Secret Garden. Cathryn Parry
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and led him into her cottage.
He followed her and took his canvas bag with him. The clubs would be fine under the overhang.
The front room was as he remembered it, but the contents had completely changed. The stuffed furniture was new. The TV was a silver flat screen, and though relatively small, it dominated the space. The old childhood pictures of him and his parents weren’t on the wall anymore. A large landscape oil painting hung in their place.
He tilted his head, trying to figure out why the scene in the painting felt so familiar. “Is that the clearing where Rhiannon and I built a fort?” He’d climbed those oak trees and hauled old loose boards into the limbs. He and Rhiannon used to sit and swing their feet there.
“Aye, that’s Rhiannon’s work.”
“She’s a painter?” he asked, surprised.
“She’s known the world over,” his grandmother said with obvious pride, and pointed to Rhiannon’s small signature on the bottom right. “She paints scenes from the estate. Wealthy collectors buy them, but this was a gift to me and Jamie.”
The painting was seriously professional work—to Colin, it looked museum quality. “I had no idea,” he murmured, though maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised.
Rhiannon had always been creative, and she’d even sketched people with her pencils. Like him, she hadn’t been disciplined then—he remembered them more as running free like wild, unsupervised children. The memory made him smile again.
His grandmother gestured for him to follow her. “Come into the kitchen and tell me about everything you’ve been doing.”
Colin nodded. Now would be a good time to tell her how he’d seen Rhiannon in the clearing—and that he’d pissed off Jamie by talking about her. Also that he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with his father’s funeral on Sunday. Not at all.
But as he watched his grandmother shakily reaching into a cabinet, it struck Colin that she didn’t seem well. He’d thought her ancient years ago, but now he realized that she’d actually been so much younger and healthier than she was now. She moved slowly, setting up a French press, her way of making coffee.
“Do you see Rhiannon often?” he asked instead, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.
“Well...” Jessie drew the word out in the manner that Scots sometimes did, so that it sounded like wheel. “She takes her walks early in the morning. I used to meet her with a wee cuppie, but I’ve been feeling tired of late.”
She did look tired. Maybe that was why she’d left the restaurant last night instead of waiting for him.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Nonsense.” She waved her hand. “I don’t mean to talk about me.” She gazed at him, and her face brightened. “Sit down. Let me feed you some breakfast.”
She rolled the r on breakfast in that delightful way that he used to emulate when he got home to Texas. Jessie’s brogue was so thick and enchanting that Colin had to sometimes stop and tilt his ear to catch it all.
“Sure,” he said, and pulled out the same chair he remembered using as a boy. “I’m starving.” The discussions about the funeral could wait.
His grandmother beamed. She’d always loved to feed him. He loved her big Scottish breakfasts.
He grinned back at her as he sat at his place in her cozy kitchen. Nothing here had changed—except maybe the appliances were modernized.
“Do you still like your eggs poached?” she asked.
He nodded. “You know I do.”
“And grapefruit juice, not orange?”
He nodded again. She knew all his quirks. He was starving, actually.
She bustled about at the stove, opened the oven and checked on his blood sausage. But he only noticed one place setting at the table—his.
“Won’t you eat with me, Jessie?”
“I’ll sit with you, yes.” She set down his juice, along with a bowl of oatmeal. “And here’s your porridge. Jamie and I already had our wee bite.”
As though summoned by the sound of his name, Colin’s grandfather stomped in from the front room. He must have been upstairs. By the scowl on Jamie’s face, and the tuft of white hair that was standing upright from having his hands through it so often, Colin saw that his mood hadn’t improved.
Jamie addressed Jessie, pointing at Colin as if Colin weren’t there. “There’s something you need to tell him, woman.”
She waved her hand at Jamie as if dismissing him.
Jamie made an exasperated noise. Colin averted his gaze.
“Please, Jamie,” Jessie pleaded. “Let me enjoy the morning with my grandson. I don’t want any unpleasantness.”
Jamie glowered at Colin. There was nothing Colin could say to make this easier for Jessie, so he just remained silent, waiting.
Finally, Jamie snapped a coat from a peg on the wall and then limped toward the back door. “The sooner he’s back to Texas,” Jamie said, pointing to Colin again, “the better off we’ll be.”
His grandmother cringed and Colin’s heart went out to her.
But after the door had shut, Jessie just smiled sadly and looked at Colin. He could see the tears she was doing her best to blink away.
“Don’t pay him any mind,” she said. “He has the gout. It’s painful for him.”
“Is that why you left the restaurant early last night?” Colin asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking relieved and turning back to the egg she was cooking. “I’m glad you understand.”
He sighed and sat back in his chair. “Nana, I should’ve called to tell you we were running late. I’m sorry.”
She waved her hand. “Don’t fash yourself.” It was a Scottish phrase that meant “don’t worry about a thing.” His grandmother said “don’t fash yourself” the same way he said “keep it light.”
Chuckling, he picked up his spoon.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” he said. “We’re more alike than I’d realized.”
She reached over to pat his hand. “I do wish I’d tried harder to reach you when you were younger.”
Tried harder. Maybe she had called. Maybe Daisie Lee hadn’t wanted her to talk with him. “My mother wasn’t keen on phone calls.” He glanced at her.
Jessie waved a hand. “Say no more.”
He nodded again. She didn’t want to revisit the past any more than he did.
Still, he felt guilty. “My manager told me that you sent some emails to my website. I’m sorry I didn’t read them.”
“It’s not important now,” Jessie insisted. She took a plate from a cabinet and arranged toast, two eggs and his black pudding on it. As she put it down at his place, he had a thought.
“You’re afraid to fly,” he said. “That’s why you never came to Texas.”
“Eat your breakfast.” She sat across from him and urged him to pick up his fork.
He ate most of it; he was ravenous and it was delicious. But as he contemplated the last blood sausage, he stared down at his plate, feeling ashamed.
He was able-bodied and had enough money to pay for plane tickets. He could have flown to Scotland and visited his grandmother. His mother wouldn’t have needed to hear about it, or even known what he’d