Shades of Doon (20 page)
Jamie chuckled, playing along. “Aye, I meant blades.”
“Oh! Yes, sir, we have a wide selection of hunting knives. Right this way.”
After Jamie had purchased his crossbow, several wicked
looking knives and holsters, along with a set of throwing daggers for his brother, we headed back into the mall.
“Want to go back to the hotel and check the weather?” I suggested. “Maybe the hurricane changed course and we can fly out tonight.”
Jamie took the heavy shopping bag out of my hand. “I’m anxious to return to Doon as well, but Sam Champion said the storm is gainin’ strength.”
I chuckled at the way he said the meteorologist’s name as if he knew him personally. Jamie had been glued to the enormous flat screen in our penthouse suite all morning, flipping between the Weather Channel and ESPN. According to Duncan, Jamie’d started watching the World Series on the plane and in the limo. Jamie claimed it calmed him. But an image of him lounging on a sofa, a Big Gulp and a pile of hot wings at his side, a game controller in his hand, only reinforced my instincts to get him home as soon as possible. Couch-potato Jamie was not a pretty picture.
“We can go right? Since you found your memento?”
He repositioned the crossbow bag on his shoulder and then put his arm around me as we walked. “Nay, these are practical tools. I have somethin’ else in mind.”
We made a beeline for the sporting goods store where Jamie began selecting bats, gloves, baseballs, hats, and matching jerseys. “I canna wait to teach Lachlan and the Crew this amazin’ game. ’Tis deceptively complex, each play requirin’ a myriad of strategies. But I imagine I’ll be rather good at it.”
Inspired to get in on the action, I held up an extra-extra-large Giants jersey and taunted, “Yeah, well, I get Fergus.”
His eyes met mine and narrowed. “Is tha’ a challenge?”
“You bet your adorable dimples, it is. My team will crush yours. Especially with Analisa as my base stealer.”
With a mock scowl, he said, “Fine. But Duncan and Gabby are mine. That girl can run like the wind.”
The trash talking escalated as we debated what we needed to purchase and what could be re-created in Doon. By the time we finished equipping two entire baseball teams, our bill in the thousands, the clerk volunteered to personally deliver our purchases to the hotel. We gratefully agreed and then headed back out to search for Kenna and Duncan.
I stopped at a mirrored column, pulled my braid over my right shoulder, and tugged on my new Royals hat. I had no idea if they were a good team, I just liked the color . . . and the name.
“That looks quite fetchin’ on ye.” Jamie met my eyes in the reflection his eyes glinting as he teased, “I may even prefer it to your crown.”
I knew exactly what he meant. He’d picked out a fitted Yankees hat for himself. Something about the black cap pulled low over his eyes, his sandy blond hair curling under the edge and against the tan skin of his neck made me want to fan myself. But I settled for entwining my arm with his and laying my head on his shoulder.
He slowed, lifting his nose like a bloodhound. “What is tha’ heavenly fragrance?”
I took a deep breath and drew in the scrumptious scents of fried dough and cinnamon.
“Churros.” Jamie read the sign on a nearby kiosk. “I have a mind to try those.”
Amazed, I shook my head. “Haven’t you eaten enough?”
“That I have. And yet I will eat them whilst I still may.”
Was that more Shakespeare or the wisdom of a boy king? Either way, as he took my hand and led me to the end of the churro line, his words resonated. I had to have faith that when we crossed the bridge, Doon would be there waiting and safe.
Our forever. But for this minute window of time, I would enjoy the nows. “I’ll take an order of those too.”
“Tha’s my girl.” He quirked a grin that drew out the long dimples in both his cheeks. “I’ll make a proper Scotswoman out of ye yet.”
T
he comforting thing about malls is that they’re basically the same from one end of the country to the other: same stores, same food, same roving groups of families, same loiterers, the same kids and hipsters. A city of strangers — some come to work, some to play. Sure, a variance existed here or there just to keep things interesting, a unique attraction or a shop with local flair, but all in all there was a sameness. The mall was a slice of home.
And that uniformity, while soothing, was the reason I got bored so quickly. Though Vee could go from store to store, comparing items and sale prices, I was good for two or three stores tops. After that, I tended to sprawl in a chair near the changing rooms and serenade the people trying things on while my bestie shopped for the both of us.
