Authors: Leah Marie Brown
“You don’t know my best friend.” I push the covers down to my nose. “She was serious.”
“You will call her?”
“
Oui
.”
He frowns and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He wants to say something, but is hesitating. Odd. Hesitation is not my father’s natural state. His mind is like a super-computer, processing data at lightning speed, free of passion or compassion. His super-computer brain helped him increase our family’s fortune. It helped him survive my mother’s death. Most men would have been catatonic with grief at losing such a beautiful and vibrant wife. Not my Papa. Her death was barely a blip on his screen.
“
Qu’est-ce que c’est, Papa?
”
“I am worried about you.”
I snort. “Don’t worry about me. After all, I am a Moreau, and we don’t let anything keep us down for long. Not a lost job or a lost love.
J’ai raison, n’est-ce pas?
”
“
Non
.” He sighs and takes a seat on the edge of my bed. “You are not right,
ma puce.
”
He hasn’t called me
ma puce
since I was a very little girl. I want to say that it means nothing, but hearing him use the term of endearment has the same effect as watching a thousand sappy greeting card commercials. I sit up, tuck my knees under my chin, and wrap my arms around my legs.
“
La
!” He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “What your grandmother would say if she could see you now, dirty, disheveled, and dreadfully depressed.”
“She would say, ‘Fanny,
ma fille
, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get out of that bed, take a shower, and go buy a pretty new gown.’” I try to laugh, but the sound that comes out is more bitter than joyful. “For
Grand-mère
, there was no problem or pain too great that couldn’t be fixed with a quick trip to Dior, Lancel, or Chanel.”
“Ah, be careful there,
ma puce
,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do not confuse her
joie de vivre
with a lack of feeling. Your
grand-mère
had great depth and more feeling than anyone I have ever known. She just didn’t believe in wallowing in pain.”
“Is that what you think I am doing, Papa? Wallowing in pain?”
“
Bien sûr
,” he snorts. “But you are wallowing in pain,
tu n’es pas
?”
“
Oui
, Papa! I am wallowing. This is what people do when they lose someone they love; they wallow and wail and stop washing. This is normal!”
I stop talking and look away from him, but I know he heard my unspoken words, my accusation that he is not normal, that the way he grieved over my mother was not normal.
“Do not speak to me of loss, Fanny,” he whispers. “Your mother was the love of my life. That feeling—that someone reached inside your chest and tore your heart out—I have had that feeling every day since your mother died.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“What does that mean?”
“What does that mean?” I scoff. “It means you have filled your life with a quick succession of vapid, silly, shallow girlfriends.”
“Pfft.”
It is an utterly French, utterly dismissive expression. His pfft is akin to someone rolling their eyes and saying, “Puh-leez. Are you kidding me?” Yet that simple pfft is the most genuine, heartfelt thing my father has said to me in years.
“You don’t want to spend your life like me,
ma puce
, aching for a love you can’t have and moving from one relationship to the next because you keep hoping the next person will ease your pain and fill the hole in your chest.”
His voice is soft and raw, and it hurts my already aching heart. I reach for his hand and squeeze it.
“But what can I do, Papa? I’ve lost him.”
“You are my daughter. Losing is not in your genetic composition.”
“I feel like a loser.”
“Bah!” He waves his hand at me—a gesture I once loathed, but now find endearing. “What does Vivian call you?”
“Never, ever, ever quit Fanny.”
“
Voilà
!”
“
Voilà
? What are you saying?”
“Don’t quit, Fanny. Go to your love. Woo him. Win him!”
Juju
Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
I am pulling a Vivia! Headed to the Highlands to woo and win my man. Wish me luck.
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Atta Girl! Muster that inner-Churchill and conquer that cowboy! You’re Never-Ever-Ever-Quit Fanny and you GOT THIS ONE!
I appreciate my best friend’s optimism, but I am not so sure I have this one. After my father’s hole-in-the-heart confession, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and packed a carry-on. I took a taxi to the airport and bought a ticket on the first flight leaving Charles de Gaulle for Inverness. I had a brief layover in Dublin and finally landed in Scotland an hour ago.
