What Lies Between Read online

  WHAT LIES BETWEEN

  by Charlena Miller

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events are either products of the imagination of the author or are used fictitiously.

  What Lies Between. Copyright © 2015 by Charlena Miller.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  Published by Red Bicycle Press, Portland, Oregon.

  eISBN: 978-0-9893697-1-8

  Cover art and design: Darryl Brown

  Jacket photograph: Kyle Pfeiffer

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  To Robert Keahey

  for all the things that didn’t get said . . .

  “I have woven a parachute

  out of everything broken,

  my scars are my shield: and I jump,

  daylight or dark into any country . . .”

  William Stafford

  1

  The letter fell from my hand, drifting, floating, finding its way to the ground, and taking my father with it. Noises around me retreated, grew muffled, the reverent mercy of shock. The quiet turned my ears inward and I could hear every sound in my body. A heart wasn’t supposed to truly break, yet I heard the crack of a jagged piece splitting off, the roar as it fell, cutting open whatever emotion it struck. Feelings piled thick in my throat. This couldn’t be right. Gerard would only be in his fifties now, too young to die. I had been sure we would see each other again . . .

  Five days later

  Glancing at the time on my phone, I was surprised I’d been curled up on the floor of the library aisle for nearly an hour. Images of the Isle of Skye had caught hold of me with its alien-looking landscape studded with brooding mountains and bizarrely-shaped rock formations looming next to wind-shorn cliffs. Other photos in the travel book revealed a more languid side with hills of purple heather, white cottages, and flocks of sheep sauntering down the middle of a road or grazing in green meadows crisscrossed by stone walls.

  This island off the west coast of Scotland held no resemblance to my urban, landlocked world in the middle of Oklahoma. I couldn’t argue the island’s beauty, but the images in those photos were as foreign and unknown to me as Gerard, my biological father, and just as mysterious. What did his odd choice of a final resting place mean? Why on the Isle of Skye instead of near the home on Scotland’s mainland where he’d grown up? My father’s life harbored secrets—I had been one of them. No matter what I found, I couldn’t resist the chance the letter offered to uncover lost pieces of my past and of the father and family I never knew.

  “Why all these books on Scotland? Are you going on vacation?” the librarian asked, as she slid my books over the invisible scanner.

  “No, but I am going there.”

  “Are you moving over there?”

  When I hesitated, she held up the book about the Isle of Skye. “Is this where you’re going?”

  She was more than a little interested Why not open up? I did want to tell someone what was happening and who better than a stranger? Most of my friends these days were work connections—had been work connections.

  I’d requested a leave of absence from my job two days after I got the letter; I had to at least go to Scotland and check all this out. My boss, Leland, nearly had an aneurysm and threw out an ultimatum: get up to speed on Jason Marks’s account and launch his organics division, or be fired. He’d lost patience with my tactics to avoid being assigned to Jason’s business. But Jason’s ethical breaches weren’t my only issue. At a conference I’d rejected his drunken come-ons, and Jason hadn’t taken “no” well. He didn’t understand how to lose, or call a draw, and demanded Leland put me on his account—which would force me to spend more time with him than I would have to myself in any given week.

  This inheritance Gerard left me felt like an eleventh-hour save. After talking to the estate attorney and thinking about it for another couple of days, I handed in my notice this morning. Leland cut me loose right then. Not a big surprise. If you “left him,” as he characterized anyone’s resignation, you were disowned and blackballed to the extent of his reach. I admit that unnerved me—he had a wide network and had countless favors stashed away. My new life in Scotland had to work out.

  Reining in my worries about the future, I managed a confident smile. “I inherited a small estate in the Highlands.” My words sounded calm and sure, as if I had a clue what I was talking about. “I’m moving over to manage it and hope to be there by August. I only have a few weeks to get ready to go.”

  Her eyes took on a dreamy look as she sat down on the stool behind her. “Sounds amazing. Does it have a castle? When I go to Scotland someday, I will tour every single castle.” A rapturous look lit up her face.

  I turned the questions back to her. “What got you so interested in Scotland?

  “I had a thing once with this guy in college. He was from Stirling, which is kind of in the center of the country. The way he described Scotland made it sound like heaven, and his gorgeous accent didn’t hurt. I knew I had to travel there someday, and I started reading up on it. Being a librarian makes it easy to pacify the information junkie in me. Now I know exactly where I want to go and what I want to see.”

  “There’s no castle on the estate, I’m afraid, only a country house. A modest place by Scotland’s standards, I’m told.”

  Disappointment flickered across her face. “That’s okay. A country house sounds nice. What does the place looks like?”

