When he sees me, his dark brows furrow.
“Why are you out here alone?” he asks.
Instead of snapping at him that I’m an adult grown woman in broad daylight in a safe town, I rise above as I respond, “Waiting for Birdie.”
“Same. Well, waiting for Graham,” he says, surprisingly leaning against the wall next to me. “So, you’re spreading your ma’s ashes today?”
Ah. Sympathy, not genuine kindness.
“Yeah,” I reply as I stare down at my shoes, rubbing the tip of the boot against the cobblestone.
“It isn’t easy, no matter how old you are.”
I glance over at the Alpha under my lashes. “Your parents?”
“Aye. Graham was nine and I was eleven.”
“Fuck. I can’t even imagine.”
“My Nan and Grandda took us in, did a hell of a job too, considering.”
I lick my lips and my stomach tingles as I get up the courage to ask the next question. “Does it get any easier?”
“It gets less painful,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, glancing out at the water, not at me. “I still find myself wondering what my parents would think of me, what they wouldtell me in certain situations. There are still days when I’m pissed off at how unfair the whole fucking world is.”
“The world really is unfair. So wait, you grew up at the Heather Beag and you want them to sell it?” I ask, turning my body to face him. How is it possible he could give up a place with so many memories? Maybe I’ve romanticized the place a little, or maybe it’s because Effie reminds me of my mother, but that B&B is important. We need more Effie’s along with more Omega safe spaces in the world.
Callum finally looks at me and sighs.
“It’s just a home. I’d rather them have the money to take care of themselves, to ride out their best years.”
“Their best years are at the Heather Beag. Don’t you get that? It’s where they raised you, your brother, your father. It’s the place that they’ve got to share their love of Scotland. It’s not just an inn or a job, it’s everything to them. Asking them to retire or sell the place is like asking them to give away a piece of themselves.” I’m nearly out of breath as I finish.
“You don’t have to give me an epic monologue about the Heather Beag or my nan. She’s already told me she’s been pitying me for the last two years and that’s why she’s been keeping me so busy there.”
“Doesn’t a part of you like it? You really can’t want them to sell.”
His throat bobs and he looks back at the water.
“No, I don’t really want them to sell, but I can’t take it over full time and Graham doesn’t want to bear the whole business either.”
“You’re more back of the house hospitality,” I reply and that has his face snapping over to mine.
The most epic miracle happens at that moment. The corners of Callum’s lips rise in dare shall I say, a smile. Then thedeepest rumble of a laugh slips out of him. Something about it is contagious as I smile right back at him.
“Aye. I suppose I am.”
Birdie and Graham finally exit the hotel hand in hand and we go our separate ways for the day.
I sit on the bench, clutching the post card.
Birdie saw them in a window of a shop and suggested we both get one to write a message to Mom. Our mom was always gentle and sentimental. She preferred words in writing so that she could revisit conversations over and over.
When she was sick, Birdie and I made sure we wrote her all the letters we could, so anytime either of us wasn’t there, she could read them and find peace.
Even before my pen touches the silly postcard that features a man in a too short kilt, I’m choked up. How can I put words that fit on a postcard to describe everything I’m feeling?
With a deep breath, I take my pen to paper, and say the words I know that would comfort her.
