Seated near the fire, Keira and I enjoy remarkably good Scottish fare—a creamy cullen skink, followed by a modern take on haggis that even Keira, a culinary purist if there ever was one, approves of.
“So, how are you enjoying your stay?” a server asks as he refills our wine glasses.
“It was a bit unplanned,” Keira says with a smile, “but your lodge is charming.”
“You’re on your honeymoon, aren’t you?” he asks.
Before we can answer, an elderly woman at the next table leans over.
“Oh, newlyweds!” she exclaims delightedly. “My husband and I came here for our honeymoon forty-three years ago. Didn’t we, Rory?”
Her husband, a white-bearded man with bright eyes, nods.
“And look at us now—still together after all this time. That storm that brought you here might be a good omen, you know.”
“We’re not exactly—” Keira begins.
“We’re engaged, actually,” I finish, taking her hand across the table. “Wedding’s next year.”
I’m not sure why I keep up the act when we have nothing to prove to these strangers—but the warmth in their smiles makes it impossible to ruin the moment.
The conversation drifts to the storm and the forecast, but I notice Keira hasn’t pulled her hand away. And I have no desire to let go.
Back in our suite,someone has stoked the fire. The room glows in warm gold, softening even the more… enthusiastic elements of the decor.
“Drink?” I offer, pulling a flask from my bag.
“You always carry whisky?” Keira asks, slipping off her damp shoes.
“A McKenzie never travels without essentials,” I reply with mock seriousness. “Would you prefer questionable champagne—or a thirty-year-old single malt?”
“The real question is—McKenzie or McGregor?”
I can’t help but smile. “Glenmorangie. Neutral ground.”
We settle into armchairs by the fire, each holding a glass of amber liquid. Outside, the storm rages—but in here, it’s warmth and quiet.
“You were incredible yesterday,” I say after a moment.
She looks at me over her glass, surprised. “I just told the truth. Your project has merit—even if I still have reservations.”
“The historic jacuzzi?”
“Among other things,” she says, smiling.
I swirl the whisky in my glass, watching the firelight flicker through it.
“Sometimes I wonder if my vision for the distillery is the right one.”
Keira straightens, clearly caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
I exhale slowly, unsure why I suddenly feel compelled to open up.
“My father has a very clear idea of what the family business should be—carry on tradition, add just enough innovation to stay competitive. And then there’s me… pushing for modernization he thinks will dilute everything that makes our whisky what it is.”
“And you’re starting to think he might be right?” she guesses.
“Sometimes. Other times, I’m convinced that without real change, we’ll just become another dusty distillery surviving on name alone.”
