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“As sorry as I am aboot ye pain, as wretched as that was, as much as I ken it true what ye say, lass… my husband is no gonna be able to move on with his life. He canna. The land is in his soul. He needs a job.”
Another casualty of Caelan, huh? Seemed to be becoming a theme.
“Where’s Jet?” I asked, the thought suddenly occurring. I’d left him with them the last time I was up in Scotland, owing to me going back to work and it not seeming fair to lump a dog on the nanny, too. I’d half-expected him to be here today and was dying to see him, but I also knew it would confuse him—like Eric’s presence would, hence why I hadn’t had him come over to be with us again, not just yet.
“Running riot nae doubt on his pup date. With his wee brothers and sisters. He’s doing just fine, the canny lad.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
“Aye.”
It did seem Jet belonged up here rather than down there.
“God, we’re all at sixes and sevens, aren’t we?” I groaned.
She wiped her eyes again and took a deep breath. “He’s gonna drive me to murder, lass. I swear to gawd!”
You had to laugh, so we did.
On the drive back, he asked, “Is the old woman okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Heard some bawling, or something.”
“Oh,” I giggled, “yeah, she’ll be all right. What did you make of Harold’s mood?”
Eric shrugged in the passenger seat. “He’d have died on those hills, Flora. If he’d had his way.”
“Aye lad, aye,” I said, adopting the local accent. “Aye, he most certainly would.”
“Wow, you got it down.”
“My grandma was Scottish,” I said, not dropping the accent.
“She was?” He thought back. “Yes, he said you had Scots in you.”
“I’m a quarter.”
Another silence. We tended to have those now while he thought carefully about his words rather than brashly passing comment.
Tapping my fingers on the wheel, I said, “Harold isn’t doing well. I think he takes it out on Morag.”
“I got that feeling. He was trying to give me orders until I firmly said he could have my help, but he could bloody well ask nicely!”
I laughed loudly. God, it was so nice to have someone to talk to who wasn’t so dour all the time, so… moody and withdrawn, on occasion. So fucking Scottish.
“Why can’t he just get a fishing boat and have done?” Eric snorted.
“Oh, he has one,” I barked, “but he is not happy unless he’s got several hundred hectares to manage and not enough time in the day to do it all.”
Eric grunted and shook his head.
“What is it?” I asked.
“In my not-so-expert opinion, the oblong part needs tearing down. The fissures are too big, and, the longer they leave it, the more the structural integrity of the tower and what’s still habitable will be affected.”
“But a real sort of, like, enthusiast for it… they might restore it, right?”
