Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

Chapter Six

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

—robert burns,

“Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad”

It was the longest meal in Gemma’s memory. John and Louise had hustled them all into the dining room while Donald was still in the drive, on the grounds that the celery and Brie soup should be eaten immediately.

“As soon as the cheese melts, that’s the secret,” John pronounced, with more urgency than any soup warranted.

They were halfway through the first course before Donald returned. “Sorry about that,” he said, sliding into his seat beside Hazel, but his smile looked strained.

No one gave in to the temptation to ask him the woman’s identity, nor did he offer any explanation, and the clinking of spoons against china grew unnaturally loud. Heather watched him with open speculation, Martin with frank curiosity, Pascal with a detached amusement. Hazel didn’t look at him at all.

But when John and Louise came in to take the soup plates, Louise smiled at Hazel, touching her shoulder lightly as she reached over the table. Was there a thawing of sympathy in that quarter, Gemma wondered, now that Hazel appeared to be the party wronged?

And was there a certain smugness to Heather Urquhart’s smile? How much did she know about Donald’s relationship with Hazel? Could she have engineered a deliberate sabotage? Not that it hadn’t been in Hazel’s best interest to see Donald in his true colors, Gemma reminded herself. But the sight of her friend’s face, tight with misery, made her doubt her own judgment.

John brought in the grilled salmon, which was indeed as good as he had promised, but Gemma, watching Hazel push her portion about on her plate, found she had lost her appetite.

Rather to Gemma’s surprise, Martin Gilmore made a valiant effort at conversation, questioning her about her job, and Pascal about his interest in moths, with more sensitivity than she had credited him with. The atmosphere eased a bit, and Donald joined in with an occasional comment, although Gemma noticed his wine consumption was more than generous.

“What about your kids?” asked Martin, turning back to Gemma. “You said you had boys?”

She nodded, her lips curving up in an involuntary smile. “Kit’s twelve, and Toby’s four.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “You can’t possibly have a twelve-year-old. You’re—” He stopped, a blush creeping up to the roots of his hair. “That sounded dreadfully rude.

I only meant—”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Gemma told him. “And although I could have a twelve-year-old, Kit’s my . . .

partner’s . . . son.” She was never sure what to call Kin-

caid. Partner seemed rather stiff and formal, significant other as if he were an object in a shop, boyfriend made her feel like a giggly teenager, lover somehow didn’t seem appropriate for polite company. But whatever she called him, she wished he would ring her or answer his bloody mobile phone. She was beginning to wonder if he was deliberately avoiding her, but she couldn’t imagine why.

“A blended family?” said Pascal. “How very modern of you.”

Gemma shrugged. “Hectic might be a better description. I never realized how much more complicated life was with two children rather than—” Too late, she caught a glimpse of Hazel’s face and wondered if she was thinking of the woman and child who had come to see Donald.

But before she could rectify her mistake, Martin com-pounded it.

“You have a child, too, don’t you, Hazel? A daughter, I think you said. Have you a photo?”

“I— She—” With a wild look at Donald, Hazel stood, rocking the table so that the wineglasses sloshed precariously. “I— I’m sorry. Not feeling well,” she blurted out, and ran from the room.

Hazel was out of the house and into the garden, gulping cold air as if she were drowning. The light had almost gone, but the sky still glowed palely in the west.

Fool, she told herself furiously. She’d been a fool to come here, and now she was making it worse by the minute. And Gemma, what must Gemma think of her?

Why had she ever listened to Donald?

At least he’d made leaving easy for her, the bastard. She would go now; Gemma would understand. And Donald—

a door slammed and she heard footsteps behind her.

“Hazel, will ye let me explain?”

“You’ve no need to explain anything to me.” She tried to say it calmly, reasonably. “I came to Scotland for a weekend, and I’m going home in the morning. End of story.”

“Hazel, we need to talk. If you’ll just let me—”

Whirling around to face him, she found she was shaking with fury. “All right, then. Who is she, that woman?”

“Her name’s Alison. But she’s not important—”

“Not important! And was that your child? Some other little unimportant thing you forgot to mention?”

“God, no.” He sounded genuinely shocked. “You think I would keep something like that from ye? Alison—she’s just someone I went out with a few times, and she took it a wee bit too seriously—”

“Women have a habit of taking you a bit too seriously—I should know.”

“Can ye no forget what happened thirteen years ago?”

He was angry now as well, his tone no longer beseeching.

“You never gave me a chance, Hazel. I told my father I didna want the bloody distillery. I walked out. Did ye know that? But you were gone, without a word, without an address. When I rang your parents, they wouldna speak to me—”

“That was only fitting in the circumstances, don’t you think?” She knew she sounded like a shrew, but anger kept her safe, kept her from taking in his words. “So if you walked away from Benvulin, why are you still there?”

“My father died and left his shares to me. What did you expect me to do? Go live in a bloody monastery?

You’d married—”

“How did you know?”

“Heather. But you didna say two words to your own cousin at your mother’s funeral, and you didna ask about me.”

“I—” The sound of voices drifted out to them from the house—the rest of their party had moved into the sitting room for coffee.

“We can’t talk here,” Donald said urgently, as if he sensed her weakening. “Come back with me, to Benvulin.”

“No! How can you ask that, of all things—”

“Then walk with me.” With a feather touch on her arm, he guided her towards the path that led into the wood.”

“Donald, no—”

“Don’t be afraid. I know the way, even in the dark.”

The trees swallowed them, and at the first turn of the path, the lights of the house vanished from view.