The Secret Gift (18 page)

Janet Mackay, the proprietress herself, came out of the kitchen when Libby ducked inside. She was carrying a tray to her only other customers, a couple of touring backpackers who’d apparently decided to forgo the trail mix and granola that evening for Janet’s more appetizing menu.

“Find yourself a seat, lass,” Janet called as she flitted by. “Any table y’ like.”

Libby smiled, nodded in greeting to Janet and the backpackers, and went to a small, two-seat table in the corner by the front window. The day’s offerings were scribbled on the café’s chalkboard.

“Hav’na seen you ’round much, lass,” Janet said as she came to meet her, bringing a steaming pot of tea.

Janet was about Libby’s same age, and had the trademark Mackay dark hair and blue eyes, the first cropped short and moussed in a spiky ’do, the second heavily lined and mascaraed. She’d opened the café just a few years earlier, after returning to the village in which she’d been born. Before then, she’d lived in Edinburgh, where she’d been apprenticed with a restaurant and had learned all she needed to know about running her own place.

“I was to Inverness yesterday,” Libby told her, “and have been doing a bit of sightseeing as well.” She glanced at the chalkboard. “I think I’ll try the salmon. Grilled.”

“Grand. Chips, peas, and salad with that?”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

“Oh, and I’ve got a lovely wild berry crumble with a warm custard topping on the sweets menu tonight. You’ll not want to miss it.”

Libby took the local newspaper, the
Northern Times,
from the front counter while she waited for her supper. Sipping her tea, she started reading through the local stories, country commentary, and community news bits. The features were sorted by village, consisting mostly of farming items and whist game results. On the cooking pages, an Isobel MacRae from the village of Thurso shared her award-winning recipe for something called Clootie Dumplin’s, while Mr. Arthur MacArthur of Durness had advertised in the classifieds, hoping someone might buy his “round table.” “Knights,” he’d added wryly, “are not included.”

On the next page, a notice of an estate sale being held the following day caught Libby’s eye, particularly when she saw that “a full library of books” was among the many items listed on offer. Just that morning, she’d phoned Mr. Belvedere in New York to let him know that her leave of absence was going to be quite a bit longer than she’d expected. It hadn’t been the sort of news he’d hoped to hear, but she’d appeased him with the promise that she would be combing the attics of the Highlands for long-hidden rare editions to decorate his shelves while she was away.

After jotting the details of the sale into her handheld, Libby turned to the newspaper’s Community News section. As she read through the columns, her gaze fixed on a photograph printed at the top of the page. A moment later, her breath stuck in her throat.

Pictured was an elderly woman, flanked on either side by smiling, suited men. A wide tartan ribbon was stretched before them, which the lady was in the process of cutting with a huge claymore sword. The photo’s caption read:

Lady Venetia Mackay appears for the honorary ribbon-cutting ceremony at the newly christened Clan Mackay Centre in the village of Tunga.

Libby stared for the first time at the image of the grandmother who’d never wanted her.

She certainly didn’t look menacing. In her early eighties, Libby guessed, tidily dressed in a blouse and jacket with a brooch on one lapel. A handsome woman. Her hair, which appeared to be stark white, was arranged in the sort of unassuming bouffant so often preferred by the older generation. Some might say her high forehead and aquiline nose were signs of an imperious temper, her close-set dark eyes a narrow point of view. Her mouth was a shape that hinted at a predisposition toward frowning. Libby studied the image closely, searching for some sign of a resemblance between them. She could see nothing, nothing at all, that would indicate this woman was anything other than a complete and utter stranger to her. The truth was, as she looked on the photograph, Libby felt nothing as well. Not so much as the faintest emotion.

“Fine evening to you, Libby.”

She looked up. “PC MacLeith. I didn’t hear you come in. Nice to see you.”

“And you likewise. Just picking up some takeaway for my sister and the kids. Two of the bairns are in bed with chest colds. The other has a heaving stomach. She’s had her hands full all the day.” He glanced at the newspaper that was still open in front of Libby. “Reading about the new Mackay Centre, are you? I hear ’tis a fine facility. Have you been to it yet?”

“No. I only just now read of it.”

