’Mang the braes o’ Balquhidder
Robert Tannahill
“The Braes of Balquhidder”
In her painfully sun-filled room the next morning, Anna sat fully dressed with her head in her hands. It wasn’t only the mild hangover that kept her there; it was the awkwardness of it all.
How was she supposed to face Connal again when she’d practically swallowed his tonsils in the middle of the darn courtyard, probably in full view of half the village? He’d been gracious about it, lovely even. Not that he hadn’t seemed to enjoy it—he’d given every sign of enjoyment—but then he’d carefully disentangled her, gone inside and fetched her coat and purse, gently loaded her into his car, and dropped her at Elspeth’s with a careful goodnight kiss on the forehead as if he was afraid that he would break her.
She’d lain awake half the night, hot memories of that kiss keeping her company until the effects of Flora’s coffees had worn off and cold mortification had kept her from sleep.
Oh, well. What was a little more humiliation? It was becoming a familiar feeling.
No more—absolutely, positively no more—whiskey.
Ever.
But she couldn’t hide in her room all day. She had too much work to do before the next meeting about the play that night, not to mention the first meetings of all the other assorted event committees.
With a soft groan, she picked herself up and forced herself downstairs to the kitchen—where she found Connal MacGregor seated at the table wearing another shoulder-hugging sweater. Chatting with Elspeth while eating bacon, sausage, and tattie scones, he seemed to take up all the oxygen in the room. Anna nearly turned around and headed straight back up the stairs.
Except that Elspeth saw her. “Morning, love. You don’t look like you slept much at all.”
“Blame it on Flora’s coffee.”
Elspeth laughed. “In that case, have some more coffee. No alcohol. Shall I make up a pot for you?”
“Yes, please,” Connal said, “but give us a second, would you?” He got up from the table and came around to push Anna backwards out the kitchen door.
In the hallway, as soon as they were out of sight, he put his hands on either side of her face and looked deep into her eyes. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he said. “Are you going to object?”
Anna stared. Couldn’t utter a single word. Shook her head.
Connal lowered his head and claimed a kiss. A short, deep, warming kiss.
She hadn’t realized she was cold until he’d heated her up again.
“There,” he said, pulling away and taking all that warmth back with him.
She blinked, confused and bereft. “What was that for? And what are you doing here? It’s barely eight o’clock.”
“I got to worrying that you were going to mistake my self-control when I dropped you off last night for reluctance or regret, and I didn’t want to give you a chance to talk yourself into making things awkward between us. Maybe, also, I needed to know it hadn’t been all fear or Drambuie on your part.”
“It wasn’t fear or liquor,” Anna blurted before she’d taken the time to think that he’d given her the perfect excuse. If she wanted an excuse. Did she want one?
No.
“Regrets?” he asked, his brows drawing together.
She could have lied; maybe she should have. But regardless of how little sleep she’d had, she felt understood and wide-awake in her body for the first time in years. She felt alive and exhilarated and a little bit afraid, not of Connal, but of pain. Of joy. Of allowing herself to feel.
“No,” she said firmly. “I don’t regret a thing. Except that the news is probably all over the village by now, and that’s the third collision I’ve had here in as many days.”
“Oh, a collision, am I?” Connal laughed, his eyes teasing and warm. He pulled her closer. “In that case, let’s try colliding again, shall we? I don’t think I mind at all.”
He bent his lips to hers again.
The magic of those kisses the night before hadn’t had anything to do with alcohol or adrenaline or fear. They’d been him and her. Them.
Fire ignited between them now, fire from the very first touch as if the blaze had been banked all night just waiting for a breath of oxygen. But eventually Anna’s stomach growled, and they both laughed and stopped to breathe. Anna rested her head against Connal’s chest, listening to his heart beating fast.
The scent of coffee and bacon drifted out toward them from where Elspeth was working at the stove, and Connal wound his fingers through Anna’s. “Come on. Time for more of this later.” He paused and looked down at her. “If you want more?”
She nodded, not sure she could speak.
After escorting her back into the kitchen, he held out the chair for her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Smiling mildly at Elspeth, he said, “I’m taking your niece out for lunch later. Just so you know.”
Elspeth came and sat, nursing her cup of tea between her hands. “Make it somewhere public, would you? You’ve won me a hundred quid from Davy Grigg, the pair of you.”
“What was the bet this time?” Connal asked, raising a wicked eyebrow.
“The village money was all on Brando when Anna first arrived, but I managed to get good odds after dinner the other night. Thank goodness, too, because once everyone saw the two of you at the pub before the village meeting, I couldn’t have gotten in a decent bet. Poor Brando. He never does get a break.”
