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We stood wrapped up in each other’s arms, until we had to leave Glencoe. We were in the slow, lingering twilight of our vacation, and although it might seem like it could go on endlessly, night would eventually fall.
But what a night it would be.
thirty-one
The forlorn lookof our Edinburgh hotel came as a rude awakening. Gray cinderblock couldn’t compare to sweet stone guest lodges.
Arnav helped us with our bags, and as I grabbed my luggage handle, a strange kind of homesickness coursed through me. I wouldn’t ride in that hideous mini-bus ever again. I’d grown used to the old thing, garish tartan overlay and all.
“I think I might cry.”
“Over this old thing?” Duncan said.
“I’m going to miss Old Tarty.” I patted the bus’s frame. “I’ve grown quite attached to her.”
“I have to say, that puts your tears at Culloden in a new light.”
I jabbed a finger at him. “Those tears were real.”
Our hotel sat in the heart of the city, smack in the middle of crowded buildings and bustling streets. I’d grown so spoiled by small, friendly lodges that walking into the spacious lobby through doors that opened themselves felt impersonal and wrong. The decor was all clean lines and sleek modernity that not even the occasional pop of tartan could make homey.
The staff wore suits and name tags, and although they were just as friendly as the many hosts I’d met in the Highlands, it didn’t have the same effect. We were no longer staying in Grandma’s Perfect Highland Lodge. Back to stark reality.
“Remember everyone,” Lewis said before we sprang off into all directions. “We’ve got about an hour before we meet back here for dinner and then the ceilidh.”
We checked in and were handed sleek key cards instead of the actual keys I’d grown accustomed to. I turned mine over and over as Duncan and I stepped onto the hotel elevator. This, too, came as a weird culture shock.
“I feel a bit like Rip Van Winkle waking up in the future.”
“You’ll get along all right in time,” Duncan said as we stepped out of the elevator. “Modern women have really made strides since you fell asleep.”
We agreed to meet downstairs in an hour. Despite the melancholy of the day, I looked forward to experiencing traditional Scottish music and dancing at the ceilidh. A party was just what I needed to keep myself from crossing the threshold over into tears and ruining the last few hours of my trip.
At least I had the room to myself tonight. Harlow had opted for her own room since she had a few extra nights in the city. A week ago, my first thought would have been to throw on pajamas, crawl into bed, and flip through my options on BBC. Now, I wanted to crawl into bed all right, but not the pajamas or the BBC. I just wanted one particular Scot.
After a long, hot shower in which I conceded that big cities had a few benefits after all, I looked over my meager clothing options. Lewis had said ceilidhs had no dress code, that people would turn up wearing everything from jeans and a T-shirt to formal kilts, but I still worried I’d be underdressed in my travel-friendly skirt and blouse. I hadn’t brought much makeup but put on what I had. After going the last week wearing nothing on my face but sweat and tears, putting on mascara and blush made me look like some kind of goddess.
I hoped, anyway.
I’d just set off down the hall to find Duncan when his door opened and out walked a kilted god in the flesh. He wore a tight, lightweight black sweater and a gray tweed kilt, along with a plain black sporran and the clunky hiking boots he’d worn all week. Seeing him like this, I was ready to shove him against the wall and kiss his face off.
You know, like a middle-aged woman would do.
He held his arms out as though asking if he had my approval. Did he ever.
“This isn’t fair at all. I had no idea you were going to kilt up.”
“No reason to spoil the surprise. You like it?” He did a shimmy, kicking up the kilt’s hem.
I applauded the show. “You look so good.”
“So do you.” He looked me up and down, unashamedly taking me in. “You look damn fine in a skirt.”
He took my hand and led us downstairs, my heart hammering the whole time. We found the rest of our group in the lobby, each one decked out in various states of festivity. Arnav was also in full kilted glory, but unlike Duncan, he wore what must have been a clan tartan, resplendent in blue, yellow, and red.
“Duncan, that is a stellar kilt, mate,” he said.
“Yours, too.”