Now, I am speeding north on the A9 over a narrow two-lane bridge called the Cromarty Firth Causeway. A flat slate-gray body of water—the Firth of Cromarty—stretches out on either side of the bridge. Rolling paps covered in yellow gorse stretch out before me, my windshield acting as a frame for the stunning panoramic snapshot.
The GPS built into the console indicates I will arrive at MacFarlane Farm in less than twenty minutes. I reach into my purse, pull out a tin of Altoids, and pop several mints into my mouth. If Calder rejects me, it won’t be because I have bad breath.
Make a left turn off the A9 onto the A862…take the second exit out of the traffic circle in Dingwall…travel 1.3 miles on the A834…and you will arrive at your destination.
I turn off the A834 onto the long gravel drive leading to Calder’s farm, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles look like white marbles.
What if Calder refuses to see me? What if Fiona, his loyal, doting sister-in-law, slams the door in my face? What if I have traveled all of this way just to be told I am a selfish, self-absorbed loser who puts her ambitions before her heart?
I pull all of the way up the drive and park near the barn. I pop a few more mints into my mouth and consider my options. I could back down the driveway and leave before anyone even realizes I have arrived. I could….
My iPhone blings. I know it is Vivian texting before I even look at the screen.
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Argh! The suspense is killing me. What did you say to Calder? What did he say? Did he pull you into his big, brawny, badass arms and declare his undying devotion?
Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
I haven’t spoken to him yet.
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
WTH? Why not? You arrived over seventy five minutes ago.
Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
How do you even know that?
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Flight tracker. Please tell me you aren’t sitting in your rental car, trying to decide whether you should ring his doorbell or drive away?
Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
That is exactly what I am doing.
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Listen to the American. Resist your French urges to retreat. You’ve landed in Normandy, now storm that freaking beach!
I am about to type a suitably snarky response when someone knocks on my window, scaring the
merde
out of me. I look up to find Fiona staring at me, a smile on her pretty face.
I roll down the window.
“Fiona! What are you doing here?”
She laughs. “I live here, remember?”
“I know.” My cheeks flush with heat. “I just thought you would be inside, taking care of Angus.”
“He’s napping,” she says, putting her hand on my door. “I was making a pot of tea when you pulled up. I thought maybe you were a lost tourist. I am glad I was wrong.”
“You are?”
She smiles and nods. “Now get out of that car so I can give you a hug.”
I hesitate for only a moment before opening the door and getting out of the car. She wraps her long, slender arms around me and squeezes. Fiona was a psychiatrist before she married Angus. She has the quiet, compassionate nature of a mental health professional and the uncanny ability to read people. Vivian called it creepy mind-reading juju.
Fiona pulls away and fixes her gaze on my face. “You’re here for Calder, then?”
I nod my head because a lump of emotion is clogging my throat.
“I am sorry, but he is not here.”
A razor sharp pain lacerates my heart. I was a fool to think a man as sexy and wonderful as Calder would be waiting around for me to come to my senses. He’s probably found some bonny lass and is making slow, sweet love to her right now. Tears fill my eyes and, to my utter mortification, spill down my cheeks.
“Please don’t cry.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it. “He’ll be back in a few hours. He’s fixing a fence in the north pasture.”
It’s ridiculous, but hearing that he won’t be home for a few more hours makes me cry even harder. “I c-c-c-an’t wait. I have to s-s-see him n-n-now!”
Fiona puts her arm around my shoulders and leads me toward her cottage, a charming two-storied stone house with smoke curling out of the chimney toward the flat gray sky.
“Why don’t you come inside and have a cup of tea? We can chat while you wait for Calder to return.”
I pull away. “I am sorry, Fiona. I can’t wait.”
“Okay,” she says, kicking a tone with the toe of her shiny black Wellies. “Tell me your plan and I will help you any way I can.”
A new wave of heat ripples over my face and down my body.
“I don’t have a p-p-plan,” I say, sniffling. “When Vivian wanted to win Luc back, she came up with this grand public display with flowers and music and candies and a ring. I don’t have any grand public displays planned.”