I wasn’t sure what to expect with Duncan. Yes, the mall was a new experience for him, but what kind of mall guy was he? His brother was easy to figure; all googly eyed with wonder, he
would go into each and every store to check out the wares, even the ones that Vee probably preferred he didn’t.
But Duncan . . . He’d been surprisingly without opinion since we changed our plans. Even now, he was waiting for me to respond as to what I wanted to do. Instead, I said, “I’m on to you, buster.”
His brow creased in genuine confusion. “What do you mean?”
“The way you keep deferring to Jamie. I know it’s his first real trip here, but it’s kind of yours too. So cut the chivalry act and tell me what
you
want to do.”
He frowned at me, looking vaguely uncomfortable with my demand. “Seriously,” I added. “We’re not moving from this spot until you answer me. There must be a few things that you’d like to do.”
After a moment he said, “Aye. There might be a couple of things.”
“What’s the first one?”
“I rather fancied the look of those tartan trousers in the shop we passed,” he replied in all sincerity.
My lips started to twitch and I resisted the urge to smirk. Of all the things in the modern world to experience . . . “Tartan trousers?”
“Aye.”
Gershwin love him
, if the boy wanted plaid pants, then I vowed to be okay with it. “Show me.”
We backtracked to a dimly lit store, with pounding music that had been a staple in my Goth phase. He pointed to a mannequin just inside the entry next to the life-sized
Supernatural
cutouts. “Those’re the ones.”
I helped him find a pair in roughly his size. While Duncan went to try them on, visions of
Brigadoon
, dancing men in plaid
pants leaping around Gene Kelly and Cyd Cherise, occupied my head. Repeating the mantra
I will not laugh, I will not laugh, I will not laugh,
as I waited. I did my best to vanquish the mental image of twirling Scotsmen.
When Duncan stepped out of the dressing room, however, it was no laughing matter. The pants fit perfectly — low on the hips, snug but not skinny-jean tight in the legs. A chain, connected to the side belt loop, disappeared into the back pocket. To finish off the outfit, he wore a black Ramones T-shirt he must have grabbed on his way in to change.
His bare feet added an air of genuineness to the ensemble, like he wasn’t dressing up to go out but wore those types of clothes around the house on a daily basis . . . while strumming on his guitar in search of one great song.
Glory!
A gaggle of girls passing by came to an abrupt halt in the entryway, openly staring and giggling. When Duncan noticed them, a couple of the more daring ones offered him a coy wave. He acknowledged them with a respectful “Good day, lassies” and then instantly dismissed their blatant adoration as he turned to me. The politeness in his face transformed into a dazzling smile as his brows lifted questioningly. “Aye or nay?”
Feeling like one of his admirers, I blinked trying to regain my equilibrium. “Aye. Definitely, aye.”
With a nod, he padded back to the dressing room. The gaggle watched his retreating plaid-clad backside, their collective sigh intermingling with mine.
Feeling an immense burst of pride and more than a bit of comradery, I said, “That’s my boyfriend.”
Wearing a dreamy expression, one of the more vocal girls asked, “Is he from England?”
I shook my head. “Nope, Scottish.”
“We LOVE Scotland!” they cried in unison.
“You should go someday,” I said, rather enjoying the way their worshipful attention had transferred to me as the other half of the hot plaid pants guy and someone who’d made the pilgrimage to the faraway land of kilts. “It’s really beautiful.”
They nodded at me and then refocused on each other, chattering about senior year and an epic graduation trip. In their enthusiasm, I was forgotten, and they moved on. Which was just as well, because Duncan stepped out of the dressing room a moment later looking as heart-stoppingly gorgeous in his jeans, blue button-down shirt, and black Chucks. I watched him pay the clerk — who kept toying with her blue hair while she helped him.
He approached me with an easy, crooked grin, and no clue how devastating he was to the opposite sex. “Finished.”
I laced my fingers through his free hand and drew his adorable knuckles to my lips for a kiss. “What next?”
“Can we go to the bookshop? I’m of a mind to get the rest of the dragon series that I started when I came for ye in Chicago.”