Anna felt a stab of guilt thinking back to her conversation with Brando the night before, though not about herself. He had never been meant for her, and she was sure he knew it. “There’s a lot more to Brando than anyone here gives him credit for,” she said. “We shouldn’t make a joke out of his love life.”
Elspeth’s lovely smile wavered, and the crease between her brows grew deeper. “Och, we aren’t poking fun at him to be mean. We love him”—she tossed a quick frown at Connal—“some of us do, at least. We worry about him without his sister here. It’s just our way. And we’re proud of what he’s made of himself.”
“Maybe let him know that,” Anna said, glancing over at Connal, too. “He thinks the glen still sees him as a teenage delinquent. Maybe that’s why he fought so hard to make certain his voice was heard about the festival.”
Connal gave a noncommittal grunt and cut a piece of bacon. Elspeth sat a moment holding her tea, lost in thought. Then she rose with a soft scrape of chair legs on wood and came to kiss Anna on the cheek. “Sometimes it takes someone coming in from outside and shaking things up, showing us what we’re too used to seeing to find the truth in it. You’re good for all of us. Now, what will you have to eat?”
Bacon and sausage held no appeal, but there was gingerbread left. Anna crossed to the counter and liberated the last two pieces from the domed keeper, set them on a Wedgwood plate, and brought them back to the table. Connal slid a manila file in front of her.
“What’s this?” Remembering the last folder she’d gotten while sitting at this table, Anna opened it as if something inside might jump out and bite her.
“Graham went over the play for us last night,” Connal said, sitting back in his seat. “Just a few initial scenes to give us an idea of how it might work.”
Something tenuous and edgy in Connal’s voice brought Anna’s head up. “Last night? It was after ten by the time you dropped me off.”
“America’s hours behind us, and apparently he had time. Take a look and tell me what you think.”
Self-conscious while he watched her, Anna began to read. Almost immediately she laughed aloud—and she kept laughing. Graham Connor had managed to translate the play into modern English without altering its character, and the smaller parts were all delightfully more bungling and filled with quirks that would only seem quirkier when played by amateurs. Connal had penciled in notes about who should play what role, and she could almost picture different people in the village playing the parts—because they were the parts. All they had to do was draw from their life experience and be themselves.
“Do you like it?” Again there was a thread of anxiousness in Connal’s voice.
For the first time, Anna realized the risk he’d taken, the enormity of the favor he had asked of Graham Connor with no guarantee that she—or the talentless amateurs in the production—would be willing to work with what Graham gave them. Let alone do it justice.
“It’s genius,” she said, “and you’re brilliant for coming up with the idea and being willing to talk Graham Connor into writing it. How soon could he have it finished?” Then she had another thought. “But you aren’t paying him for it, are you? I don’t think the village fund will stretch that far.”
“Don’t worry about money. Graham likes to tinker. If the production goes off well, he’ll either release the modified play for royalties, or he’ll write it off as a favor for a friend who’s gotten him out of a jam or two in the past.” He smiled. “Money’s not Graham’s concern, and I imagine he can finish the revision in the next couple of days. So, is that settled, then?”
“Gratefully. Although I imagine there will be a few people in the village who feel this hits a bit too close to home. Sorcha, for example. Also Rhona won’t be happy.”
“Rhona will have to live with it. Victoria is booked, but Vanessa Devereaux is tentatively willing to play both Hippolyta and Titania. She and Pierce Saunders said they could come so long as they only have to be here for the final dress rehearsal and the two performances on Friday and Sunday. And Julian”—Connal paused with a barely perceptible wince—“can’t wait to get here. He’s finishing up a film and said to look for him in a couple of weeks.”
Elspeth had gotten up to get more tea. She turned with the teapot in her hand. “Vanessa Devereaux? The Vanessa Devereaux?”
Connal raised an eyebrow, as though that were obvious. “Is there another one?”
“Oh, my goodness.” Elspeth’s cheeks went pink, and she came over to hug first Connal then Anna. “This is fantastic, Connal. Anna. Only wait until I tell the others! Or you should tell them. You should definitely get the credit.”
“I only agreed to do this on the condition that I wouldn’t be credited, remember? That’s rather the entire point.” Connal turned back to Anna, his eyes smiling. “Now. About that lunch of ours. Can I pick you up at noon?”
Working together at the table in the sunny kitchen, Anna and Elspeth knocked as much off their enormous to-do lists as they could before lunch: phone calls to vendors for the main tent and rental chairs, crowd control ropes, velvet curtains for the stage they would need to build, not to mention trophies for all the athletic events and dance events and the piping competition. There were also the craftspeople to contact—renting out booths for food and crafts was a big part of the projected income needed for the Village Hall.
Then there was the matter of a graphic artist.
