What Lies Between (29 page)

I turned and strode back toward the lights of the house, hoping I didn’t fall into a hole and break my leg. Neither of them would notice and come to help. I’d lie there freezing, with them only a few yards away. When Ben was around John, he was a different person. And I didn’t care for that person.

Nothing like a dose of reality to toll the midnight hour and send me running home to prepare for resuming the battle.

I had barely hung up my coat on the pub’s rack when Maggie appeared in front of me.

“It feels like ages since I’ve seen you even though it’s only been a week. I want to hear all your news.” She looked me up and down. “First I must tell you that you look gorgeous for your first Hogmanay, hen.”

“Thanks,” I said, smoothing the blue silk chiffon of my tea-length dress. It was the perfect dancing dress, flowing and fluttery, but dancing would be outside on the freezing deck. Maybe the mass of people would heat the air. Still, I might be huddled in front of the bonfire all night instead of dancing. Last New Year’s Eve I would never have believed I’d be celebrating this one at a cozy inn on the side of a Scottish loch.

She patted the chair next to where she had settled.

“Right, my news . . . construction is still a little behind from that blip with the electrical inspection, but Ryan’s last report for the year looked better than I’d hoped. He’s pulled off miracles in keeping costs to a minimum, but there are no reserves left in the budget. I can’t have any more problems. One good thing is that Bethanne is away in Glasgow for the holidays. It’s been almost too quiet.”

“She’ll be back soon enough. That girl still worries me.” Maggie said, frowning. “But let’s put that aside. Catch me up on the rest.”

“Jim left yesterday for Hogmanay at his sister’s in Galloway. You know how he’s been checking into the larger groups of bookings per Katherine’s advice, making sure John wasn’t messing us about? Not only do the bookings appear legitimate, but Jim and Poppy Vanderberg—you remember, the woman out of London—have been speaking regularly.” I could feel my eyes twinkling.

“Is that so? What are you saying?”

“What do you think I’m saying? I think he fancies her.”

“Jim MacDougall? He’s not the type.”

“I don’t know about that. He’s been alone a long time. Why couldn’t he decide it’s time to be with someone?”

“But Jim and a London woman?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief. “The world is off its head if this is true. And he would be a cheeky bugger to keep this to himself. Tell me the rest. How close are you to getting rid of John MacIver?”

“Give me a drum roll, you know.” I tapped my fingers rapidly on the table to demonstrate.

“Ellie, just tell me.”

“Not without a drum roll.”

“You must be joking.”

“Drum roll, or I’m not saying a thing.”

She planted her hands on her hips, sighed, and then shrugged her shoulders. “You’re making me look like an eejit in front of my guests.”

“There are hardly any guests here yet. Drums, please—now,” I urged, barely able to hold back my excitement.

“Right. Okay.” Maggie drummed her fingers awkwardly on the table, looking around to see if anyone noticed.

“Yes, like that. And keep it going. Okay, I had a phone call with the accountant yesterday to review Glenbroch’s financials again. They look good, barely, but it’s hanging together. They’ve improved over the numbers before Christmas as we received quite a few of our booking deposits. If things remain steady, I might just be able to keep Glenbroch in the MacKinnon family. Well, provided I produce an heir someday.” I rolled my eyes and laughed at the thought, which never would have crossed my mind in my previous life.

Maggie shrieked and grabbed me in a death grip again, leaving me gasping. After she let me go, I pressed gently against my ribs with both hands.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Feeling to see if you broke anything. Good grief, Maggie, you’re a strong woman.”

“Well, I feel strongly about you keeping Glenbroch, that’s all. This is a reason to celebrate, and it is Hogmanay after all. Might as well get an early start, eh? Pete, bring us over a couple of whiskies, would you?”

“Sure thing, Mags.”

“Maggie, when I first came here, keeping Glenbroch seemed like a doomed proposition. It looked impossible because I assumed I would have to do it alone. I never imagined that people like you, Jim, and the others would care as much as I do about me keeping Glenbroch. You’ve been beside me from the beginning. No matter what happens, I’m grateful.”

“No bother. You know I’m only trying to stick it to John MacIver. Don’t be thanking me,” she said with a wink, making me laugh.

