The Sweetest Hours

Bless her. Diving in before it got cold or he lost his nerve, he shoveled some of the dark, steaming specks of sheep onto his fork. If Kristin could dance a Highland Fling before an unsupportive audience, then he could take one bite of Scotland’s national dish.

Tentatively, he tasted it. Everyone stared at him. “It’s...not bad.” Actually, it wasn’t. “It tastes like chicken,” he pronounced. “Whisky-flavored chicken.”

The father—Rich—held out his hamburger plate. “I’d like some whisky with mine, please.”

“Is that haggis?” Stephanie demanded. “Because only the haggis gets the whisky.”

Immediately, one of the other brothers pulled the haggis platter toward him.

The haggis got passed around—a teaspoon of ground meat plopped onto each plate, along with a drizzle from the bottle.

And afterward, Stephanie piled on some tatties and neeps. The tatties were mixed with liberal amounts of butter, and the neeps had brown sugar and maple syrup added. Maybe she’d figured it couldn’t hurt.

“All right.” One of the brothers stood at last, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “That was great, Steph, thanks for inviting us. But Dad and I need to get going.”

“Wait!” Stephanie said. “We haven’t sung ‘Auld Lang Syne’ or read a Burns poem yet.”

“Sorry, sis. We just don’t have time.”

Just then, Malcolm’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the incoming text message. It was his driver, waiting for him. Malcolm looked at Kristin. She knew what the text was for.

“Actually, Steph, it’s okay,” Kristin said brightly. “It was a great dinner. Thank you for organizing it and for inviting us.”

And with a light smile on her face that he knew was fake, she pushed her chair back. “Besides, George has to leave, too. His ride is here.”

She turned to him. “Thank you for coming. We appreciate it. I hope you liked the dinner.”

He felt even worse now. Pocketing the phone, he stood. “I, er, would like to read a Burns poem as my thanks to you all, and I’d like to have everyone’s indulgence while I do so.”

Kristin stared at him.

He smiled at her mother. She was the one person besides Kristin who seemed predisposed to like him, so he played that for all he could. “I don’t know if I told you, Evelyn, but I went to prep school with a fearsome English professor, one who drilled poetry into our heads, and he made us stand and recite verses until we knew them by rote.”

Evelyn nodded. “I had teachers like that, as well. They don’t exist anymore.”

“No,” Malcolm agreed, “they probably don’t.”

A brother was putting on his coat, and Malcolm turned to shoot a look at him. “Please, sit down. This will only take twenty seconds.”

The brother sat.

“Thank you, George,” Kristin said softly. “What will the poem be?”

If he were alone with her, he knew exactly what line he would recite to her: The sweetest hours, that ever I spend. Because his short time with her had been sweet, and he was sorry it had to end.

But, they were not alone; he was sitting with her family. And, their hours together could not continue into the future.

So, he turned to her niece and smiled at the wee one. “This verse is called ‘To a Mouse.’ It’s by Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns, and I will recite it in your honor.” He took a breath:

“The best laid schemes of mice and men

Go often awry,

And leave us nothing but grief and pain,

For promised joy.”

And then he looked directly into Kristin’s eyes:

“Still you are blessed, compared with me,

The present only touches you.

But oh! I backward cast my eye,

On prospects dreary.

And forward, though I cannot see,

I guess and fear.”

She stared at him. He swallowed, and knew he had to repeat it once more. This time, as it should be read.

“That was the English version,” Malcolm explained. “And this is the proper recitation:

“But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!

“Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

On prospects drear!

An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,

I guess an’ fear.”

The table erupted in applause.

“That was my best Sir Sean Connery imitation,” he said lamely.

Kristin beamed at him, a quiet, shared look.

“Will you be back?” her mother asked him. “You’re certainly invited to our home, anytime you’d like.”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m here for just the day.”

“A one-day contract?” Kristin inquired.

He nodded, finding himself unable to speak. A heavy sadness had descended over him. The night had been sweet. The sweetest hours. He was immensely sorry he could never see her again.

* * *

SHE’D KNOWN ALL along that George was leaving.

Kristin put on her snow boots and followed him outside to the porch. A black car was waiting for him, idling at the end of the driveway.

He stood still, staring at the car with his hands in his pockets and his coat open, seemingly unconcerned about the wintry weather that enveloped them.

She sensed sadness coming from him, but it wasn’t her problem, not any of her business. He was off to some other faraway place, the black car on the corner set to whisk him away.

She felt relieved that nothing had happened with George to risk her already shaky standing at Aura. But still, part of her wished she didn’t have to lose his companionship just yet.

He’d been good to her at dinner tonight, standing up for her. He’d even played along, though she knew he hadn’t wanted to—encouraging the others into tasting the haggis and reciting the Burns poem.

She’d seen what he’d done for her, and she’d appreciated him for it. With each secret glance he’d given her during the dinner, each reactive dimple in his cheek toward her, she’d felt herself drawing closer to him.

She blew into her hands, so cold in the dark night. She couldn’t see George’s face clearly in the dim light from the porch bulb, only the outline of his tall, broad form, the flat plane of his sexy, razor-stubbled cheek—a cheek that she could too easily get used to gazing upon.

