tone.
Colin’s smile wavered. “My father died,” he said in a low voice.
Rhiannon put her hand to her mouth. She felt devastated for him.
Even Malcolm was moved; she watched him exchange a look with Paul.
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm said.
“You didn’t know?”
“Not until Paul told me. But I don’t live here anymore—I live in Edinburgh. I’m only in the area because we own a manufacturing facility in Byrne...well, not far from here.”
“Do your parents plan to attend the funeral?” Colin crossed his arms. “Because my grandmother could really use the support.”
Malcolm shook his head helplessly. “My parents are out of the country. They won’t be back until the end of summer.”
“And Rhiannon?” Colin’s voice went lower. “Is she coming?”
Rhiannon’s heart seemed to pause. What was she going to do?
Malcolm’s hands tightened into fists. Her brother was protective of her, and he probably always would be. It upset her and made her sad, especially because Malcolm was married now and had a new life of his own. Rhiannon didn’t call to check in with him every day anymore, as she used to. It wasn’t fair to him.
She wished Paul hadn’t called him. The last thing she wanted were bad feelings between her brother and Colin.
“Let me talk with my sister,” Malcolm said in a clipped tone. “You wait here.”
