Isabel cringed. Hanky-panky? She couldn’t come up with anything better than that? What was she? Ninety? She was beginning to think that her aunt Nora might have had a bigger influence on her vocabulary than she’d realized.
“You heard me. No hanky-panky, and that means no messing around. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
Before she realized what he was going to do, he reached over, cupped the back of her neck with his hand and pulled her toward him. Then he stopped and waited.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Okay.”
The kiss was fast but amazing all the same. He made her want more, much much more. He pulled back, turned the motor on, and started driving. He couldn’t have looked more unaffected by the kiss. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started whistling.
Okay?She said okay? What was wrong with her? She was the one with the problem, not Michael. Apparently a kiss didn’t mean much to him, but now all she wanted to think about was how to get him to kiss her again.
She was such a fraud. The same old dilemma was once again staring her in the face. The only way she was ever going to get over him was to get away from him first, then concentrate on other things. Like a career. She knew she was never going to stop caring about him, but eventually she hoped she could move on. She didn’t want to be miserable for the rest of her life. She could only imagine how depressing the songs she would write would be. Songs of heartache, heartache, and more heartache. She made a promise to herself. No matter what happened in the future, she wasn’t going to write any whiny, my-man-done-me-wrong songs.
She turned her thoughts to more important matters. She pulled out a smaller map from her bag and spread it across her knees. She had highlighted the villages and towns on the way.
She never had to go to anyone seeking information; they all came to her. As soon as she walked into a shop and said hello and mentioned how much she loved Scotland, Michael found a wall or a counter to lean against, crossed one ankle over the other, folded his arms across his chest, and patiently waited. It became his go-to stance. He thought he looked relaxed and nonthreatening. Isabel thought he looked as though he was ready to pounce at the first provocation. She also thought it was a comfort to have him close, though she was loath to admit it to him.
Michael wasn’t fazed by their openness with Isabel and their nervousness with him. He stayed just far enough away from her that her new friends—and they all considered themselves her friends after spending ten minutes with her—would focus on her and not worry about him.
She was recognized several times, and he admired her clever way of turning it around and deflecting the would-be fan.
The first time it happened they were in a shop crowded with what Isabel called knickknacks. She walked up to the register with some postcards she wanted to purchase. The teenage salesgirl behind the counter, wearing a tag with the name “Heather” clipped to her blue apron, did a double take the second she saw Isabel and blurted, “You’re that famous singer, aren’t you? Oh my God, it is you, isn’t it?” Her voice rose to a squeaky shout. “You’re really her, standing right here in front of me—”
Isabel interrupted. “I do look a little like her, don’t I?” she said. “I was just thinking that you look like that beautiful actress... I can’t remember her name...”
Heather’s hand flew to her chest and she blushed. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes, I do. You look so surprised,” she added. “Surely others have complimented you... haven’t they?”
Heather took a strand of hair and began to wind it around her finger while she thought about the question. “I’ve been told I resemble that famous French actress with the pouting lips, Monique.”
“Yes,” Isabel responded enthusiastically. “That’s who you look like. Honestly, I think you’re prettier than Monique.”
And the issue of Isabel being a famous singer was forgotten.
Their next stop was at a shop in Kilcory. Isabel learned that a group of outsiders were trying to purchase Glen MacKenna, and there was a fight going on over ownership. The clerk of the woolens shop, after describing his worries about his son’s lack of ambition and his wife’s need to coddle the boy, said that ownership of Glen MacKenna could be tied up in court for years.
At one other stop she learned that someone was running people off Glen MacKenna and claiming the land for himself.
By the time darkness had fallen Isabel and Michael were starving. They stopped at the nearest market and purchased items they would need to remove Isabel’s stitches, then went to the restaurant next door for dinner. They sat at a back table and ate salmon cakes and steak pie that tasted suspiciously like lamb but was still quite tasty, mounds of whipped potatoes, and biscuits with sweet butter. She didn’t touch the side dish of mushy peas.
It was cold and rainy when they walked out of the restaurant and headed to a nearby hotel. Isabel didn’t realize how tired she was until they checked into the Gleann Inn for the night. It was a small hotel the owner advertised as cozy. It wasn’t. The manager assured them that their room had a brand-new king-size bed. It didn’t. The size was somewhere between a queen and a double. There were square tables with lamps on either side of the bed, a saggy upholstered chair in the corner, and a small round table, which was all the tiny room could hold. The bathroom had been newly remodeled and was almost as large as the bedroom. Isabel showered first, then put on her blue pajama shorts and camisole. She walked back into the bedroom with the tube of body lotion her sister Kate had given her. Isabel loved its scent of camellias because it reminded her of her mother’s flower garden.
Michael barely glanced her way. He had removed the floral coverlet—which matched the floral drapes and floral tablecloth—and now was on the phone having an intense conversation. How was she going to sleep in the same bed with him and not touch him? Ignoring him was impossible in such a tiny room, but she would give it her best try. She sat on the bed, propped a pillow against the headboard, and took her time rubbing the lotion into her arms and legs.
He was on the phone a long time. With his back to her he was speaking so quietly she couldn’t make out the conversation, but she heard him utter agreement several times. Once he finished, he put the phone on his charger and turned to her. “Just as a precaution, I don’t want you to turn your phone on. You can use mine to make calls.”
“But I...”
“I don’t want anyone tracking you.”
“Can they do that?”