more of a little jot about. Will that suit ye?”
“Perfectly,” I told her, nodding. But behind my grateful smile was shock, plain and simple. I’d lost control, and it seemed I was spiraling faster and faster into the unknown perilous world of grand gestures and uncertain futures. And there was no end in sight, I realized, as I stuttered out one final request. “I’m actually hoping to locate someone in Dornie—a man, Sean MacInnes. Do you know ... ?”
Her smile was the knowing kind and made me wonder what it was she knew. “Most evenings he’s like to be found at the Dog and Bagpipes, that one.”
My heart suddenly felt worlds too big for my chest. Self-consciously, I pulled my hands from the counter and awkwardly crossed my arms to cover the painful pounding. “Is the pub within walking distance of the castle?” I’d imagined there’d be a bit more sleuthing required, but it looked as if my search could only get any easier if Sean turned out to be driving the tour car to Eilean Donan.
Giving me the eye, the innkeeper made a point of leaning her deep bosom over the counter to stare down at my feet.
“Have ye some other shoes, miss?”
“I do.” I tacked a little smile on at the end, but it felt watery.
“Be sure to switch, and you’ll be fine. It’s maybe a twenty-minute walk. Impossible to miss.”
“And getting back?” Clearly I should have stayed in Dornie, but I’d been too chicken, and of course I’d been desperate to avoid any potential awkwardness ... or any more than strictly necessary.
“I’ll ring up one of the innkeepers down the road from the pub and ask them to drive you back ’round.” She waved away the uncertainty plain on my face. “It’s not a bit of trouble. We do the same for them. Not as often, mind, but who’s counting?” She winked merrily. “You’re all checked in here, so ye just have time to go on up to your room, freshen up a bit, change your shoes,” she paused for effect and eyebrow raising, “and get back down to the lobby before the car pulls ’round outside.” Now she smiled, no doubt waiting for me to obey.
A change of shoes (and underwear) and a slick of deodorant and lip gloss took longer than expected, and I missed my chance to tag along on the last castle tour of the day. But not yet ready to venture off to the Dog and Bagpipes, I chose to wander the castle grounds on my own.
The green of the hills and the showy flare of sunset colors was breathtaking, but my eyes were drawn to the mirrored beauty of Eilean Donan caught—trapped—beneath the water. Locked in. And then it clicked, and my brain went numb, thrumming with the frightening truth that in this spot, at this moment, I’d locked
I could already see the moon, a bright crescent, rising in the sky, and a matching one reflected far away beneath the surface of the water. Like two separate worlds, one real and one imagined. Like my own schizophrenic whirlwind of real life versus dreams come true. Standing in the misty chill of early evening thousands of miles from home, the luster on my grand gesture was beginning to tarnish amid the harsh climate of fear. But there were hours yet till the clock struck midnight, and in an odd twist, I was off from the castle to find the prince.
Time skittered past, and like magic, I ended up in front of the Dog and Bagpipes, staring in disbelief at the pub signage, decorated, as one might expect, with a dog playing the bagpipes. There was no mistaking the place— how could there be? Music was filtering out through the slightly cracked door, and a warm yellow glow shined at the windows, beckoning me in out of the twilight and chill. Into a world of awkward. I stepped back, wrapping my sweater more tightly around me. I wasn’t ready.
I needed a little boost, a little inspiration ... a sign.
Unzipping my bag, I pulled out the journal and ran my hands over its familiar cover. A little chat with Fairy Jane was probably impossible—who knew how long I’d have to huddle outside waiting for an answer. Digging deeper, my hand closed over my cell phone, which I’d neglected to power on after the flight. I remedied that oversight. It was midmorning in Austin, and I could probably catch Gabe or Beck, but there was nothing left to say. Honestly, I just needed to cowgirl up and get ’er done.
A tiny red beacon started winking at me—the message light. A text message had been sent a couple of hours ago, as I was whipping through the Scottish countryside on my merry way to here.
Mssg from Leslie: Text us with Darcy deets ... L&L P.S. And demand make-up sex!
Believe it or not, it was the nudge I needed. Taking a deep, courage-gathering breath, I let it go and watched it billow out on the breeze, sparkling in the pearly glow from above.
Turning to face the pub door, I said a little prayer, offered up an appeal to Fairy Jane and any and all magical creatures willing to intercede on my behalf, and with a fluttery breath, pulled it open.
20
In which Nic does the unthinkable
Even standing in the shadows, just over the threshold, the awkwardness hanging heavy over my head right beside the huge potential for failure, I could feel the tension start to ebb away. For now I was still anonymous, but I felt welcomed just the same. The flickering glow of a peat fire, the raucous laughter of pub regulars, the clink of glasses raised in toast, and the lilting sound of a young female voice accompanied by a fiddle—all of it felt right. The chill slid out of me, but I stayed by the door, cursing my lack of planning for the second time in recent memory. I hadn’t a clue what to do now. I admit, I’d been hoping I’d catch a glimpse of Sean and suddenly be struck with an ingenious segue between our awkward good-bye and this, the unexpected hello.
But I didn’t see him.
My hands darted about like dragonflies, feathering over the clamoring parts of my anatomy in their turn. My throat, with its jackrabbiting pulse, my chest, with its runaway bass drum beat, and on to my stomach, where anxiety was starting to churn things up ...
And then I saw him.
Time stopped for just a moment, and then the room was spinning once again in a kaleidoscope of color and sound, all of it a blur but him. He looked exactly as I remembered, but sooo much sexier. My nausea spiked with the memory that I’d let him slip through my fingers and must now hang my future on the hope that he—much unlike me—wasn’t a grudge holder. Holding court across the room, he was relaxed and confident, the apparent golden boy of Dornie village.
Whereas I was skulking in a corner, a full-fledged stalker. We didn’t fit, the pair of us. Two people could not possibly be more different. And yet, I wanted him. And I needed to convince him, right here, tonight, that I’d bobbled things and really and truly deserved a do-over. Because if I walked out of here now, I wouldn’t be back; I wouldn’t have the courage to try this again. This was it.
As the ballad ended amid much whistling and applause, my eyes strayed toward the band and quickly recognized Sean’s band mates.
“Anyone else now?” called the drummer—Ian, if I remembered right—in a clear, carrying voice. I scanned the pub as he did, looking for takers, before glancing back to him. Eyebrows raised, he warned, “Otherwise you’ll be having to listen to Sean again, and I wouldn’t trust him to have any new material.”
Widespread groans, hearty jokes, and shouted encouragement were offered up all around, but I barely noticed. It had just occurred to me that suddenly I was in a time crunch: If I waited any longer, Sean would be on stage and out of reach indefinitely. Never mind the suspense, I honestly didn’t think I could handle the grueling physical symptoms of waiting any longer.
As if prompted by an awfully pushy invisible hand, I shuffled forward and felt my heart rate soar, pounding out its objection. Too bad. This was it—I was going to do it! Newly determined, I headed toward the makeshift stage where the band was waiting to accompany the vocal stylings of the next performer. Which I’d just now decided was going to be me. That’s right:
Within seconds I was facing a couple of Sean’s band mates and a complete stranger with a fiddle, slightly slack-jawed (me, that is, not them) and stumped as to what to do next. Recognition flickered in their eyes (except for the fiddler), and slow grins seeped onto their faces.
“Are ye here to sing, then?” This from Ian (I think).
“If that’s all right?”
