My Very Best Friend (8 page)

One will eat only even numbers of food at a time when she’s on a deadline. Forty-two spaghetti noodles, four pieces of bacon, two bowls of oatmeal. Another picks at her left eyebrow until it’s gone. A third dresses up like her characters to get into their heads.

Disappointing to hear of their peculiarities, but it is the unvarnished truth.

I won’t toss off my skirts, high-riser underwear, and comfortable shoes for any man. I’m not buying into that free sex thing. What is free about it? What if his condom slipped off? What if he had a disease? What if I got pregnant? I don’t want him to spend the night, and I don’t want to spend the night at his house, either.

What if he wanted to stay for breakfast? What if he wanted to stay for lunch and dinner? What if he wanted to stay, in general, as in, every day?

I don’t want a man hanging around every day. I need my privacy. I need to be alone. I don’t need his opinion or his thoughts about my life. I don’t want to change, nor will I, to accommodate him. Men don’t live up to expectations. I know that from my Unfortunate Marriage.

I shouldn’t lump all men together, like weeds invading a rose garden, or a comet heading toward Earth.

But, generally, for excitement, women should study the Hubble Space Telescope and the technology there. What else is out there in our galaxy and beyond? Now, that is thrilling.

But Toran would be thrilling, too.

I thought about him naked.

Oh yes. He would be even better than the Hubble Space Telescope.

4

“I found these before I had our old house demolished.”

Toran handed me a battered cardboard box after we had fish and chips and white wine on his deck for dinner.

His view was peaceful, panoramic. The ocean spread out in the distance like a blue-black blanket with frothy lace on the ends.

“What’s in it?” I fiddled with the top button of my beige blouse. After I had showered, I had paired it with my dark brown skirt and a brown sweater with a blue, smiling whale on the left shoulder.

“Open it, but be prepared, Charlotte.”

I studied his face. He had a hard jaw and lines fanning out from his eyes. He was the kind of man who would get even more deadly handsome as he aged. “Okay. I’ll be prepared.”

Inside the box there was a stack of letters tied with straw. My name was written on the outside of each envelope.

Charlotte

Queen Charlotte

Charlotte Mackintosh

My friend, Char

Charlotty

My hands shook as I took them out. “What?” My voice was stricken. “What are these?” But I knew. I knew what they were.

“These are letters that Bridget wrote to you. She obviously never sent them. She didn’t want to tell you the truth. It was therapy for her. It was like writing to her diary, only she wrote them to you, her best friend, as she did when she was a child. I think she wanted the truth of her life written down, and that’s why she brought these letters home and placed them in the box.

“I read some, I hope you don’t mind. I was trying to find her, find out the truth of what happened. My parents weren’t honest with me at the time. They lied about where she was and why. Then they refused to talk about her at all.” He paused, clenched his jaw, and groaned. “I’m sorry. Their part in this is still painful—it infuriates me, they infuriate me—and Bridget’s letters are an open door to atrocious things that happened to her.”

I put a hand to my forehead. “In our letters back and forth she talked only about normal things . . . her garden, a boyfriend now and then, going to university . . . her friends here, her travels. . . sometimes she would talk about being lonely, or alone, but I would, too. It was normal life. . . .”

“Charlotte, the only men she has ever been with have hurt her. She never went to university. She traveled, but it wasn’t for pleasure. She was wandering, she was often in trouble. She wasn’t lying about her love of gardening. In some of the letters she talks about the garden here. She loved working in our garden. She told me what she wanted and I did it. I built the trellises to her exact specifications. I used a rototiller on the ground so she could plant her roses and bulbs. She bought plants, and together we got out the shovels. The garden was Bridget’s haven. Then she would take off again, her nightmares chasing her down.”

Toran stood up and stalked across the deck, then leaned against the post of his trellis, arms crossed over his huge chest. “You were her one island. The truth, Charlotte, of her life is in those letters.”

“But . . .”

“Read them.” He ran a hand through his brown curls. “It’ll take a while. Ask me anything when questions come up. If you hate me by the end of it, I’ll understand.”

“Why would I hate you? I could never hate you, Toran.”

“You might. I did not protect my sister. That was my job as her older brother. That’s reason enough. I have looked for Bridget many times when I don’t hear from her. I have been to eight different countries, countless cities—three different trips in the last three years. I have paid people to go and find her. Now and then I find her and bring her home, get her help. Then she leaves again. It’s up to her to come home this time.”

I picked up the stack of letters.

“Start from the beginning, Charlotte,” he said, so gentle.

I nodded my head, pushed my hair out of my eyes. “Okay.”

In the guest room that night, the yellow comforter around me, I opened up the first letter.

November 30, 1973

Dear Charlotte,

Do you know? Do you know what happened? No. How could you. You weren’t there. You were gone.

I am alone.

The bluebells are blooming.

Love,

Bridget

I opened up a second letter, then a third. First came shock, then horror, then the tears. Endless tears.

Toran saw my swollen face the next morning when he returned from working on his farm and hugged me close. I looked like a pale gargoyle. I cried on his shoulder, a blubbery mess. Tears slipped out of his eyes, too.

“I couldn’t read all of them.” I pushed my hair back, as some had slipped out of my clip. “Only a few.”

“Pains my heart, that it does.”

“Mine too, Toran.” My voice broke, aching for Bridget. I was furious, too. Furious at what had happened to her.

We talked and talked.

Toran wiped my tears away, so gentle. He clenched his jaw, but his eyes kept watering on up, like mine. Bridget, Queen Bridget, dragon slayer, artist, kid scientist. Poor Bridget.

I would read more letters.

But not now. I couldn’t.