  Feeling a bit embarrassed that I was uprooting my whole life on such little information, I mumbled, “Funny to say, but I haven’t seen a photo, couldn’t find one, either.” I plunged on before she could ply me with more questions. “The whole thing is a big question mark. I don’t know how it will work out, but I have to go. I would always wonder if I didn’t.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t think twice. You’ll love it. And I’m not kidding about the accents. You will die! All those men in kilts . . .” She fixed her eyes on mine. “You are one lucky woman.”

  “I’m not sure I would say that.” I shrugged and then relaxed my shoulders in an effort to ease the tension that kept finding its way into my body. I couldn’t dwell on the challenges ahead. Needed to take long, slow breaths . . . and let them out just as slowly. Always forgot that part. “I have to figure out how to run the place profitably, and quick. That’s what these books are for. I have years of stuff to learn in only a few weeks.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What do you need to know?” She gave a beckoning tilt of her head; I leaned closer to glean whatever classified secret it seemed she was about to share. “I am a librarian. Research is my crack. And it’s Scotland. Seriously? Meeting me wasn’t an accident.” Her eyes brightened. “I’m Kami, by the way.” She stuck out her hand.

  I laughed and met her hand with a hearty shake. Expert help would be great. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ellie. And I’ll warn you, I have a long list.”

  “Give me everything you’ve got. This is my playground.”

  “Okay, here goes. I need to know about tourism in the Highlands, fly fishing, management of country guesthouses, and Highland farms.” I tapped the cover of the Isle of Skye book. “I’d also like to learn the history and stories about these mountains, the Black Cuillin. Oh, and something about driving on the left.” I glanced at her name tag, my brain suffering short-term memory lapses since the letter had arrived. “Thanks, Kami. I appreciate it.”

  Kami stopped jotting notes and wrinkled her nose. “That’s just unnatural, driving on the left. That and haggis. I bet you’ll have to serve it
to guests. Haggis is the national dish—a waste of perfectly good oatmeal, if you ask me.” She shook her head and grimaced like she’d tasted sour milk. “Almost as bad is that they seem to like deep fried food as much as people around here. Not me, though. Scotland can keep their deep-fried Mars bars for themselves.” ” Her disgust faded to a thoughtful expression. “I suppose the castles and men in kilts make up for it, although I think they tend to be on the short side—the men, not the castles—and you’re kind of tall.” She scanned my features, then beamed a wide smile. “If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll see what I can turn up.”

  Twenty minutes later, Kami slapped an armful of books and magazines onto the stack I had found myself and handed me a list of references and additional books she’d ordered from other branches—a far better job than I had done on my own. Kami’s energy and curiosity were just what I needed.

  Kami gave me a shy grin. “Jot down your email address if you don’t mind, and I’ll send you anything else I think of. I’m sure you’ll be crazy busy, but I’d love to hear what Scotland is really like if you wouldn’t mind sending me an email once you get settled.”

  “Not at all. That’s the least I can do for all your help.” Help was something I needed to accept more often than I usually did, which was never. Saving this inheritance would take a miracle, and I would have to push myself out of my comfort zone. Gerard had borrowed several hundred thousand British pounds to fund the renovation of the family home into a guesthouse and the land into a working farm and fly fishing destination. It was enough debt in American dollars to give me a rash of second thoughts and nearly send me running back to Leland and Jason. Now that Gerard was gone, I would have loads of business and financial requirements to meet by the start of the next tourism season or the investors would take possession.

  Since I didn’t believe in miracles, I would have to do what I’d always done: figure out a way to survive no matter what this . . . adventure, that’s what I would call it . . . threw at me.

  My quick research indicated that surviving could mean standing for hours in icy rivers trying to catch fish (and casting without putting someone’s eye out), stuffing a sheep’s organs into its stomach and serving it up to guests crazy enough to order it, or herding cattle whose hair was longer than mine through cold, boggy glens.

  And then I faced my father’s requirement that I scatter his ashes near the Black Cuillin. I released a heavy sigh as I glanced down at the cover of the travel book. The Cuillins, crowned by a spiny ridge of razor-sharp peaks framed in mist, looked like they had sprung from an ancient god’s nightmare. A foolish wanderer who ventured too close would disappear in one quick swallow deep into their gloomy bowels, never to be seen again.

  Moving to Scotland and attempting to claim my inheritance would either be the best decision I’d ever made—or the worst.

  Eight weeks later

  Windshield wipers slapped at the heavy rain, the sound melding with the roar of the heater’s fan and the thick, low clouds to act as a powerful sedative, dulling the adrenaline high I’d ridden for the past week. Although early morning in Scotland, it was still the middle of the night on my Oklahoma body clock and I’d been awake for more than thirty-six hours.