How could she say goodbye to him? Instead, she fumbled for something to say. Something trivial—anything to prolong the moment.

“I hope that everything went okay today,” she said, “and that you got all you need from us.”

He turned, his expression illuminated, and smiled at her, descending two steps lower than her on the stairs. He was at exactly her height now, his eyes level to hers.

“I did,” he said, staring at her, his gaze not breaking. “Thanks to you, of course.”

Biting her lip, she looked down. “I’m sorry about some of the comments in there.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” His voice was gentle. “I understand families.”

“Yes, you do.” He’d been so good with them, even Lily. She lifted her head, her eyes searching his again.

His hand touched hers, warm from the dinner table inside. His fingers brushed her knuckles, just once. Kristin was glad she hadn’t put on mittens. She liked the feel of his skin against hers.

“Kristin,” he said in a low voice.

She waited, barely daring to breathe, his wool coat rough against her knuckles. She inhaled his unique smell, mixed with the earthiness of the whisky he’d consumed. Involuntarily, she shivered.

He opened his coat, enveloping her in his warmth. It was a tender, protective response. A stolen moment in an evening that was turning out to be magical.

Maybe she was a sheltered person...she supposed so. She’d only been away from Vermont for a short time, until life in the city had crushed and overwhelmed her. She’d been back home for years now, in this small town she knew and trusted, with people who—though they may sometimes tease or criticize her—on the whole loved her and cared for her, no matter what.

Yes, they gave her trouble. Yes, she longed to break free. But in the end, she needed this safety. And by his actions tonight, it was clear to her that George understood that.

She stepped closer to him, inside the shield of his heavy woolen coat. Tentatively she touched the solid wall of his broad chest, feeling his cotton shirt and the silk of his necktie beneath her fingertips.

“Is it bad that I don’t want this day to end?” she whispered.

“No, lass.” His voice was throaty. The gruff...Scottishness of it seeped into her, as if spilled from one of Laura’s potion bottles. “I won’t forget you, Kristin.”

His eyes held hers. And as she swallowed, he angled his head and leaned toward her.

And then he kissed her.

At the first brush of his lips on hers, the heated whisper of his breath against her cheek, she sighed and tilted her head back, wanting to feel all of it—everything about him—so she could remember him.

He was tender, his lips molded gently over hers, moving with sweetness, as if to remember her fully, too.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she made a little moan.

He gave her the joy of a long, passionate kiss. Mouth to mouth, honest and solid, because that’s who George was. He was just so damn sexy.

The car at the end of the drive flashed its lights at them. Once. Twice.

George cursed softly. He straightened and drew back. The warmth of his coat dropped away from Kristin.

“I will put in a good word for you at Aura.” Back to formality, his tone sounded tortured. “You can count on that.”

“I believe you,” she said.

“I’m sorry I have to go.” He looked toward the car. “Maybe someday I can tempt you away. To Scotland.” His tone was teasing, and the accent was there.

She smiled at him. Maybe if she were a different person, in a braver place, she would dare to follow him and kiss him again. Prolong their interlude that had felt so sweetly romantic and special.

But she wasn’t that fearless.

“Goodbye, George,” she whispered, touching his hand one last time.

“Kristin?” His voice caught.

“Yes?”

“I hope you find your castle.”

And then he was off, into the winter night, the snow swirling quietly in the lamplight.

CHAPTER FOUR

DURING THE NEXT six weeks, Kristin heard nothing from George Smith.

She returned to work the Monday after he left, expecting questions about her time spent with him, but most of the office was busy celebrating the news of Andrew’s firstborn daughter. In the excitement, no one remembered to ask Kristin anything about what had happened on Saturday.

She sat at her computer and checked her company email, but found no messages from George—not even about Aura Botanicals. She thought he might at least have some lingering questions about the company and its products.

Kristin felt...well, sad. Not at all relieved. Maybe even a little bit hurt.

Of course he was busy—he spent his life traveling, he’d said. And he had thanked Stephanie for dinner; he didn’t owe them anything more than that.

But, the night had affected her—how could it not? Even not knowing that he and Kristin had kissed, her family still talked about him.

George had sat congenially around their dining table, and he’d read the Robert Burns poem in the accent of his country. Even without the kiss, that alone made him more memorable than any other man she’d known.

I hope you find your castle. He’d meant it figuratively, of course. But how did she go about doing that? She had no idea what her mythical castle even was.

Kristin signed off her email and chewed her lip. Maybe George would contact her when his report to Jay Astley was finished. That was what she hoped for.

Or maybe she would never hear from George again.

She didn’t know.... She felt so confused.

She leaned back in her chair and stared at the water-stained ceiling tiles. The night had certainly been an adventure. And to think that before George had shown up, she’d been feeling depressed with her life, traveling along in her rut of routine, longing for something to change, but every time she’d tried, getting into trouble.

Unlike George, she couldn’t just pick up and leave her hometown. She’d trapped herself here. Her rut was just something she had to figure out how to live with.

