Needs a little work could mean so many things.
"... Your mother thinks you'll enjoy it," his father was saying with a grumble. "I think she's wrong."
"Primitive?" Thomas asked, not for the first time.
"That isn't the half of it," his father said, also not for the first time.
"Come on, Dad. If there's something I should know, don't you think you should tell me now?"
His father was silent.
"That bad?" Thomas asked finally.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, so there's no point in discussing it. Just don't be surprised by anything that goes bump in the night."
Thomas laughed uneasily. Immediately the memory of a Scot in his living room came to mind. He looked over his shoulder, sincerely hoping he wouldn't see anything there. "Ghosts?" he asked absently.
"All I can say is that I know what you'll find at the inn. Heaven only knows what you'll find up at that pile of stones you threw your money away on."
"I doubt I'll be seeing anything unusual." Other than mouse ears stalking me, Thomas added silently, turning his back on the rest of the room.
"Don't say I didn't warn you. And another thing: Don't plan on staying over there permanently. We fought a perfectly good war two hundred years ago so I didn't have to cross the Atlantic to see my grandchildren."
"I'm not moving there. I'm just taking a little time off for a fix-up project."
"There are plenty of ramshackle ruins over here on American soil."
"I know," Thomas said with a sigh. "It's just—"
"It's just that damned MacLeod blood you get from your mother," his father groused. "She gets these kind of harebrained schemes as well."
"Thanks, Dad," Thomas said dryly. "I'll think of you fondly while I'm remodeling."
His father made a few gruff noises, then cleared his throat. "Well, I just called to say good-bye. And, well" —more throat clearing ensued— "call me if you need help."
"I will."
"Your mother's already bought tickets for Christmas. She's planning some kind of damned Dickens celebration."
"Dickens celebration?" Thomas asked suspiciously. This didn't sound good.
His father grunted. "I'll probably have to wear some damned costume."
Thomas had very vivid memories of his sisters coercing him into all manner of costumes in his youth. "Put your foot down, Dad," he said with feeling. "Save yourself if you can."
"I intend to. See you soon."
His father disconnected. Dickens would mean cravats, and Thomas was going to avoid any kind of neckwear at all costs. Maybe he could come in Scottish dress and avoid the whole tie issue. Either that or maybe he could find himself called away for a last-minute bit of skiing in the Alps and be regrettably unable to dress up for the holidays. On the whole, that might be the safest course of action.
He put down the phone and looked at the ruins of his final meal spread out in glorious disarray on his floor. The sausages could be washed off and nuked, but the eggs were past redemption. He looked at the carpet and wondered what it might look like in a year if he didn't do a good job of cleaning it now. Then again, Mrs. Murtaugh would be coming in to clean in a day or two. Maybe he could scrape a bit, then leave the rest for her. He'd hired her to come in once a week and air out the house, anyway. He'd give her a bonus for this last little bit of dirty work and call it good.
He rescued what could be eaten, then headed toward the kitchen. He cooked up more eggs, then stood at the counter and ate them. The kitchen floor was far easier to clean up than the carpet in the den, and who knew what else he might see that afternoon?
Not that he was planning on anything else. He'd seen enough already.
Once he was finished, he found himself prowling around his kitchen again. He tried to avoid the pictures on the fridge, but time and time again he found himself standing in front of them. Everest he could put behind him. He'd conquered it, no matter how unsatisfying it had been.
The castle was another matter entirely. Just looking at it sent chills down his spine. The minute he'd touched the envelope his sister had sent him, the chills had begun. He remembered vividly sliding the photographs out and feeling himself go still.
He had, after all, dreamed of the castle.
With perfect clarity.
A year before he'd ever seen the piece in the Times.
He stood there, frozen again, and wondered if he truly was losing his mind. Was it stress? Poor diet? Too much time on his hands? Permanent brain damage from his trip to Everest?
He didn't believe in ghosts. He didn't much believe in a sixth sense, though in all honesty, he had to admit to possessing more of it than was good for him. He didn't want to believe in a Fate that sent a poor hapless human careening inexorably toward a destiny he never imagined. He didn't want to think that something chaotic was tinkering with his life plans.
So why did he feel as if the roller coaster ride had just left the gate, and there was no getting off now?
He sighed. Much as he liked to find some kind of order in the universe, perhaps there was little to be found of rational thinking in his current actions. The best he could do was to keep things as simple as possible and duck—to escape any stray arrows Fate might be winging his way, of course.
There was, actually, a very logical reason for his compulsion to get to northern England. Though his ancestors had been Scottish, it was conceivable that they could have scattered themselves all over Britain at some point. The castle had seemed like the perfect place to really start tracing the branches of his family tree. Restoring a castle might bring all sorts of people out to see what he was doing, and who knew whom he might meet because of it? He didn't like
