“Thank you for inviting me over for Christmas,” I tell her, straightening my shoulders and trying to look somewhat respectable. For a horrifying moment I’m afraid that maybe my shirt is unbuttoned or my fly is down or I have pieces of castle dirt and dust in my hair and I wait until I’m following them into the house to check. So far, so good. Though now, of course, I’m blushing at my memories.
In the foyer Donald is waiting, holding a steaming mug and smiling wryly at us. He looks a lot like Brigs, maybe even Bram, and has this very professional, unassuming way about him.
“You made it,” he says to us and though his voice is stern, his eyes behind his glasses are soft. “Thought we’d have to send out a search party.”
“Sorry,” Lachlan says, giving him a hug. I get such a kick out watching this big, hulking, tatted man embrace his prim and proper adopted father. “I wanted to take her to Dunottar Castle.”
“Oooh,” Jessica says, taking my presents from me as I pull off my coat. “What a special place. Must have been very cold though, that wind.”
“Actually it was fine. Even quite hot at times,” Lachlan says casually and I can feel my face going red again. I quickly turn to hang up my coat. Normally I don’t get bashful over innuendos but around his parents is a whole other story.
We make our way into the rest of the house, which is slightly more modern than the outside and bigger than I thought. The floors are carpeted with dense, patterned rugs, ones that maybe Jessica picked out. They seem her style and I have no problems believing she may have had a hand in decorating the place.
There are pastoral paintings of Scottish landscapes on the walls, framed by deep wood and antique side tables crammed with photos. I pause, glancing them over. In one picture I see Brigs in his graduate attire, probably from when he got his masters or PhD. I see a faded photo from the eighties of two young boys in school uniforms, one with golden brown hair, the taller one with dark, cheeky smiles on both of them.
Lachlan nudges me.
“Linden and Bram,” he says.
I smile and decide to take a picture of it later to send to Stephanie and Nicola.
Funnily enough though, I don’t see any pictures of Lachlan, at least not at first glance. I thought perhaps Lachlan was exaggerating about the way his relationship with his grandfather is but maybe not.
We’re ushered into the kitchen, a nice homey room with a low ceiling and a brick backsplash where Jessica hands us mugs of mulled wine with cinnamon stick stirrers.
“No thanks, I’m okay,” Lachlan declines, his shoulders stiffening.
“It’s non-alcoholic,” she says brightly. “From IKEA.” She picks up a bottle of the stuff from beside a simmering pot on the stove and waves it at us.
Lachlan visibly relaxes and takes a sip. Honestly, I’m so jumpy and nervous right now that I’d love to spike mine with something but if Lachlan can handle it, so can I.
“Where’s George?” Lachlan asks.
Jessica nods upstairs. “He says he didn’t sleep well last night. He’s taking a nap.”
I have to admit, I breathe out a sigh of relief at that.
“Come on, let’s go into the drawing room,” Jessica says. “You two must be starving. I spent the last two days baking but only one batch wasn’t complete rubbish.”
We head into the drawing room, which is warm and welcoming with Christmas music, a giant, gorgeous tree, and an ancient-looking stone fireplace complete with stockings and a roaring fire. Lachlan and I settle into a worn leather couch, adorned with throws while Jessica shows off the spread on the coffee table. Christmas cookies that look so unbelievably perfect that I can scarcely believe she made them, mini crustless sandwiches and scones with clotted cream adorn the table, along with a pot of tea and fine china.
“Jessica,” Lachlan says to her. “It’s just us. You really shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, it’s all for Brigs,” Donald quips and we laugh.
“When is he coming here?” I ask.
“Not until tomorrow,” Jessica says. “He’s driving up in the afternoon.”
“Well he better get that car of his prepared,” Donald says. “If it snows again, he’s going to be in some trouble.”
“What kind of car is it?” I ask, having never seen Brigs’ car.
“It’s gorgeous is what it is,” Lachlan says to me. “Though far too high maintenance for me. After all, I already have you,” he adds slyly.
