The Secret Gift (8 page)

“A fine day, is it no’?”

He was tall, dark, and definitely handsome, made all the more so by the smart constable’s uniform he wore.

Libby smiled. “Yes, it is.”

His hair was a rich red-brown, his eyes warm and hazel, and he took her smile as invitation to linger. He lowered onto the bench beside her, taking out his own newspaper-wrapped fish and bag of chips, then offered his hand in greeting.

“Angus MacLeith.”

She took his hand, shook it. “Libby Hutchinson.”

“American, aye?”

Libby nodded. “New York,” she said, already answering what she knew would be the next question.

“East or West Side?”

Now that she hadn’t expected. “West.”

“Upper?”

She nodded. “Seventy-sixth and Amsterdam.”

He smiled. “Ah, yes. Zabar’s. H&H Bagels. And Gray’s Papaya.”

“Best hot dogs in the city,” she agreed.

He took a bite of his fish, swallowed it down with a drink of his soda. She did the same, eating in companionable silence.

“So what’s a New Yorker doing here of all places?”

“I might ask the same of a Highlander who so obviously knows his way around New York.”

He nodded, grinned. “Trained with the NYPD. Left a few months after 9/11.”

She nodded, thinking she understood. But she didn’t.

“Great blokes, the NYPD. Would still be there today, but my sister lost her husband, accident on the North Sea oil rig where he worked. She needed someone to help her meet the rent, raise her three kids. And the village I had always known as home suddenly found itself in need of a constable. So I came back, and here I am. PC Angus MacLeith. Keeper of the village of Wrath’s peace.”

Libby nodded, munching on a chip. It was an amazingly small world sometimes.

“You haven’t answered my question yet,” he said a moment later.

Libby looked at him. “Oh. You mean why I’m here? My mother was born in the village.”

He nodded, understanding completely. “Come to see the homeland, then?”

“Yes, I—”

Libby was just about to tell him the rest of her story when she spotted a black Land Rover driving slowly by. It wasn’t the vehicle, which she’d never seen before, but the driver, whom she’d
definitely
seen before, that had caught her attention.

It was the man she’d been confronted with that first night, who had threatened her with the gun in the rain.

Angus noticed her staring. “Is something wrong, Miss Hutchinson?”

“Who is that?”

“That would be Mr. Mackenzie. The village’s latest incomer.”

Libby watched as he turned the Land Rover to park in front of the hardware store and got out. He was taller than she remembered, six-foot-three-at-least tall, and lanky in build as he unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. Dark hair, in need of a cut, curled loosely at the collar of his canvas outdoor coat. He wore jeans that were well lived in, and a black sweater under his coat that fit loosely over his body.

And then he looked at her, as if sensing her stare. And he frowned.

Libby felt a flush rise to her cheeks despite the chill air. She couldn’t look away.

It was he who broke the stare first, as he turned and disappeared inside the hardware store.

Libby sat staring for several moments afterward, until out of the corner of her eye she noticed Angus getting up from the bench to leave. She realized then how incredibly rude it had been of her to sit there gawking at the other man while the constable had been sharing a lunch with her.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. MacLeith.”

“And you, Miss Hutchinson.”

“Please,” she said, smiling in apology for her behavior, “just call me Libby.”

He smiled, nodded. “Well, Libby, if there is anything I can do to make your stay in the village more pleasant ...”

“Thank you.”

She got up and watched as PC MacLeith headed down the street in the opposite direction.

Tossing the remnants of her lunch into the waste bin, Libby turned and cut a path toward where the black Land Rover was still parked.

Libby decided she had every reason to want to check the mysterious Mr. Mackenzie out further. He had, after all, threatened her with a gun. Well, he hadn’t actually
threatened
her. But he certainly could have.

She completely ignored the fact that if she had been so inclined, she could have just reported the incident to the constable and been done with it.