Peter appeared with two gracefully curved glasses filled double with the potent elixir.

We raised our glasses. “
Slàinte mhòr agad!
” Maggie said.

“Slàinte!” I wasn’t sure I could pronounce the rest of Maggie’s toast.

I took a sip and let it wash across my tongue and throat before holding the glass to the light. Its warm sweetness and burnished copper gleam always took me to the first time I had tasted it. I didn’t chase back the memory this time. If truth was something I could afford, I’d listen when it told me how much that night meant to me—dancing as if the jostling crowd didn’t exist, sitting together on the shore of the bay, the heavy moon languishing on the horizon quietly watching. The feel of Ben’s touch as he snugged his jacket over my shoulders,
It’s no bother. My skin is native,
spoken in his gently rolling brogue.

The truth only left my heart lost in a maze, searching for a way out but finding none. Maybe surrender was the only way to be free . . . but I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t trust Ben enough. Not yet. Once Glenbroch was safely mine, maybe I could think about opening up. Until then, no matter what my heart urged, surrender was not an option.

Henry arrived a few minutes before our dinner reservation, looking handsome in his jacket and kilt. He explained that he sported a Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket; many of the men wore a similar style. Others were in casual wear and could have been either tourists or Scots who didn’t feel like donning a kilt.

We had snagged one of Maggie’s early seatings and, after dinner, planned to move into the room in the pub where a fiddle player entertained until the band set up outside.

More guests arrived for the second seating as we finished up Pete’s delicious Hogmanay spread. Among the throng of locals and tourists, one face caught my attention: Ben.

As he threaded his way through the growing crowd, headed toward another room of the pub, my head jerked back in surprise. The woman trailing behind him was with him, her hand clasped tight in his. I didn’t recognize her.

I’d never seen Ben in a dress kilt and jacket and he looked disgustingly handsome. I had to admit he and the woman were stunning together in their formal attire. A pang of jealousy welled.

I glanced back at Henry. He had caught sight of Ben and his date as well. Ever since his outburst at Thanksgiving, Henry had stayed quiet on the subject of Ben MacIver. Watching Henry’s jaw tighten as his eyes followed Ben, I decided to keep my conversation to lighthearted small talk. But I resented feeling like I had to manage myself or my words. On the one hand, Henry’s frustration with the MacIvers’ involvement in Glenbroch was understandable. I couldn’t fault him for exhibiting anger that I worked hard to control and hide. On the other hand, I didn’t want a scene if it could be helped.

Managing an oversized smile, I asked, “Any New Year’s resolutions?”

Henry waved his hand, shook his head. “No, no. I refuse to get into all that. If I want to make something happen, then I do it. It doesn’t matter what time of year it is.”

Nodding my agreement, I said. “I can understand that. Still, it’s a time to reflect.”

“Aye, I guess.”

After putting away Pete’s sponge cake, Henry and I made our way to the room with the fiddle player and found a spot to stand just inside the door. Maggie appeared as we stood listening to a lively jig spark up the room. A few people clapped along.

“Having a good time?” Maggie yelled over the music and the crowd.

“Aye!” I exclaimed, a silly grin plastered on my face.

She handed Henry and me each a glass of champagne. “On the house.”

We lifted them up, hollering out “Slàinte!” I took an extra-long sip.

“Do you want to go outside?” Henry asked. “I can hear the ceilidh band starting up.”

“Sure,” I said, turning and forcefully weaving my way through the crowd, leaving Henry to make his own way. My mind wandered to Ben and what he was doing, the woman he was with. I shoved the unwelcome thoughts from my mind. Tonight I intended to have a good time. I would have more champagne and dance the night away. It was the eve of a new year—the year when I secured Glenbroch’s future and my own.

Grateful not to see Ben and his date outside, I defied the cold air and remained on the dance floor for every single dance led by the ceilidh band, which would play until midnight. Maggie had hired a pop band to come on after the midnight fireworks. And then the serious party would begin. I was up for it.

When it was nearing midnight, I excused myself for a restroom break. Twenty minutes later I was still weaving my way through the burgeoning crowd, less than ten feet but likely another five minutes from reaching the bathroom door. A hand curved around my arm, arresting my hampered step mid-stride. I turned as much as I could in the close quarters to see that it was Ben.

