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God, how he hated them. People behaved foolishly beneath the bright round moon.
He certainly had.
*
Kris awoke to sunlight spilling in through her bedroom window. She’d been so tired the night before she hadn’t thought to draw the drapes.
After a quick shower, Kris checked her e-mail. She’d promised to meet Lola for Skype sessions while she was here, but the way the Internet behaved—switching off and on at will, as well as crashing completely when she tried to access a large Web site—Kris doubted that would happen.
Instead, she sent her friend a quick note telling her not to worry. She’d be in touch. Since the same thing had happened on other trips, in other places, Lola would deal. She didn’t have much choice.
Effy had left tea in the cabinet, but in Kris’s opinion tea was for the sick. Coffee was for her right now. Or as soon as she could walk into Drumnadrochit and buy some.
Once outside, Kris
glanced in the direction of Urquhart Castle, but she couldn’t see the ruins from here due to a bend in the road. She could, however, see the loch. Beneath the brilliant sun it should have been blue and clear. But this was Loch Ness. Due to the high peat content in the surrounding soil, the water was often the shade of wet sand.
Therefore, while the area around the loch was a postcard of beauty—cobalt-tinged mountains, rolling emerald hills, and pine forests—the loch itself … eh. Nevertheless, several boats chugged along, most sporting signs that identified them as offering various Nessie tours.
Kris turned in the opposite direction from the one she’d taken the night before and, after crossing a few fields, strolled into Drumnadrochit.
Considering that the area’s main business was tourism, she found a coffee shop without any trouble. Americans needed their fix—witness the Starbucks on every other street corner—and the French and Italians were no doubt the same, though never suggest Starbucks to a Frenchman. Kris had learned that the hard way while filming Hoax Hunters in New Orleans. Of course when you had Cafe du Monde, what possible reason could there be for Starbucks?
It appeared they had no need of one in Drumnadrochit, either, since the sign with the steaming cup of dark liquid was perched in the window of a place called Jamaica Blue.
The woman behind the counter wore a purple tie-dyed T-shirt and ancient, ratty jeans. She sported sun-streaked light brown dreads, hazel eyes, skin the shade of the loch beneath the sun, and an accent that made Kris long for sand, coconut oil, and a Beach Boys sound track.
“What can I get you?”
“Do you have Blue Mountain?”
“Have you looked outside?”
“I meant in a cup.”
“We have dat, too.”
In seconds Kris did, along with a bag of ground beans to take back to the cottage.
“You must be de writer woman stayin’ at Effy’s place.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Word is all we have here of a misty eve. I’m Jamaica.” She offered her hand. “Jamaica Blue.”
“That’s really your name?”
The woman just smiled.
Over the intoxicating aroma wafting from her cup, Kris smelled a story. “Care to join me?” she asked.
Jamaica’s exotic eyes flicked around the currently empty shop. “Don’t mind if I do.”
She grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler. “I drink my share of coffee before seven A.M.,” she explained.
They took a table by the window and watched the crowds stream by.
“Is it always like this?” Kris asked.