I love it when he puts his brooding attitude away and starts to joke. I manage to refrain from smacking his arm. “You jerk.”
“Brigs has had the car forever,” Donald says, adjusting his glasses. “It’s a 1978 Aston Martin.”
“That’s a James Bond car!” I exclaim.
“Yes, well, James wouldn’t drive this one,” Lachlan says. “It’s a V-8 but it runs like a tired old horse. It gets him around and looks pretty but the thing ends up in the shop once a week. He rarely drives it now.”
“Though I do think if his new teaching position falls through, he can always get work as a mechanic at this point,” Donald says.
“So you know now,” Lachlan says to them. “That he’s moving to London.”
Jessica and Donald exchange a look before Jessica says quietly, “He told us the other day. It will be a shame to not have him so close but…he needs this. He really does. He needs to put everything behind him and I just don’t think he can do that until he moves on, even if just to another city.”
Donald nods. “Besides, we love London. We might end up taking the train down every weekend. Poor boy might see us more than he does now.”
Watching them talk about Brigs and all he’s gone through, not to mention everything that Lachlan has had to endure, really hits home that this family has walked through their share of fire. It makes me realize that perhaps the last thing they are judging is me and I shouldn’t be so worked up over it. I think Jessica and Donald are just happy that their two sons are doing so well now, crawling out of the mounds of ashes and into the light. At least, that’s what I’m going to keep reminding myself.
“So, Kayla,” Jessica says, turning her bright eyes over to me. “How are you finding the transition over to Scotland? Does it feel any different now that you’re going to stay?”
“Definitely,” I tell her. “Of course, I can only stay here for six months and then I have to figure out a visa.”
“But we’ll figure that out when the time comes,” Lachlan fills in, putting his hand on my knee. “Kayla’s grandfather on her father’s side was born in England before he moved to Iceland, so we may be able to get her a UK ancestry visa if nothing else.”
“Well, well, well.” A low, strong brogue just shy of Groundskeeper Willie sounds out from behind us and I crane my neck to see George McGregor standing in the doorway. “I guess you decided to show.”
Lachlan’s grandfather is exactly what I thought he would be. Tall, but hunched over. Thick white hair. Furry eyebrows. Glasses. A permanent scowl. Old man cardigan and hiked-up pants. A cane which seems more for ornamental use than mobility. Even though he’s ancient, there’s something about him that makes me sit up straighter.
“George,” Lachlan says to him with a polite nod. “Thank you for having us for Christmas. This is Kayla.”
I try and give him my most charming smile and hold out my hand, but he doesn’t even look my way, keeps shuffling toward the empty armchair beside Jessica. “Thank her,” he says gruffly, pointing at Jessica. “She’s the one who thought this was a good idea.” He settles into his chair, folding his hands across his lap. “I would have been perfectly happy with just me and the boys down at the Lions club for dinner, maybe Christmas mass too.”
“Oh hush,” Jessica says and for once I see her looking a little less composed. “Of course you’re going to spend Christmas with family.” She pauses. “Lachlan here was trying to introduce you to Kayla, his girlfriend.”
Finally, the old man looks at me. He squints and his scowl deepens. “Oh
is that who that is. I thought you brought me a new nurse. Like that Vietnamese one I once had.”
I swallow hard and keep the fake smile pasted on my face. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say loudly, in case he can’t hear well.
“No need to shout, I’m not deaf,” he grumbles. “So you’re the one who moved here for this guy, is that so?” He gestures to Lachlan with a wave of his hand.
“I did,” I tell him, shaking just slightly. “I love Scotland.”
“That’s just what we need,” he says. “Another immigrant from a foreign country.”
“She’s American,” Lachlan says, a hard edge to his voice. “She’s born and raised in San Francisco.”
“And America is a foreign country, is it not?” His grandfather challenges him back. He nudges Jessica. “Jessy, fix me up a plate.”