A half hour later, Duncan had four thick books and a mug of Earl Gray tea. I took a leisurely sip of my cappuccino, content to sit in the little mall café and do nothing. I wasn’t much of a literature girl myself — it never made sense to waste oodles of time reading when you could accomplish the movie version in two hours. But I could watch my boyfriend read all afternoon.
When he lost himself in a book, his face developed that far-off, meditative look that dreamers get. It reminded me of how I felt the first time I heard certain Sondheim songs — like I needed to dwell in that moment until the words imprinted on my soul.
“Whatcha thinkin’ of, woman?” I returned from my musings to discover Duncan’s inquisitive gaze contemplating me as if I were a facet of his story come to life. I distinctly remembered
the first time I saw that particular expression — he’d been Finn to me then, my beloved summer playmate. Never mind that the passage of time in Doon made it impossible for us to have been the same age at the same time. Or that the closed portal on the bridge would’ve prohibited him from crossing into my world and vice versa. That was the mystery of the Calling. Our spirits had been speaking to one another for most of our lives.
I could picture the August afternoon when I’d scrambled away from my aunt’s cottage to meet him at the bridge. He was sitting off to one side in the grass, his dark head haloed by the sun as he bent over a book. I was eight and returning to America the following morning.
In that moment, Finn had looked so peaceful — so perfect — that I froze halfway across the bridge and tried to memorize him so when I returned home, I’d carry a little piece of him with me.
Sensing my nearness, he’d looked up at me then with the same mixture of fascination and contentment. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he drew me in to share in his perfection. Smiling at the man Finn had become, I asked, “Do you remember that summer when I was eight? What you said to me right before I left?”
“Aye. You asked me if I would still be there when ye returned the following summer.”
“And you said, ‘Yes’ or rather ‘Aye,’ ” I amended with a chuckle.
His intimate gaze caused our surroundings to disappear so that I existed both in the moment and in our shared memory at the same time. Duncan reached across the table, taking my hand in his. “And you asked, ‘What if your ma doesna let you come back?’ ”
“You said I need never fear because you would always come
for me. That it was your solemn pledge and promise. And you always came — when I stopped traveling to Scotland, when I abandoned you . . . even when I was ripped away. Here you are.”
“’Tis my solemn pledge and promise.”
The pad of his thumb brushed lightly across the back of my hand, sending little shockwaves of sensation up my arm to reverberate in my chest. I loved him so much that speaking the words seemed woefully insufficient.
As I struggled to put my epic feelings into mere words, he spoke again. “From the first moment I laid my eyes on ye, my life was twined with yours. When you’re gone, I exist but cease to live. I canna take a deep breath or taste food, or sleep soundly or hear the sweetness of music. I’m a husk.”
“Apart, we’re single notes,” I said, echoing his sentiments. “But together, we’re more. We’re — a symphony.”
“Aye.”
A melody was not enough. Melodies were transient. You could pick them out of the air, hum them for a bit, and then let them go. You could alter a melody to someone’s specific interpretation, the same way you could try to change for the sake of love as I’d seen so many girls do. But a symphony . . . a symphony was like unconditional love. The parts wouldn’t change to suit the whims of the conductor. A symphony was written. Just as Duncan and I had been since childhood.
“There you are!” Vee approached from the direction of the food court with Jamie in tow. Doing a poor job of appearing stoic, the oldest MacCrae’s free hand pressed against his stomach like he was trying to staunch a bullet wound, his face a sickly shade of green.
Duncan closed his book and stood. “What did ye do to my brother?”
“What did I do? He did it to himself.” Vee released Jamie,
who slumped into the chair his brother had just vacated. “I warned him about eating a second helping of churros.”
“They were delicious,” Jamie groaned. He attempted to straighten up, thought better of it, and doubled back over with his face in his hands. “Oufph.”
Duncan made a sound of reproach. “Jamie, what would the lads say if they could see ye caterwauling o’er a wee belly ache?”
“They’d know to eat churros in moderation,” he replied in a muffled voice.
Vee circled behind the poor Scotsman to rub his back. “Maybe we should get him some medicine.”
“We had a governess who used to give us castor oil and treacle,” Duncan stated, nudging Jamie’s leg with his knee. “How’s that sound, laddie?”