“We almost managed to land the facility here in the village, at the castle, actually, afore it was sold. Most thought it the more sensible choice, given that the clan has such deep roots at the place and the castle had been standing empty for so many years. We even had financial assistance being provided by the Highland Council, but Lady Mackay, she just wouldn’t see her way to providing the property for it. Gave a spot of land in Tunga for the centre instead, and then even provided the funds herself to have a brand-new facility built. I would have thought the Mackay castle a more fitting site for the clan center, ’specially since we hold the Mackay games here in the village each year. But there you have it. More’s the pity, too. Would have provided some much-needed local jobs and a boost to the tourism in the area. Every Mackay coming through would stop at our little village. But now, they’ll be going to Tunga instead.”

Libby frowned, glancing at the photograph once again. “Yes, that is a pity.”

She folded the newspaper and tucked it under her purse. “So, no high crime to fight tonight, PC MacLeith?”

Angus crossed his arms. “Well, nae, unless you’d consider the Bain lads to be hardened criminals for stringing the headmaster’s breeks up the village flagpole.”

“They didn’t!”

“Oh, aye, they did.” Angus nodded. “Wouldn’t have been so bad either, but with the weather having been so fine, the headmaster had taken it into his head for a dip in the loch and, well ...”

Libby tried to hide her grin behind her hand.

“Frichted the poor Widow MacNamara nearly straight to her grave, him tumbling over her garden wall, arse-over-head, then snatchin’ her best Sunday kirtle off the line to cover himself. She thrashed him all the way down the high street with her cane, demandin’ that he give the kirtle back.”

Libby gave in to her laughter as an image flashed through her mind of the rather large, rather hairy headmaster, Hector MacNeil, wearing the widow’s kirtle like a hula skirt. “That’s what I get for taking a day to go to Inverness. Looks like I missed all the excitement.”

Janet appeared then, bringing Libby’s dinner and a takeaway sack for Angus.

“I’ll just get your change,” she said after Angus had paid her.

“Nae, keep it, Janet. You’ve given me enough free cups of tea on cold winter nights t’ more than make up for it.”

“Well, then, thank you, dear.” She looked at Libby. “You know, this one’s a keeper. You should snatch him up, miss, afore someone else does.”

Neither Libby or Angus could think of a response, and Janet said quickly, “Now, you let Miss Hutchinson to enjoy her dinner afore it goes cold, aye?”

And with that she was gone, humming her way into the kitchen.

The awkward moment that followed seemed to stretch into eternity. Finally Angus said, “Well, I won’t keep you, then. A good e’en to you, then, Libby.” He tipped his black-and-white checkered constable’s hat in parting.

She nodded, watched him go, wishing she could have thought of something more to say. But what could she have? Yes, Angus was congenial, kind, and certainly handsome. And given the sacrifice he’d made to return to the village to help his widowed sister, he obviously held a high standard of commitment and loyalty. Any number of women would be falling over themselves for a chance with him. In fact, during the drive back from Inverness, Libby had been thinking what a pity it was Angus hadn’t crossed paths with Rosalia while he’d been living in New York. They would have suited each other well. But Libby herself felt nothing more for him than warmth and friendship. She sensed from his reaction just then that he felt the same.

As she took up her fork to start on her supper, Libby heard the bell and noticed Graeme Mackenzie just coming in to the café. Spotting her, he smiled just slightly, removed his coat, and hung it on the coatrack by the door before he turned to scan the array of empty tables in the room.

Now
he
was another matter.

“No leftover stew tonight?” she asked as he headed across the room.

He shook his head. “Housekeeper’s home with sick kids. Told her I’d fend for myself.”

“Oh. Would you”—she motioned to the chair across from her at the table—“care to join me?”

She watched him think about it, then he nodded. “Thank you.”

Janet came bustling out of the kitchen. “Ah, good evening, sir. Can I get you tea?”

“Please.” Graeme glanced at the chalkboard. “And I think I’ll just have the same as Miss Hutchinson for dinner.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Here.” Libby pushed the plate into the center of the table. “Janet just brought this. Why don’t you share it with me while you wait for yours? It’s far too much for me to finish, and I wouldn’t feel right eating while you’re waiting for your dinner.”