The bell above the door of the M’Cuick’s Hardware and Everything store gave off a tinkly sound as she pushed her way into the store. Mops and brooms and tall, narrow shovels stood like the queen’s guard just inside the door beside bins of screws, nuts, bolts, and nails. There was a paint mixer with splashes and drips of color, and shiny metal buckets, the sort you rarely saw anymore except perhaps outside antique stores with bunches of petunias growing in them. Libby stopped just inside the door when she saw the man, Mackenzie, standing at the counter, obviously paying for whatever he’d come for.

He turned to leave—and came face-to-face with her.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly.

He stared at her. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t.

She blinked at him.

The hardware store owner interrupted. “Is there something I can help you with, miss?”

Libby stepped around him and realized that her heart was pounding. “Yes. Hello. I was looking for a voltage converter.”

She’d decided while she had been going through the church records that she could help Sean MacNally by recording the parish data while she went through it into an easily indexed and searchable database, similar to the one she used for her book searches. She didn’t actually expect that such a small, remote shop would have something as sophisticated as a voltage converter for her laptop. In fact, she’d only used the errand as an excuse to come into the shop.

“U.S. to U.K.?” the store owner asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s it for then? Hair dryer? Curling iron?”

“No,” Libby replied. “A laptop computer. I suspect it wouldn’t be something you normally carry—”

“Got one right here. Just let me see ...”

She heard the bell tinkle behind her, indicating that Mackenzie had left. She chanced a glance just as he was ducking into the Land Rover. Moments later, he was pulling away.

Libby stood and watched as the shopkeeper started tugging a succession of drawers on the wall behind him, sorting through gadgetry of every type imaginable.

He was an older man, perhaps seventy, with a balding head and wisps of wiry, grizzled hair. A natty cardigan sweater and trousers covered his narrow frame, and he wore thick-lensed eyeglasses on a nose that was both short and veined. His dark eyes, however, had a twinkle about them that came just as easily as his warm smile. He reminded Libby of the spry terrier, Robbie, she’d had as a child, who till his fifteenth year had still trotted about the beach like a puppy.

“Is this it?” The shopkeeper lifted the item up to see it through his bifocals better. “Nae, that’s for a French connection.” And then he chuckled at his own joke. “French connection—funny that.”

He continued yanking out drawers, muttering things like “German” or “Japanese” as he went. And then ...

“Ha! I knew I had it. One U.S.-to-U.K. voltage converter.” He showed it to her proudly. “Now mind this switch here. For the laptop it doesn’t matter, because most laptops are built to handle voltage variances, but check the settings if you’re planning to use this for your hair dryer or that sort. If you have the setting too high, you’ll burn the wee thing clear out.”

Libby nodded. “Thank you, Mr ... ?”

“M’Cuick,” he answered. “Ian M’Cuick of M’Cuick’s Hardware and Everything.”

Libby smiled. “Well, you’ve certainly lived up to that name.”

He shoved his hand toward her. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss ... ?”

“Libby Hutchinson.”

“Welcome to our wee village, Miss Hutchinson.” The shopkeeper smiled, leaning on the counter. “I hope you’ll enjoy your visit. Anything else I can get for you?”

“No, I think that’s all for now.” And then she paused.

He hadn’t been at the shop the day before when she’d come asking if anyone could tell her about her mother. It had been a woman, older, most likely his wife.

“Then again, I wonder if I might ask you a question?”

“Cairr
-tainly,” he replied, stuffing some of the gadgets he’d taken out back into their drawers.

“Have you lived in the village for very long?”

“All my life. Born in this very house, above this very shop, one blizzard-stricken December night.” He turned, grinning. “Or so my mother liked to tell me.”

“I wonder if you would remember a girl who once lived here.”

“I should think so. What was her name?”

“Matilde Donn.”

This time Libby gave the surname she’d found in the church records, not Mackay. Even so, she’d expected the same frown and shake of denial she’d received the previous day. Instead, the shopkeeper got a look of obvious recognition on his face, just as he had when he’d been searching for the converter.

“Matilde Donn. Now that’s a name I havena heard in a long time. Oh, she was a fine, bonny lass, she was. Went off to America I heard, some thirty or more years ago. Aye, I knew her. But I’m afraid I canna tell you where to find her now. She’s ne’er come back nor written since she left us, I’m sorry to say. Do you know her?”

