I’d memorized the band’s URL, but with all this talk of Scotland, I was in the mood to see that photograph I’d stumbled over days ago—the ethereal castle poised on the edge of silent lochs, hovering serenely between the depths of sky above and water below. Lingering over it again had my thoughts turning to fairy magic, making me wonder whether it was foolish to fight it. And even downright dangerous to bury it in the laundry bin.
The spell was soon broken, though, and shaking free of those wispy thoughts, I typed in the band’s URL, prepared this time for the musical onslaught. As the site cycled through snatches of various songs, I pored over every detail, every picture, every word, rather startled with myself for not having indulged in this little vicarious thrill while Sean was still on my home turf. Then again, he’d kept me pretty busy.
I tried not to let my mind linger overly long on certain, particularly fond memories, but it was a definite tussle to stay on track. Navigating back to the band’s bio page, I reread Sean’s blurb. He hailed from the picturesque village of Dornie and began singing in the local pub as just a lad; he played guitar, piano, and if sweet-talked, the bagpipes as well. He was also a firm believer in the famed monster of Loch Ness and hoped the band’s music shared a little of the magic of Scotland with the rest of the world.
Suddenly I wasn’t just lusting over the man but the country as well.
What if I went?
Out loud (and straight from Leslie’s mouth) the idea seemed absurd. But I wasn’t the same girl anymore—I’d outgrown a lot of things, I’d changed. And with the haunting music of Loch’d In niggling at my subconscious, a little international adventure seemed like an exhilarating possibility.
Pulling up Google Maps, I typed in Dornie, Scotland, and searched around a bit, zooming in and out, checking for airports, calculating distances. The village was on the edge of three lochs: Loch Alsh, Loch Duich, and Loch Long.
Something was skirting the edges of my memory. I pulled up the castle again and read the artist’s description. Eilean Donan Castle sat at the join of three lochs—the very same three! My fingers skimmed over the keys as I Googled the castle, and as I read, they begin to shake ever so slightly. That glorious, steeped-in-history, edged-in-mystery “Loched In” castle was just outside the village of Dornie, home of the band “Loch’d In.” I couldn’t decide whether it was coincidence or fate. Or possibly even magic.
My mind started zinging with what-ifs.
I’d visited Scotland once, about two years ago, for work, and it had been wet, green, and chock full of rowdy, rosy-cheeked, laugh-a-minute, deliciously accented people. I’d lived in a hotel for seven days, sick for six of them, ordering room service and longing for ice cubes. On that last day, I’d trudged out, taken the train to Edinburgh, and indulged in a gorgeous adventure via window seat. As lilting conversation buzzed around me and the hedgerows whizzed past, my thoughts had run to the filmed-on-location BBC adaptations of Miss Austen’s masterpieces. Staring out into the drizzly gray, I’d daydreamt of country dances, frilly bonnets, and curly haired gentlemen.
Those remembered mental images had me newly wondering whether Fairy Jane’s competency was sufficient to direct my own whirlwind romance nearly two hundred years beyond her expertise. In her defense, Jane had ensured, in each of her novels, that things had all come out right in the end, romantically speaking. Not to mention the fact that she’d somehow found a way to provide happily-ever-afters for those intrepid journalers in the years in between. With Sean in Scotland and me in Austin—and a vacuum between us—this was hard comfort. But given a couple minutes, I just might get around to fixing that.
I tried for a moment to imagine a longer stay in Scotland and pictured myself schlepping about in wellies and hand-knit sweaters, making up peat fires and spending casual evenings at the pub. Hmmm. It all sounded very cozy, but I didn’t know how I’d feel after a few weeks of rainy, chilly days with no quick runs to Target and the closest Mexican restaurant hundreds of miles (or more!) away. But Scotland had marvelous, melt-in-your-mouth butter toffees. And well, Sean, of course. There’d be Sean, with his sweet-n-sexy grin, his smooth, velvet voice, all wrapped up in a kilt ...
Spurred into action, I dashed into the kitchen, grabbed hold of the quote-a-day calendar with both hands, and scanned the top page. “ ‘What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.’
“Huh?”
Closing my eyes, priming myself to start over, I explained. “Sean’s in Scotland, I’m here. Ergo, I’m thinking of giving chase.”
“Who
“Get it out of your system, Gabe—this is a serious call.”
“Okay, fine. But who knew you’d give up the ‘thrill of the 401(k)’ for the ‘thrill of the chase.’ ” Gabe’s laugh was barely contained and so was my temper. I didn’t answer. “Okay, seriously?” he said around a chuckle. “That’s awesome. When are you leaving?”
Wishing we weren’t doing this over the phone, I begged, “Just play pro and con with me. Subject: Compulsive International Travel. I’m pro, you’re con.”
“Really? I have to be con? I think I’m much better suited to pro.”
“But shouldn’t I be the one fighting for him?”
“Point taken,” Gabe conceded. “Me first?”
“No, me. If I go, I have a much better chance of getting Sean back.”
“And an equally good chance of embarrassing yourself to within an inch of your pride.”
“I’ll have made the grand gesture, followed my bliss ...” I envisioned all sorts of pride-numbing endings, and my conviction faltered a bit.
“You’ll be out the cost of the plane ticket, transportation, accommodations—not to mention the cost to your pride.”
“You’ve mentioned that,” I reminded him.
“It’s a biggie. You know, you could just call him.”
“I can’t. We’re way beyond that. I think I have to go for the grand gesture, if only to make the point that I can be flexible and spontaneous in a pinch.”
“But it’s an eight-hour flight—over an ocean—and unplanned time off work. That’s a whopper of a gesture for a man you’ve only known a week.”
True. As gestures went, it was big. I quickly squelched that train of thought, not about to let my sensible side get a foothold here. I countered, “There are perks over and above just seeing Sean. I haven’t had a vacation in almost a year, and Scotland is drenched in history, culture, and glorious scenery. The castles alone would justify the trip.”
“Drenched being the operative word. And I don’t think you’d much care for the castles ‘alone.’ I’m sure they’re better with a friend.”
Damn, he was good. I gritted my teeth and tried again.
“There’s the toffee and the tartans and the cashmere.” It was a desperate, last-ditch effort.
“All of which can be purchased with minimal effort over the Internet. And the shipping costs are nothing compared to the monumental cost of flying over to pick them up.” I could hear the smugness in Gabe’s voice as he added, “Keep ’em comin’, ’cause we haven’t even touched on the flighty irresponsibility of ditching out of your first day on a new job.”
Gabe was irritatingly, excruciatingly good at this, but I’d realized it didn’t matter. The whole time I’d been trying to convince him, I’d convinced myself. I was going. I’d find a way to work out the job thing.
“Your work here is done,” I told him breezily.
“How’d I do?” he asked, the interest clear in his voice.
“I plan on making my travel arrangements as soon as we get off the phone.”
“I’ll score it as a win.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Yeah, well, bring me back a souvenir—if you end up coming back. I’m a large if you’re shopping for cashmere—same for toffee.”
“If you’re lucky, I’ll bring you a kilt. Beck will love that, trust me.”
As promised, within thirty minutes it was done. I decided it was positively providential that my passport was up to date. I booked a one-way flight into Inverness, a seat on ScotRail over to Kyle of Lochalsh, and accommodations for two nights in a cottage with a view of Loch Alsh. With luck, Sean was somewhere in the