“Couldn’t JoAnne do the posters to save some money?” Anna asked as Elspeth complained about the prices on the websites she’d been studying. “The work she’s done for you on the museum placards is beautiful.”
“It is, and you should see her portraits. But she’s still spitting mad about us making the festival bigger. She’s scarcely speaking to me at all, much less ready to lift a finger to help.”
“How can she still be mad if Connal isn’t?” Anna glanced up from her laptop.
“She’s a sweet girl, but a bit of an odd duck. It’s herself she’s protecting as much as Moira, I suspect. Her own sanctuary here in the glen where she can work on her art in private.” Brows drawing low over clouded eyes, Elspeth stared out the mullioned window above the sink. “Her mother’s a school friend of mine,” she said, “and I thought I was doing her a favor helping JoAnne get the job taking care of Moira. Now I’m not so sure. The girl’s got more talent than her father ever had, but she grew up watching the way he swaggered around, convinced the world owed him a living as an artist. JoAnne’s afraid to show her art to anyone who matters for fear they’ll reject her the way they rejected him. She couldn’t love Moira more if Moira were her own, but she’s hiding here in the glen, same as Connal. I suppose remote places tend to collect broken souls.”
“You think Connal’s broken?” Anna asked.
Elspeth smiled gently. “I think every person is lost and broken in some way. Our own ways.”
Anna thought about JoAnne and Connal both protecting Moira so fiercely. Not that Moira wasn’t worth protecting. Maybe Anna had no right to think so, having known Moira for a few short hours, but it struck her that the girl was stronger than anyone gave her credit for being. Stronger and smarter.
Children were at that age, weren’t they? Anna herself hadn’t been able to go to the police or the pageant management and report the judge who had tried to touch her, but she could have. She would have if her mother had only let her. Even then she’d known that there were things you shouldn’t hide. Things you couldn’t hide. Maybe if she’d faced those demons then, she wouldn’t have spent her whole life trying so hard to be perfect and not ruffle any feathers.
Was that part of the reason she had agreed to marry a man she wasn’t head over heels in love with? She hated to admit it, but maybe it had been less painful to say yes to Mike, to go along, than it would have been to have to move out and start all over again, to acknowledge that she didn’t want to settle for someone who didn’t leave her ruffled.
Love was supposed to be messy, wasn’t it? Wild and free and a little dangerous. Love was meant to give you the confidence to soar, to fly, knowing there would always be someone to catch you if you fell.
Anna tried not to worry that it was Connal’s face she saw in her mind’s eye as she had that thought. Connal’s face, not Mike’s. Not Henry’s.
She forced her mind back to her work. Leaving the decision of choosing a graphics firm to Elspeth, she concentrated on the intricate puzzle of matching committees with volunteers and assigning them the most appropriate of the hundreds of tasks that needed to be done. The trick to any successful event, she had learned long ago, was to make everyone involved feel as if they’d been useful and heard and appreciated. She suspected, though, that she’d go deaf before everyone in Balwhither had their say.
Lost in the task, she jumped when Elspeth tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
“I hope you’re not planning on going out with Connal dressed like that?” Elspeth said, smiling down at her. “You’ll freeze, and he’s going to be here in fifteen minutes.”
Anna swept the papers back into their folders and charged toward the stairs. On the kitchen threshold, she turned back. “Are you sure it’s all right for me to leave you with all this? You’re not taking on too much, are you?”
“I’ll rest when the festival is over. I’m the one who got us into it, after all, so don’t try to use me as an excuse for being nervous about going out with Connal.” Elspeth came over and drew Anna into an embrace that smelled of cinnamon, vanilla, and the heather sachets she kept in her sweater drawer. “I’m just thankful you are here. For many, many different reasons, including the fact that we need you.”
Anna closed her eyes and felt damp warmth press against her lashes. Honestly, she needed to be here far more than anyone needed her. The chance to bury herself in meaningful work and help others had let her step away from her own problems enough to gain perspective, to discover things about herself. That was the best gift anyone could have given her at this point in her life.
“The gratitude is all on my side,” she said, squeezing her aunt back so hard she embarrassed herself. “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d given in and gone to Ohio like Mother wanted. Or sat around feeling sorry for myself in my apartment while I sent out resumes to a million law firms that were never going to hire a lawyer someone else had fired.”
Elspeth smoothed a strand of Anna’s hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Things happen for a reason. I firmly believe that, but sometimes we have to give them a little help. And we have to stop running long enough for the good in life to catch up with us.”
Something in Anna’s chest split open and inflated like a balloon, something full of hope, longing, and wonder. A red balloon, and she wanted to hold it in her fist and run with it up and down the loch while it caught the wind and flew.