She thought he might refuse, but he picked up his fork and flaked off a bit of the salmon.

He looked tired, she thought, stealing a glance at him. And his face was shadowed with a beard, as if he hadn’t taken the time to shave that morning.

“I was in the village yesterday,” he said as casually as if he’d been discussing the weather. “Didn’t see you.”

He’d been looking for her?

Libby told herself not to let her imagination run wild.

“I went to Inverness yesterday. Some shopping and dinner with an acquaintance. I’ve also been busy doing some family research here in the village.”

He nodded, caught a glimpse of the newspaper. “Any interesting local news bits?”

“If you’re looking for the local whist results.” She smiled. “And ... there’s an estate sale in one of the nearby villages tomorrow.” She hesitated. “If you’re not busy, perhaps you’d be interested in checking it out with me?”

Graeme swung the Land Rover into the narrow drive of the Crofter’s Cottage early the next morning. He had told Libby he would be by to pick her up at nine. A quick glance at his watch told him he was fifteen minutes early, so he lingered behind the wheel, sipping his thermal cup of coffee and wondering what the devil he was doing as he waited for the clock to catch up with him.

He’d come up to the Highlands to get away from members of the opposite sex. And yet, in the past days, he’d found himself drawn to this particular one time and again, watching for her, wondering where she was, what she was doing, even creating an errand in the village just on the off chance that he would see her. What was it about her, he wondered, that was different from the scores of other women he could easily have had? Was it that fact alone—that she wasn’t hiding in his shower stall or trailing him to the corner newsstand—that provided the attraction?

He should go, he knew. He should turn the car around and go back to his castle hideaway. But, he didn’t.

His knock on the door at precisely nine o’clock was answered by an elderly lady wearing a pale yellow housedress. She peered at him from behind a pair of thick-lensed spectacles.

“Good morning to you, sir. How may I assist you?”

“Yes, good morning. I’m here for Miss Hutchinson.”

“Ah, and who may I say is calling, please?”

“Graeme Mackenzie. I believe she is expecting me.”

“Oh! A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mackenzie. Yes, I am Miss Aggie. Libby is on the telephone at the moment, but I’m sure she won’t be long. Do come in and wait in the parlor. Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.”

The woman nodded. “Well, I’ll just go and tell her you’re here, then.”

Graeme took a seat in the modest parlor, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he lowered into one of the lace-covered chairs. He waited, listening to the muffled sounds coming from the other parts of the stone cottage.

He looked up when he heard someone, expecting Libby, only to find the same woman who had invited him in, returning now with the tea tray he’d declined, and this time wearing a green frock.

How had she changed
and
made a pot of tea so quickly?

“Oh, hello there,” she said, as if seeing him for the first time. “I didn’t know we were having a guest for tea.”

Graeme opened his mouth to speak, but had absolutely no idea how to respond. Surely fewer than three minutes had passed since he’d spoken with her at the door, yet here she was, acting as if they’d just met. What was he supposed to say?

Thankfully he didn’t have to say a thing, because Libby came into the room just a moment later.

“Sorry I kept you waiting.”

It was perfectly okay.

She looked lovely. Her dark hair was down and loose, brushing her shoulders and curling in a charming flip under her chin. She wore a simple khaki skirt that fell to her ankles and a pale ivory sweater that clung alluringly to her breasts. Her slip-on canvas shoes had very little heel, bringing the top of her head to just above his shoulders. She had a tartan wrap folded over her arm. Silver earrings, he noticed, dangled from her ears, peeking out from underneath her hair.

“Graeme Mackenzie,” she said, motioning toward the older woman, “allow me to introduce Miss Maggie.”

“I believe we’ve already met.”

“We have?”

Quite obviously the woman suffered from a failing memory. Graeme looked at Libby, decided against reminding the woman of their meeting only moments ago, and simply stuck out his hand in greeting. “My mistake. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Maggie.”

When Graeme turned to help Libby on with her wrap, he found the woman again suddenly standing behind him, now wearing the yellow frock she’d greeted him in at the door.