Sean appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a smile. “Look at you, domestic goddess.”
I rolled my eyes, pointing the knife I was holding at him. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still learning.”
“I like watching you learn new things,” he said, softly, and the tenderness in his voice made the butterflies stir.
Theresa shooed him away. “Go on, we’re having girl talk in here.”
Once he was gone, she turned to me with a knowing smile. “He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him, you know.”
I felt a blush creep up my neck. “I am too.”
“Good.” She nodded decisively. “That’s all a mother needs to hear.”
After helping Theresa slide the roast into the oven, I slipped out onto the back porch, needing a moment to breathe in the cool California air. The sun was dipping below the rolling hills, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and pink. I leaned against the railing, feeling a sense of peace settle over me, so different from the restless energy that used to drive me.
“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?”
I turned to find Patrick standing there, two glasses of white wine in his hands. He offered one to me with a warm smile.
“It is,” I agreed, taking the glass. “Thank you.”
“I often come out here when the house gets too loud,” he confided, leaning against the railing beside me. “Reminds me a little of the quiet of the Highlands, even if the weather is a damn sight better.” He chuckled. “It’s good to hear a proper Glasgow lilt in the house again, Beth. Besides my own, of course.”
“Sometimes I miss it,” I admitted, swirling the wine in myglass. “The rain, the architecture... even the miserable weather has a certain charm when you’re gone long enough.”
“Aye, that it does,” he said. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze on the horizon. “Sean told me what you went through back home. With your parents. With that Beauchamp bastard.” His expression hardened for a moment before softening again. “It takes a rare kind of courage to stand up to your own family, to choose your own path. It reminds me of the leap of faith I took with Theresa all those years ago. Sometimes the riskiest choice is the only one that leads you home.”
He turned to me, his eyes full of a father’s warmth and approval. “I told my son that life’s too short for regrets. Seeing him with you... I know he made the right choice. Welcome home, lass. Truly.”
The sincerity in his voice was a balm on wounds I hadn’t even realized were still there. “Thank you, Patrick,” I said, my voice thick with emotion.
Just then, the man himself appeared, sliding the glass door open. “There you two are,” Sean said, a slow smile spreading across his face as he took in the scene. “Am I interrupting a meeting of the Scottish delegation?”
“Just welcoming our newest member,” Patrick said, clapping a hand on my shoulder before heading back inside. “Dinner’s almost ready!”
“So,” Sean murmured into my hair, as he held me. “Did my old man behave himself?”
I leaned back into his embrace, my heart feeling impossibly full. “He was perfect,” I said. “They all are.”
Later, as the afternoon sun began to dip lower, casting long shadows across the lawn, Fury found me by the pool, watching the kids splash and shriek with laughter.
“Enjoying the chaos?” he asked, a wry smile on his face as he handed me a fresh gin and tonic.
“It’s certainly a change of pace from a quiet afternoon of being judged over lukewarm tea,” I admitted.
“I have something for you,” he said, his tone shifting slightly. He pulled a thick, formal-looking envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket. “This arrived at our New York office for you. It was forwarded from your old flat in Glasgow. Looks official.”
My stomach gave a nervous little lurch. I took the envelope. The handwriting was elegant, old-fashioned, and entirely unfamiliar. I excused myself, finding a quiet bench in a secluded corner of the garden, the scent of roses hanging heavy in the warm air.
With trembling fingers, I tore open the seal. Inside were two letters. The first was from a solicitor in Edinburgh, its language cold and formal. It informed me, with regret, of the passing of my Great-Aunt Eilidh MacLeod, my grandfather’s youngest sister, who had passed away peacefully in her sleep two months ago. The funeral, the letter stated, had already taken place. A pang of sadness hit me for a life I’d barely known. I remembered her vaguely from childhood. A quiet woman with kind eyes and a mischievous smile who always smelled faintly of lavender and old books. The family had always referred to her as their “eccentric,” the one who had eschewed a society marriage to live a quiet life on her own terms on the coast. The family’s other black sheep.
The second letter was handwritten on delicate, pale blue stationery, the ink a little faded. It was from Aunt Eilidh herself.
My Dearest Elisabeth,
If you are reading this, then I have embarked on my next great adventure, and I hope it involves fewer judgmental relatives and considerably more dancing than my last one. I imagine you might be surprised to hear from me after all these years. We didn’t know each other well, a regret I carry with a quiet sigh. But, my dear girl, I have watched you from afar more than you perhaps realized. Your spirit, that fiery creativity and fierce independence you possess, always reminded me so much of myself at your age. A spirit that, I fear, your immediate family sometimes struggled to nurture, much as mine did with me back in the day.
When I heard, through our dear Mr. Douglas (a more loyal friend one could not ask for), of the rather challenging predicament you found yourself in, my heart truly went out to you. I know your mother, in her own way, believes she’s acting in what she perceives as your best interest, but sometimes the best intentions can feel like the tightest of cages. I simply wanted you to have a chance, Elisabeth, a real chance to breathe, to find yourself, to discover the remarkable strength I always sensed in you, far away from theshadows and stifling expectations that can be so heavy in a family like ours.