“You are not Vivia, my friend.”
“No,” I whisper. “I am not Vivia.”
I don’t tell Fiona that I wished I were more like my friend. I wish I had her big, open, expressive heart and her ability to let go.
“I am glad,” Fiona says.
I look up, tears clouding my vision.
“You are?”
Fiona nods. “Vivia is awesome, but you, my dear friend, have captured my beloved brother-in-law’s heart.”
I sniffle. “I have?”
She nods.
“Still?”
She nods again.
I throw my arms around her and squeeze her hard. We stand in the shadow of the barn, dark ominous clouds swirling over our heads, and hug for a long time. It doesn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable. It feels right. It feels like family.
“I can’t wait, Fiona.” I pull away. “I have to get to Calder. I have to tell him I am sorry. I have to tell him that I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him.”
“Yessss!” Fiona punches the air. “I was hoping you were going to say that.”
“Can I borrow a horse?”
“That depends. Have you ever ridden a horse before?”
“Only once, but I have climbed sheer rock walls, hiked on glaciers, and cycled through two countries. I think I can manage a horse.”
Fiona leads me to the barn. She gives me a crash course on riding a horse, a map, and points me in the direction of Calder.
I am so desperate to see the man I love, I don’t even bother to change out of my pants suit and high heeled boots. Besides, I can’t think of a better uniform to win and woo my man than a perfectly tailored Armani suit, a silk Italian blouse, and sexy leather f-me boots.
I’ll Be Your Sassenach
Less than an hour later, I realize two humiliating facts: one, wearing a tight tailored Armani pantsuit to ride a horse is not sexy. My pant legs are covered in mud and I am sporting an unsightly and painful camel toe. And two, I am as abysmal at managing horses as Vivia is at managing touring bikes.
The old nag won’t move faster than a gentle stroll. I nudge her flanks, coo in her ear, stroke her neck, curse at her in French, but we just plod along. Finally, in complete frustration, I drive my heels into her sides and she takes off like Seabiscuit.
Unfortunately, she must not be familiar with this track, because she is racing in the wrong direction. I clutch the reins with one hand and pull the map out of my suit pocket with the other. The map blows out of my hands and flutters high in the air.
I squeeze my aching thighs against the horse’s flanks and pull back on the reins, but the old nag is drunk with power. She snickers, tosses her head, and gallops even faster. In horse language, she just said, “Fuck you!”
“Listen, you swaybacked, flea-bitten glue factory candidate”—I lean low over her neck and shout in her ear—“I didn’t come all this way to be beaten by a horse. Now turn around and head in the right direction.”
I swear to God the nasty nag understood every single one of my words and increased her speed…in the wrong direction. She continues galloping wildly toward a dark copse of trees, finally resuming her slow plod just before we reach the forest. I yank on the reins and she stops. Just stops plodding, stands in the shadow of a giant pine tree, and flicks her tail.
I slide out of the saddle, my heels sinking in thick primordial mud, and toss the reins around the saddle horn.
“I know a chef in Paris who could turn you into a delicious
pot-au-feu de cheval
.” I look the nag in the eyes, but she merely nickers and paws the ground with her hoof, sending a fresh spray of mud over my pant legs. “Oh, you just wait! I am going to eat you with a nice Chianti!”
The horse turns and gallops back in the direction we came, leaving me standing ankle deep in mud, my Armani suit wrinkled and splattered with sheep shit.
“
Putain!
” I turn my face to the heavens and shout. “Could this day get any worse?”
And the heavens answer.
Fat freezing drops of rain fall from the sky and land on my forehead, my cheeks, my chin. I pull my feet out of the muck, gritting my teeth at the wet, slurping noise my now-ruined Christian Louboutin boots make.
With dread, I realize I will have to wait out the rain before trying to make my way back to the farm. I move deeper into the dark forest, crunching pinecones underfoot, pushing back low hanging branches, until I come to a hill. I climb to the top of the hill, my feet slipping on the rain-soaked grass, and find a ring of standing stones. One stone has fallen sideways and is resting against another, providing a shelter of sorts.