Jessica nods and busies herself putting together a plate of cookies and appetizers from the table. Silence falls across the room as she does so and I can hear Lachlan breathing heavily, probably trying to control his temper. He gets really defensive over me, especially when it comes to the fact I’m half Japanese. I admire him for it, but the last thing I want is for him to fight his grandfather.
I put my hand on his back and rub his strained muscles, wishing we were back in that castle, or back in bed at home. Anywhere but here, really. But I smile for him anyway, refusing to let him think anything is bothering me. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.
“So what work do you do?” George says through a mouthful of cookie, crumbs shooting out every which way.
Oh, just the right question to ask.
“Well, I, uh,” I start to say. “I’m a writer. I was hoping to get a job here in that field.”
He laughs unkindly. “Good luck with that. You think you can just get a job like that? Get in line with all the people who are actually UK citizens, born and raised, who need work and can’t get it. You think you’ll get something? You’re better off cleaning houses.”
I can feel my face flaming up. I don’t even have a rebuttal because what he’s saying is totally true and my worst fear.
“Actually,” Lachlan says, stepping to my defense again. “Kayla is extremely smart and talented, more so than half the tossers in this country. If anything else, she’ll be a worthy addition to Ruff Love.”
“Ruff what?” he asks, frowning in total old person exaggeration.
Lachlan sighs while Jessica says, “Ruff Love. Lachlan’s organization, the shelter for the dogs.”
“Bah,” he says. “They’re better left on the streets. You know what they say about dogs? They’re for people who need love because they can’t get it anywhere else. Dogs are just retarded children with fur.” He takes a sip of his tea and grimaces. “Christ, Jessy. How long did you steep this for?”
Lachlan is so tense beside me, his eyes taking on that wild, hardened look I fear that any moment he’s just going to reach across the table, grab his grandfather by the throat and throttle him. And when he gets up, for a second I think that’s just what he’s going to do. But he looks down at me, attempts a half-smile and says, “We should go put our stuff away in our room. We might be too tired later.”
Thank fucking god. An out.
I get up quickly and we hustle out of the room while Donald calls out after us, “You’re in the usual room.”
We grab our bags from the foyer and then head up the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor. Once we are out of sight from the drawing room, Lachlan stops and leans his head against the wall, eyes closed, and breathes in and out deeply. I watch him for a few moments until he straightens up, the line between his eyes softening, and nods at the open door closest to us.
“That’s our room.”
I go inside, putting the bag on the floor and he closes the door behind us. I absently take in the space – the wood floor, the cornflower blue walls and matching bedspread, the window sill dusted with snow – but my mind is still reeling over everything that happened downstairs.
All I can say is, “Wow.” I sit down on the bed, the mattress overly soft.
Lachlan nods, rubbing his hand over his jaw. I can hear the bristle of his stubble. “Yeah. Wow is right. He just hit up all the things I love in a matter of seconds.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, wringing my hands together.
“No,” he says emphatically, leaning down and placing his hands on my shoulders, his pained green eyes searching mine. “I’m sorry. He had no right to speak to you that way.”
I run my fingers along his cheekbone, down the side of his cheek, to his lips. “Lachlan, please. I know it has nothing to do with you. I’m a tough cookie. I can handle it. He’s pretty much your typical grandpa. Maybe a bit more racist than most but otherwise just a grumpy old man.” I close my eyes and kiss him softly, sweetly. “Really. Don’t worry about me.”
But I know he does. He can’t help himself.
We stay in the room for a while, slowly putting our clothes away and tucking presents underneath the bed. He tells me this used to be his uncle’s room (Linden and Bram’s father). His father’s old room is next door, where Bram will be staying and his aunt’s old room is where Jessica and Donald are. I can tell we’re just trying to waste time before going back downstairs but we can’t hide forever.
When we finally do go downstairs though, the grandfather is nowhere to be found and Jessica is puttering around, putting away dishes.
“Where is everyone?” Lachlan asks as we step into the kitchen and she nearly jumps.
“They went for a walk,” Jessica says, hustling over to us. She takes us both by the arms and leads us back into the drawing room. “Here, sit by the fire. Relax, I’ll bring you some tea.”