Libby looked at him. “She ... she was my mother.”

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her curiously. “You’re Matilde’s girl?”

“I am—at least I believe I am. You see, my mother always told me her name had been Mackay, Matilde Mackay. But according to the church records I found, her surname would have been Donn.”

Ian simply nodded. “Aye ...”

“Would you know why? Would you know if perhaps she had married once before?”

Where his face had been open and willing moments earlier, it now took on that same expression Libby had seen the day before. It was a look of hesitant withdrawal. His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “I’m afraid I cannot answer that for you, lass.”

Libby stared at him, frustrated. Why did it seem that every person in this village was trying to hide something from her?

“Please, Mr. M’Cuick. Won’t you help me? My mother has passed away just recently. I just want to know who she was and where she came from.”

At the news of her mother’s death, his face genuinely saddened. Libby spoke to that emotion.

“All my life my mother told me there was nothing to tell of her childhood in Scotland. She led me to believe that there was no one and nothing about her life before she came to America that she could share. But then she left me something.” Libby fished in her pocket and pulled out the photograph. “She left me this photograph. I do not know who the man is, but obviously he meant something to my mother. I must find him. I must tell him about her. Can you tell me who he is?”

The shopkeeper looked at the photograph scarcely more than a moment and then repeated the words he’d spoken before. “I’m afraid I cannot answer that for you, lass.”

She stared at him and felt her eyes begin to well in frustration. “You cannot, or will not?”

Something was preventing him from talking to her. He wanted to, she could tell, but something was holding him back. She saw him glance behind her quickly, then he looked back at her. His eyes almost seemed to be trying to tell her something. Libby glanced back and saw a woman standing by a display of lightbulbs, very obviously listening to their conversation.

Finally he said, as if he were answering a tourist’s question, “The Mackays have been a part of this land since nearly the beginning of time. In fact their clan castle, Castle Wrath, yet stands just outside the village. Much of the history of the clan surrounds that castle.” He took an ordnance survey map from a rack that stood near the cash register. “This will certainly help you in your explorations.”

Libby looked at him, knowing it was all she was going to get from him, at least for the moment. She fished in her jacket pocket for some change.

“Nae, lass. The map is my treat. ’Tis the least I can do,” he whispered, adding, “for your ma.”

Libby understood. She took the map, squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

Outside the shop the sky was darkening. Gone was the artist’s-palette blue, the puffy clouds. Heavy storm clouds were moving in swiftly off the sea, swollen with the rain that would soon fall. Libby walked the short way back to the Crofter’s Cottage, arriving just in time for tea with the sisters.

“Hallo, dear! We were hoping you’d be back for tea. Aggie baked you some of her shortbread, don’t you know?”

Libby didn’t have the heart to decline, even though she was anxious to get in the car and head out to that castle.

As she sat with the sisters, she decided to keep her discoveries from that morning to herself. Whatever it was that was preventing most every person in the village from speaking to her, she certainly didn’t want to implicate these two in it as well. They’d been so kind to her, welcoming her into their home and not looking on her as if she carried the plague, as had some of the other villagers she’d encountered. One in particular had even closed the window shutters as she approached and refused to answer her knock on the door.

When they’d finished with the tea, Libby made to leave. Miss Maggie asked what she was about.

“Just some sightseeing,” she said.

“Have you a map?”

“Yes. I picked one up at the hardware store.”

Aggie smiled. “Ah, Ian M’Cuick’s shop. Nice man, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is.”

“You know, dear,” Maggie went on, “it looks as if a storm might be blowing in. Perhaps it would be better if you were to wait till tomorrow for your sightseeing. Aggie and I would be happy to have a third for whist.”

Libby smiled. They so obviously longed for a newcomer’s company. “I won’t be gone too long. And I’d be happy to play when I return, if you don’t mind teaching me. I’m afraid whist isn’t one of the games I know.”

Both ladies brightened at the notion of a willing pupil. “Wonderful. We’ll have shepherd’s pie for dinner, then. And a pudding for dessert.”