Glasgow
“WE CAN DELIVER a new plane to you by Friday next, Mr. Stewart,” said the salesman to Duncan later that afternoon.
“That’s the best you can do?”
The young man nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Then so be it,” said Duncan, signing his check. “Ring me when it’s delivered and I’ll drive down.”
They shook hands and Duncan left the sales office. At least he’d accomplished one thing today. He felt about his plane the way American movie cowboys felt about their horses, and he was lost without it. Fleet Street’s interest in his crash—and the subsequent resurrection of interest in his personal life—had finally waned, and he’d ventured to Glasgow to see about reclaiming his life.
The long drive down from Loch Glenraven had given him time to think. He hadn’t done much thinking at the castle, but not for want of trying. The good citizens of Glenraven had banded together to keep the gossips and the press at bay. They knew nothing. They said nothing. They offered nothing in the way of comfort for the throngs of reporters. It didn’t take long for the city folk to fold up their tents and leave.
And then there was Old Mag, who watched his every move and commented on each one of them. “Something happened to you,” she’d said, “and I’ll find out what. Mark me well on that, laddie.”
So he’d spent much of the past six weeks barricaded in his studio, trying to lose himself in his work, but no matter what he tried—clay or marble or wood—the result was always the same. His beautiful American was everywhere, in everything he did, every word he uttered, every thought that rose half formed from his heart.
He tried to drown the image of her in whiskey but she would not be denied. He hadn’t planned to make love to her. They’d faced death and lived to tell the tale. What happened between them afterward had been as inevitable as drawing their next breaths, a celebration of life. Only a fool would read more into the interlude than that.
That sense of destiny, of something beyond the moment, had been a product of his own imagining.
He climbed into his Land Rover and started the engine. The road to Glenraven was on the far side of Glasgow. He had noticed a pub not far from there where he could get a pint and some food to sustain him on the long drive to the castle.
He rarely came into the city. He hated the crowds and the noise of city life, hated the drab gray buildings and the smell of petrol in the air. The city diminished him. His wild and beautiful Highlands restored him. It was that simple.
“Sit where you like,” the bartender called as he stepped into the dimly lit establishment a few minutes later. “We have stout if you’re of a mind.”
“Aye,” said Duncan. “And soup and a loaf of bread while you’re at it.”
“A man after my own heart,” said the bartender, laughing. “My Celia will bring it to you in a wink.”
If the man recognized him from the newspaper stories, he gave no indication. For the first time in weeks, Duncan felt himself relax. He claimed one of the small tables and glanced around the pub. A stag’s head decorated the far wall. Mounted fish lined the wall behind the bar. The other walls boasted a tartan plaque, an ad for Guinness and an oil painting of William Wallace, among other things.
“Your pint,” said the bartender, placing the heavy glass before him. “And good health to you.”
Duncan raised the glass in salute. The stout was dark and strong and it went down smooth as silk. He was glad he’d stopped here instead of at one of the fancy restaurants in Glasgow proper. A radio played softly in the background, some music, soccer scores, a man railing against the monarchy. There was something comforting about the mix of sights and sounds and smells.
This was his land. This was where he belonged.
Celia, a round woman in her early sixties, bustled up to him, bearing a tray overhead. “I hope pepper pot is to your liking.” Her tone was brisk but friendly. “And this is the best honey-oatmeal bread in all of Scotland.”
She placed a steaming bowl in front of him and a basket of bread still warm from the oven. He thanked her. She stood next to him, waiting.
He looked at her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Eat,” she said.
He ate a spoonful of soup.
“And?” she asked.
“Delicious,” he said.
“The bread.” She pointed to the basket. “Try it.”
He took a bite, chewed, then swallowed. “The best.”
Celia beamed with pleasure. “Finish,” she said, “then I’ll bring you more.” She hurried to the kitchen.
“Forty-two years,” the bartender said as the door closed behind Celia. He beamed with pride. “Six children and thirty-two grands.”
Duncan met the man’s eyes. “You have a lot to be thankful for.”
“And don’t I know that.” He poured himself a whiskey then joined Duncan at his table. “A man’s family is everything,” he said. “Everything. Children are the reason we’re born.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Duncan. “I have none.”
The man looked sympathetic. “Our first bairn was six years coming.”
“And I have no wife.” Had he lost his mind then, telling all to a stranger?
“A man needs a mate,” the bartender stated in a tone that left no room for discussion. “We’re not meant to go through this life alone.”
A few weeks ago Duncan would have argued the man under the table. Now he was no longer sure. In one afternoon, she had seen through to his loneliness, to a place no one else on earth knew existed, and now he seemed trapped within the