I made a call, then another call. I wrote a check and mailed it. I hoped.

That afternoon Toran handed me the keys to one of his trucks. It was black. “Please return the rental, Charlotte. You’re losing money. Drive my truck.”

“No, thank you. I couldn’t take advantage of you like that.”

“Please. I want you to take advantage.” He winked at me.

Baby, I want to take advantage of your body.
Thank heavens I did not say that out loud.

“I will rent.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, as it’s a waste of money, luv.”

“You need the truck.”

“I don’t. It’s now yours. And you have that stubborn expression on your face again, Charlotte.”

“This is, once again, against my—”

“Your feminist leanings, I know. Don’t quite understand it. No arguing, or I’ll kick you out of Clan TorBridgePherLotte.”

“You can’t do that. It would require a vote.”

He grinned. Dang.

“Thank you, Toran.”

“I’ll have two of my employees return your car tomorrow. Leave the keys on the front seat.”

I would like to strip you naked on your front seat
. “I can do it.”

“I know you can. Let me do this for you.”

Let me do what I wish with you, Scottish stud
. “I’ll handle it.”

“But I want to do this for you.”

“Then I insist on cooking dinner for you.”

His eyes lit up. “Luv, I think I have the better end of the deal.”

I would like to see your rear end
. I cleared my throat. I hoped he couldn’t tell what I was thinking. I gave him a smile to cover up my rampant, carnal thoughts.

He smiled back.

My father, Quinn Mackintosh, was a huge, blustery, smart Scotsman. Proud of himself, his family, his ancestors, his clan, proud of being a Scot.

I remembered some of his favorite quotes. “A man who does not stand up for what he believes in, is no man at all. . . . If a man doesn’t make a decision, that is a decision.... A man who cannot provide for and protect his woman and family has fallen down on his responsibilities. . . .”

He told Bridget and me Scottish legends, handed down from generation to generation, but often he’d make up legends and magical stories himself, sometimes on the spot.

“Keep an eye out, girls,” he told us one day. “Yesterday I saw a faerie watching me, sprinkling her golden glitter. When I chased after her, she flew up into the trees and right through a hidden green door. The faeries use the trees as secret passageways to their own villages.”

“Where do they live?” Bridget asked.

“They live in the clouds, on rainbows, on the tops of stars, in our forests and meadows. Their world is filled with magic, rivers of gold and stars of silver. They have two moons.”

“They have two moons?” I asked.

“Aye, lass, and two suns, and now and then they come here to play tricks and maybe make a wish or two come true.”

Bridget and I decided to keep our eyes out for faeries in the forests and meadows, but also in the village, as my father said they could hide quickly among the alleys, nooks, and crannies.

“They know the village because they’ve lived here for hundreds of years. They know where the magic is. They know where they can slip in a crack, or jump through an attic window, or hop through an open door.”

I wrote my father’s legends down, and Bridget drew the pictures. She liked to draw everything in miniature, down to the most intricate details. She drew tiny faeries with sparkling wings, homes tucked into tree branches, birds with glittering wings carrying princesses, butterflies drinking tea together.

We spent hours making books, in our house, not hers. She had to leave all of her work at our house, as her father would not have approved of magic. Magic was considered ungodly.

My parents delighted in our books, always careful not to say a word about it to Carney Ramsay, or his cowed wife, Bonnie. It was a magical time.

At least for me.

To the ladies of the St. Ambrose Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group—

We will meet at our usual time, 6:00, on Tuesday, at my home. Please bring soup and bread to share.

Charlotte Mackintosh will be coming. I am delighted that she is back at her family home, although I fear she plans on selling it. All these years of dealing with Mr. Greer stealing my chickens. Lieutenant Judith. Lizbeth. Smelly Toad. To think of my edible pets in his massive gut!

How he was able to get that girth of his up and moving fast enough to catch one of my ladies is beyond me. If the man was broke, he could have told me, and I would have helped, but he had to go and steal my precious feathered friends. Maddening!

I will be making my enchilada soup with chips and guacamole. I will be sending Fiona to chicken heaven. You know, the brown and white one, gold feathers on top? Arrogant chicken.

She’ll be delicious.

Remember, we need to talk about the fund-raiser. I can put up a couple of my chickens for the event, but we need something to crow about if we are going to contribute money for whatever worthy cause we choose this year, so start tootling that thinking cap!

Sincerely,

Olive

As always, so we don’t have to spend all day on the blasted phone, pass this note around. When you’ve seen it, write your name down, or a message at the bottom, and get it quick as a whip to the next person on the list. You all know the route by now.

To the ladies of the Garden Gobbling group,

Olive,

I’m delighted that Charlotte is coming. I can’t wait to see her! She’s a few years younger than me. Charlotte’s parents were both quite kind. I remember loving Mrs. Mackintosh’s American accent. I thought it was so worldly and stylish.

I heard from Dee Dee’s boy, Arthur, who works for Toran, and who helped unload all the rubbish from Charlotte’s house, that Charlotte lives on an island near Hawaii, has about twenty cats, sells vegetables for a living, especially tomatoes, and she has six types of tomatoes. She’s a farmer like her father. She likes physics. She also is against whale killing, but keeps whales in the ocean, which is her front yard. A tad confusing!

Don’t kill Fiona. I love that chicken. She’s a chicken fashion model and I won’t eat her.

On another note, we could kill my soon-to-be ex-husband, The Arse, pluck his feathers, boil him, and feed him to a hog. He has a girlfriend named Chrissy. You might know her by her other name, Bubbles. Can you believe this? He left me for bubbles.

Rowena

Hello garden gang ladies,