Our protests don’t seem to matter and Jessica doesn’t mention anything to do with George, so Lachlan and I settle in our seats, still on edge, waiting for the grandfather and Donald to come back in, while “Silver Bells” plays from the speakers.
When they do come back though, George is remarkably silent. I’m going to assume the walk he took with Donald was to get him to de-grumpify. The rest of the evening actually goes along quite well and when everyone gathers around the fire before dinner, for what I assume is their usual cocktail hour, both Jessica and Donald stick to the alcohol-free mulled wine, while George sips from a tiny glass of Sherry. I know it’s got to help Lachlan that barely anyone is drinking.
After small talk – rugby and politics – we retire to the kitchen for dinner, with Jessica whipping together a chicken casserole dish that didn’t turn into mush like most casserole does.
In fact, it reminds me of my mother and the terrible casserole she used to make when I was young. While Jessica’s is creamy and fragrant with sprigs of rosemary, my mother’s was the gelatinous glob of grey mushroom soup goo. Everyone except Toshio and me ate it up. We were the picky ones and after a while it became a running joke that Toshio and I would starve on casserole nights.
Terrible cooking or not, the memories hit me like a sledgehammer.
Fuck. Fuck.
I miss my mom.
I miss her, deeply, terribly, with every cell inside me.
I wish she was here. I wish my dad was here too. My brothers. I wish I could just have a normal Christmas with everyone but nothing hurts more than the cold hard truth that that will never happen. Sure, maybe next year I can go back to California and see my brothers but nothing will ever bring our parents back, no matter how hard we wish for it. They say your wishes come true at Christmas time but this one definitely won’t.
Lachlan leans into me, whispering in my ear, “You okay?”
I want to nod. But I can’t. If I do, tears will spill down my cheek. So I just get up as calmly and quickly as possible and head to the toilet. Once inside, I wet a towel and dab it all over my face, as if cold water will shock away all my grief and sadness.
I want to let it all out, to bawl and just be sad, be alone in my sorrow. But I can’t, not now. I know most people would understand, but
I’m just not comfortable here. So I suck it all up, bury it deep down, brush my hair back from my face and put on my most winning smile.
I go back out and enjoy the rest of the dinner, even making small talk, though George won’t look my way at all. I don’t mind.
Later that night, Lachlan and I retire to our bed early. We don’t even have sex for once, I just feel too tired, too lost in my head and while the distraction from earlier today worked wonders while it lasted, I can’t even entertain the idea now.
But Lachlan is forever the gentleman. As we climb into the tiny, creaking bed with thin covers, he holds me to his hard frame until I feel the beating of his heart at my back. It’s a rhythm, along with his steady breaths, that brings me into a dark, solid sleep.
When we wake up the next morning, it’s snowing.
Everything has been wiped clean.
CHAPTER SIX
Lachlan
“It’s snowing,” Kayla says, her voice entering my dreams until my eyes flutter open. For a hot second I don’t know where I am, the world seems blue and white and the mattress beneath me is sagging toward the middle, making me think I’m in a hammock in the sky. Then I remember. My grandfather’s house. Here to fight another day.
But at least it’s Christmas Eve and Brigs should be showing up later to share some of the pressure from my family. I’ve got the woman of my heart in bed beside me. And, outside the window, flakes of snow are falling from the sky. The white Christmas so many wish for? Well, we’ve got it.
I rub at my face, attempting to sit up. The air is decidedly chilly outside the blanket. “What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty,” she says.
I groan. I slept in. I promised myself I would stick to my schedules of getting up at the crack of dawn and exercising. Though by the looks of it, my idea of going for a run has been buried by the snowfall.
I slowly get out of bed and invite Kayla to take a shower with me. She declines, feeling uneasy in the house and I can’t really blame her. After yesterday she’s more fragile than ever. The way my grandfather was with her, her losing out on the job, not to mention I know she’s really feeling the loss of her mother right now – it’s all adding up.