* * *

WEEKS LATER, TOWARD the end of her shift on a bleak, drizzly Monday, Kristin’s supervisor, Dirk, poked his ponytailed head into her office. “Jay Astley has called a meeting with management. You’d better step in here, Kristin.”

The owner of her company considered her management? That was something new. Kristin perked up.

She pushed away from her desk and hurried after Dirk. Her gangly supervisor diverted his path to the coffee machine, but she followed the other managers into the conference room, the place where Laura Astley had interviewed Kristin for her job six years earlier. Kristin hadn’t been to many meetings inside the gleaming, modern plant manager’s lair since then. This was Andrew’s turf, and Andrew didn’t hold her in confidence.

Inside the sunlit space, most of the office staff were already present. The top managers had staked their places around the polished board table; the lesser supervisors lined the walls behind them. Kristin found a spot at the back of the room and squeezed in.

Dirk wedged beside her, a coffee mug in hand. “Man, Astley looks like hell,” he said to her in a low voice. “I just saw him come inside the plant with two bodyguards flanking him.”

“Bodyguards?” Kristin asked. “Why would he need that?”

“Why do you think?”

Everyone hushed as Jay Astley entered the room and took a seat. He’d seemed to have aged ten years since Kristin had last seen him. One glance at Astley’s face—pale and broken, thoroughly lacking in sleep—and she felt sorry for him. Even at Laura’s funeral he hadn’t been so stooped and withdrawn, shoulders slumped as if he carried a heavy, sad burden.

A burly man wearing a suit and security-guard expression lingered in the doorway, staring them up and down. “He looks like he’s packing heat, doesn’t he?” Dirk whispered.

She did notice a bulge on the man’s hip beneath his jacket. Kristin swallowed.

Dirk sipped his coffee.

“I don’t think this is a good thing,” she whispered back.

“Probably not.” Dirk grinned. “At least I have my DJ business to fall back on.” Behind his hand, he said to her, “I hope our severance check is sweet—I’d love to get some new amplifiers. I’m looking forward to the unemployment checks, too.”

She stared at him. “We are not getting laid off.”

“Sure we are.”

How could Dirk even think that? She’d never been through a layoff before, but she’d seen a movie about it with George Clooney once, and this was not the way it happened.

In the movies, George Clooney met with people one-on-one.

This...this...was a mass announcement. Something different was going on.

Jay Astley, their CEO, turned slowly, gazing from face to face, regarding even the people standing behind him, including herself. A single tear ran down his cheek.

Kristin’s jaw slackened. This was really bad.

“You’re probably wondering why I called you all here, so I’ll just get to it,” Jay said in a raspy voice that didn’t sound like his own.

It seemed to Kristin that everyone hushed and leaned forward.

“I’ve had to sell our company,” Jay said.

A collective gasp rang out. Kristin put her hand to her mouth.

“Yep,” Dirk muttered. “I was right.”

Kristin elbowed him. “Shh!”

“Without Laura, I just...can’t do it anymore.” Jay’s voice faltered and then stopped.

Kristin’s heart went out to him. This was horrible. Laura had been the heart and soul of Aura Botanicals, and it seemed she’d been her husband’s heart and soul, as well. As awful as things were for him now, Kristin couldn’t help thinking how wonderful it must’ve been to have a love as great as that.

“An outfit overseas bought the rights to Laura’s products.” Jay gripped the edge of the table, unable to look up. “In your next paycheck, there will be a bonus.” He took an audible breath. “I’m hopeful you’ll all see fit to stay with me through the end of the month. We’ll need help disassembling the machinery and moving the inventory to the new location.”

New location?

“But what about our jobs?” Andrew asked, putting voice to the question on everyone’s minds, judging from the nodding and murmurs. “Will the new company keep us on?”

“Andrew...” Jay began.

“Will they keep this factory open, Jay?” Andrew demanded.

Jay didn’t answer.

“You owe us better than this,” Andrew hissed.

Kristin clutched at her throat. If she had a knife, she could cut the tension between the two men. No one else spoke. Their plant manager had challenged their CEO, and the CEO was on the hot seat. And yet, she desperately wanted his answer, too. What about their jobs?

Tears rolled down Jay’s cheeks, one after another. It was excruciating to watch. Their boss was falling apart in front of everyone. This was not how it happened in the movies, either. In the movies, company owners hid in the back room or at an off-site location and let the consultants deliver the bad news. Here, their CEO faced them himself.

Kristin thought she might be sick to her stomach. Everybody present had something on the line here. This factory was the lifeblood of their community. It was the center of Kristin’s life.

“I thought...I could save the company...for Laura’s sake, I tried.” Jay’s loss of control was outright now. “You have to understand,” he pleaded, “this was Laura’s baby...her only baby...but now it’s losing money, and despite the recommendations, I had no choice but to sell. It’s the only chance her formulations stand of surviving....”

Oh, Laura. Kristin blinked her eyes against the stinging she felt. She knew what it was like not to have kids or a family of your own. She’d watched Laura pour all her considerable love into her work—her balms and her lotions, her healing aromatherapies. To Kristin’s mind, the world was a better place with Laura’s potions in it; and Jay was right, it was good that somebody wanted to rescue them so they would live on.

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