“Your sailing club?” I ask.
“Aye,” he offers a small nod, steering me towards a weather-beaten tombstone dressed in a cloak of moss. “As a wee lad, this place was my playground. It got me thinking... everyone carries stories worth hearing while they’re still breathing.”
His gaze drifts off into the horizon, and his voice grows quiet. “I dreamt of transforming this town into a sanctuary for daydreamers and seafarers alike. Build a gathering spot where people could learn to sail and discover the untouched beauty and legends of Aven Valley.”
“That’s quite a lofty dream for a ‘simple farmer’s kid,’“ I say with a wink.
His laughter is modest but confident. He’s aware of his worth, but not showing off about it. “Aye, people thought that. But to me… every rock here, every home, each wind sweeping across Moray Firth... they tell tales of boldness and courage.”
He turns to look at me. “I just thought, if a young boy in a graveyard could hear those whispers of adventure... why shouldn’t the world hear them too?”
The way he intertwines his dreams with the landscape around us is so damn captivating. “So, you’re what? The sea’s siren, calling out to sailors?”
“Something along those lines,” he says with a soft smile. “But without luring them to their doom.”
Cal guides me around other notable graves, spinning their tales with a storyteller’s flair. We chuckle over some of the more humorous epitaphs and marvel at the enduring spirit of villagers from centuries past. When he doesn’t realize I’m watching, I notice his eyes well up with tears at the graves marked by tragedy.
Eventually, we circle back to the skeletal remainsof the ancient church just as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon. Its waning light bathes everything in a warm golden hue.
“Hungry?” Cal asks as he turns to me, his expression relaxed.
His question catches me off guard and I let out a soft chuckle.
“Honestly,” I confess while patting my rumbling tummy for emphasis, “I could probably devour an entire Highland cow right about now.”
His rich laughter rings out, pulling a laugh from me despite the ridiculousness of what I’ve just said.
“Is that sacrilegious?” I manage to ask between fits of giggles, swiping at a tiny tear that’s escaped down my cheek.
He shakes his head, amusement still dancing in his eyes as he steadies himself. “Not at all,” he assures me. “Just don’t let Daisy hear.”
Chapter Eleven
As our laughter fades,Cal gives me this affectionate and warm look that has my heart doing somersaults.
“How about we swing by my parents’ place ’afore I take ye to mine for dinner?”
I nod, and suddenly, I’m buzzing with anticipation.
Cal leads me along a well-trodden path toward the stone farmhouse we saw earlier. It looks like it’s been plucked straight out of aGrimms’ Fairy Talestorybook. As we get closer, he explains that it’s been home to generations of MacDowells.
“It was built in 1640, but rooms have been expanded, and Da and I built this wraparound porch last summer,” he smiles proudly, opening the front door for me.
“Mum? Da?” his rich Highland accent fills thecozy family room as we step inside. The room has aged wooden beams and a hospitable fireplace that exudes warmth and tales of the past. Large windows punctuate the walls, inviting in an abundance of natural light that dances playfully across the room. The flickering firelight wraps around us like a warm hug, illuminating Caitriona MacDowell’s fiery red curls as she emerges from the kitchen with a face glowing brighter than the hearth itself.
In her soft Gaelic lilt, she says something to Cal that sounds like music but is completely lost on me. He replies with an equally melodic phrase and then grins at me like he’s just won a prize.
The warmth of their dwelling envelops me like that first ray of sunshine after a frosty winter. Cal’s mum asks if we’ve had our afternoon tea yet.
“I’d be thrilled to partake in your Scottish traditions, Mrs. MacDowell,” I respond, doing my best to play it cool despite my excitement bubbling beneath the surface.
She waves me off with a broad smile. “Ah, call me Cait.”
“And ye can call me anything but late for supper,” adds Colin MacDowell from his chair, lifting a thick white eyebrow and giving me a cheeky wink.
As we settle around the sturdy wooden table, the air fills with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed tea and buttery Scottish shortbread. Cait effortlessly switches between English and Gaelic throughout ourconversation—it’s clear that their language holds a special place in their family history.
Curiosity piqued, I ask Cal about his fluency in Scots Gaelic. He admits that while he knows enough to get by, he’s no match for his parents’ proficiency. But there’s pride in his voice when he speaks about this linguistic legacy passed down through generations of MacDowells.