“It’s nearly midnight. Shouldn’t you be with your date?” Ben belted over the crowd.

I snorted. “Henry’s not my date. You know that.”

“How could I know that?”

Shaking my head, I turned back in the direction of the restroom. Ben whirled me around, bringing me close in to his body and inducing a dizzy feeling. “Will you dance with me?” he asked.

“You have a date—what is wrong with you? Are you drunk?” I had no business commenting on his condition. I was the one who had inhaled too much champagne.

“I’m not drunk. And she’s not my date. She’s a girlfriend of a mate who couldn’t get back from working out of the country. She’s been a bit depressed and he asked me to bring her out and keep an eye on her.”

The woman was not in sight. “You’re not doing a very good job of it, eh?”

My frustration and attraction to Ben brought out an edge in me. And who was I to talk? Disappearing from Henry’s side close to midnight was more strategic than an untimely bathroom break. Henry and I weren’t close enough or unfamiliar enough to share a kiss that wouldn’t be awkward. I didn’t need awkward in the workplace. A nice alibi, but the main reason I left Henry’s side wasn’t hard to figure out. The warm buzz of being near Ben was telling me what I already knew—I was at Hogmanay with the wrong person.

The crowd began to count down to midnight. Ben and I stared at each other, the words coming out of our mouths along with everyone else.

Three . . . two . . . one.

And then I was in his arms. What had simmered in the kitchen on Thanksgiving night blew up in a brilliant flash. The fireworks bursting in the sky over the loch dimmed in comparison to the heat burning away the sharp edges between us. When we separated, and it barely qualified as that, my conscience hit me hard and drove me to search for Henry. I’d abandoned him and I wasn’t proud of myself. The line for the bathroom had been unbelievably long—surely Henry would understand.

“You need to find your mate’s girlfriend. I need to find Henry.”

“Aye. Right.”

“Okay then. I’m away,” I said, turning to make my way through the crowd. When I looked back, Ben was gone.

16

The new year kicked off without a hint of the problems I’d had the previous few months. I stayed clear of Ben as best I could, determined to rein in my emotions and stay focused. The push in the final stretch to winning Glenbroch needed all my attention. Everything else could wait.

When Burns Night arrived, only pleasant and lovely thoughts were allowed, especially about two of the guests: Bethanne and John. Nothing would spoil Glenbroch’s first Burns Supper.

I had carefully researched my outfit, wanting it to be perfect. Perhaps more time should have been spent studying the address to the haggis, our main course for the evening, and the address to the lassies. Realistically, there was not a chance my over-full mind could store the Scots words; it would have been a wasted effort.

Maggie stopped by to see me in my Highland formal dress and my MacKinnon tartan. I had chosen the Red Modern pattern as it looked festive with its muted crimson and green—but my favorite color in its plaid was the thin lines of azure. Anna had lent me a brooch with a similar vibrant blue that looked purple in certain light.

“You look quite smart in your Highland dress. Just lovely,” Maggie said, fussing with the drape of my plaid and chattering about the faux pas Alistair MacRae would likely make. “Those blasphemous white socks of his should be burned. There is a place for tradition, and if anywhere it is in the pipes as well as the Highland dress,” she grumbled.

How could the color of a pair of socks rankle someone to such a point? But then few things made a person as nutty as change. I could certainly attest to that. Apparently in Maggie’s book, white socks broke some code of Highland tradition. For once, I was happy to be blissfully ignorant.

Maggie had played a key role in rustling up a full house of guests, sending her overflow reservation requests to Glenbroch once her place was fully booked. It had been a help, Maggie said, to send guests to Glenbroch and “keep it all local.”

Jim’s work and the marketing group’s efforts, combined with Maggie’s referrals and Ben’s connections, ensured Glenbroch would soon be brimming with influencers from Inverness, Aberdeen, Glasgow, and Edinburgh, as well as friends and folks from the community. Maggie and I fussed over Jim, both of us a little concerned. After Poppy Vanderberg told him she couldn’t make it up from London for our inaugural event, Jim had moped for an entire day. Neither of us had ever seen him so out of sorts.