Doon

from another world.

As Gracie arranged the fragrant, purple flowers, she would tell the most amazing stories. My favorite was about an enchanted kingdom hidden away from evil witches in the mists of Scotland. Now as I admired the chaotic garden from the library windows, I questioned the wisdom of sharing Gracie’s stories with my best friend. My aunt always indulged my imagination, going as far as setting a place at the table for my imaginary guests. But what Vee needed was less fiction in her life, not more.

I’d seen the haunted look in her eyes as she talked about Kilt Boy. Which made my decision as easy as an Andrew Lloyd Webber melody. My duty was to keep her from traveling farther down the yellow brick path of delusion … one that I knew from experience would inevitably end in misery and heartbreak. So I would not share any family tales of noble knights or fantastical kingdoms. I’d stick to practical traditions. Filling Gracie’s vase with lavender, minus the story of its origins, would still be a fitting tribute to the woman whose love had shaped the direction of my life and a perfect start to our epic summer.

“Jamie—”

Holy Hammerstein! I spun toward the noise, ready to scream as my vision focused on Vee fidgeting in her sleep in the oversized chair in the corner. She was surrounded by books—legends and histories of Scotland, and biographies on the local poet Robert Burns. Apparently Sleeping Beauty had a restless night. Whereas I’d slept like the dead.

“Brig—Jamie. Stay.”

Okay … that was random, and a little weird.

Vee made a tiny mewling sound, like an anxious kitten. Concerned, I crept closer. Other than the noises, she looked fine. More than fine—she was flawless, even asleep. Dark, sleek hair framed her heart-shaped face. Black, fluttery lashes—the kind you only see in mascara ads—daintily rested against the curve of her cheeks. Vee was petite, too, with porcelain skin. Stuff all that into a size-too-small cheer skirt and she was a teen dream. She practically screamed popularity, while I was an ex-Goth, theater-geek Amazon voted most likely to have ketchup on my boobs. But I guess that’s what made the friendship unbreakable—counterbalance, not ketchup.

As if she could sense me staring like some kind of deranged stalker, Vee’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal her confused, yet still brilliantly dazzling, turquoise eyes.

She bolted to her feet, brushing silken strands of dark hair away from her face. How did she get it to look so shiny? Even in the midst of night terrors, she still looked like she’d stepped off the cover of Teen Vogue. I, on the other hand, was in jeopardy of being mistaken for an iconic hamburger clown.

Vee turned in a disoriented half circle, blinking at the pile of books around her chair. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“Ya think?” She stilled and regarded me with a narrow gaze that dared me to continue cracking smart remarks. Geez, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Taking a more serious approach, I said, “You must’ve been having some dream. You were talking in your sleep and everything.”

“I was?”

“Yep. So who’s Jamie?”

Her face paled as she sagged against the back of the chair for support. “Have you ever had a dream so real you weren’t sure if you were asleep or awake?”

Vee’s voice sounded hollow, and I wondered what kind of crazy messed-up nightmares plagued her. “You mean good real … like when I’m playing Glinda in the Broadway revival of Wicked? ’Cause I dream about that at least once a week. Or bad real, like that time I got caught in the zombie apocalypse in my underwear?”

Vee’s already pale face blanched ghostly proportions as she answered, “I don’t mean a dream exactly … More like a vision you see during the day—so rich and colorful, the person so real that you feel like they’ve been there all your life, only you just couldn’t see them before.”

“Wait. Are we talking about Kilt Boy again?” When she nodded, I shoved my coffee into her trembling hands. She obviously needed it more than I did. What I needed was to tread carefully. Vee had the same haunted look from the previous evening. It was eerily similar to the phase where she saw her MIA dad around every corner and driving every passing car. “I think some people have more vivid imaginations than others. Aunt Gracie was like that. She used to capture all her dreams in a journal. Then in the margins, she would scribble all kinds of crazy notes.”

“Journal? What did it look like?” She drained the coffee in one long gulp, set the mug on a nearby table, and crouched down to dig through the mound of books.

“You expect me to describe it? I was eleven the last time I was here.”

“Like this?” She stood, holding up a thick book of worn, dark brown leather. In the center, a Celtic knot-like heart bore the letters G. L. for Gracie Lockhart. Vee flipped it over, regarding the rawhide tie that fastened the flaps. “Wow, it looks really old.”

“It might be.”

Vee stood and walked over to the bay window, cradling the book like a wounded bird. “I could go through it … if you want. See if it contains anything important … give you the CliffsNotes … like when we were in school. I know how much you hate to read … unless it’s for a role. Which this isn’t.”

I didn’t have to read her face to see through her act. She’d been a terrible liar when she’d tried the dog-ate-my-homework excuse on Mrs. Trimble in the third grade, and age hadn’t improved her performance skills. The babbling was a dead giveaway.

She thought the journal had something to do with Kilt Boy. If I didn’t find some way to distract her from her new obsession, she’d spend the whole summer with her nose buried in my aunt’s journal and we’d never meet any actual boys in kilts. Feigning indifference, I held out my hand until she surrendered her treasure and made a show of flipping through the pages. “I’ll look through it. But I doubt it will make any sense—Gracie cornered the market on cryptic. I used to think she was wonderfully mysterious, like Norma Desmond.”

“Who?”

“Norma Desmond. From Sunset Boulevard?” My bestie shook her head blankly as I readied a smart remark. But the reply died on my lips when I realized she wasn’t paying attention to our conversation. Instead, she stared at the seven-by-five-inch volume of leather and paper like it contained the cure for cancer.

The front bell chimed, causing Vee to leap into the air like a very nimble, and very startled, cat. She pressed one hand to her heart and then raked the other through her hair. “That’s probably the caretaker, right? Ally’s mom?”

“Adelaide Dell.” Using my best Mary Poppins accent to loosen her up, I added, “Ally said her mum would ‘pop round’ today to see how we were getting on.”

Still clutching the journal and humming, I stepped in time to the door and wrestled briefly with the deadbolt before opening it. The woman on the other side was … surprisingly modern. With a name like Adelaide, I’d pictured a matronly, middle-aged woman with wisps of graying hair escaping from her bun and spectacles hanging from a chain across her bosom. This woman was reminiscent of an aging runway model. Her pale blonde hair brushed her chin in an asymmetric style. And her designer ensemble—wedged pumps, pinstripe suit, and flared navy blue raincoat—reminded me of something I’d seen recently in a Saks Fifth Avenue window. Despite the overcast skies, she didn’t carry an umbrella.

“Good mornin’ girls.” The woman stepped into the foyer and waited for me to close the door before extending her hand. “You must be Mackenna. I’m Addie Dell. Well now, you’ve grown into a lovely young woman.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t remember meeting her during my previous visits, but it had been seven years since the last time I’d been to Alloway. When I shook her hand, I complimented her on the renovations. “Everything is even more amazing than in the pictures.”

“I’m ever so pleased the upgrades are to your liking.” Addie’s regal smile faltered slightly as her sharp green eyes slid past me. “And you, of course, are the friend.”

Following Addie’s gaze, I noticed Vee was still in her candy-striped sleep shorts and pink tank that read EAT SLEEP DANCE REPEAT. Of course, I was no better in my sweat pants and oversized Les Mis T-shirt. Feeling fifty shades of awkward, I hastily introduced my bestie to the woman who’d taken