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“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.