  Drained from lack of sleep and jet lag, I was relieved that Calum Devlin, the Scottish solicitor handling my father’s estate, was the quiet type, even though I enjoyed listening to him talk. Calum’s accent reminded me of my father’s Scottish lilt—although it was much more pronounced than Gerard’s, which must have grown faint as a result of living nearly two decades in the States by the time I met him. I hadn’t liked the words Gerard had spoken to me in what turned out to be our only time together but I’d been drawn to the trace of my Scottish heritage embedded in the sound.

  Calum switched on the car radio. I turned to the window, smoothing my wavy mass of travel-weary hair and pulling it out of my face into a ponytail. I would just close my eyes for a few minutes . . .

  Bright sunlight streamed through the window, blinding my half-open eyes. Blinking the weight of sleep away, I caught glimpses of a landscape nothing like the gently rolling patchwork of farmland that had been visible when I’d drifted off somewhere north of Edinburgh. Hills rose nearly straight up from the sides of the road, making the compact car feel like a toy zooming along a child’s track made up of only the curvy parts. My body had pasted itself to the seat, but I managed to turn my head and flash Calum an appreciative smile. Having no interest in driving on the left before it proved necessary, I had jumped at his offer to pick me up at Edinburgh airport and chauffeur me to the Highlands.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Nearly four hours. We’ll be at the estate soon. I stopped to pick up some sandwiches. Yours is in there.” He flipped his thumb at a paper bag sitting in the console between us.

  Four hours! My heart sank with disappointment at missing the sights then rose with the anticipation of being nearly at the estate—Calum had mentioned it was less than a five-hour drive.

  “I slept all this way?” I asked, surprised he hadn’t wakened me.

  “Jet lag can be pretty rough coming from the States. You’ll have time to see more of Scotland later,” he said, a smile lighting his face. “It’s a wee country.”

  Across the country in under five hours? Things here were on a completely different scale.

  Twenty minutes later, Calum turned off the main road and navigated along a single lane nestled tightly against the edge of Loch Moran. He pulled into a bulge to let an approaching car drive by. Farther on, a car did the same for us. Calum and the other drivers waved. The etiquette of the road here reminded me of the way people waved back and forth in rural Oklahoma. Although I’d only lived in the country for two years, those years held some of my best memories. I rolled down the window to smell the air. It was cool and big and refreshing and slipped into my lungs clear and easy.

  “Glenbroch is a few miles up the road. Its name has to do with the Iron Age broch still standing near the west end of Loch Moran.” Calum gave me a sideways glance. “Ancient people built these dwellings with stones from the area—dry stacked, no mortar—often up on a cliff or a brae, like the one on your land. These brochs are more than two thousand years old.”

  Before I could respond, a bright orange flash caught my attention. The vibrant color belonged to the needle-point beak of a bird flying inches above the water’s surface, its voice loud and fervent. A sailboat bobbed farther out on the loch’s soft crests—a postcard-perfect scene with five mountain peaks rising behind. I wanted to savor every single one of my first impressions.

  “Your property has a lot of shoreline, and the estate holds fishing rights for several square miles of the loch as well.”

  I registered Calum’s words, but my eyes and ears were gorging on sensory overload: white puffs on the distant hillside bleating a welcome, purple heather clothing the mottled hills, ripples pulsating against the rock-strewn shore, tangles of bluebells brightening the edges of the gravel road, stone walls overgrown with moss and ivy beards that would make ZZ Top proud.

  “You’re officially on MacKinnon land now, from the loch back up the hill there and for several miles ahead.”

  “Can we stop?” I asked. “I want to get out and take it all in for a moment.”

  Calum pulled into another bulge in the road and remained in the car as I stepped out.

  Thin trees swayed in the wind, rubbing against one another. Each seemed to have found its own distinct sound. One had the voice of a violin, horsehair drawn slowly across strings. Another snapped and groaned with every surge of the breeze, its joints old and achy.

  “The trees are stronger than they look,” Calum said through the open window. “These old pines have weathered decades of snow, hail, gale-force winds, floods, sometimes even baking sun, all manner of creatures . . . and humans. They know how to survive up here.”

  Old, noisy trees, tell me your secrets.

  I strolled a short distance up
the road and around a bend, out of sight of the car. I knelt to scoop up a handful of needle-covered dirt, breathing in its scent—pine, a faint trace of smoke, a hint of moldy bread—the smell of my new home.

  The old stone wall edging the road held the sweat and memories of people who had come before me—my family. Scarcely believing I was here, I ran my hands over its cold, rough surface, my fingers twisting the scratchy moss growing through the rocks. I sank down against the wall as the past caught up with me once again.

  Hyped up on unrealistic hope, I’d gone looking for my birth parents as soon as I’d turned eighteen. My mother never returned any of my calls but Gerard had wanted to meet.

  I didn’t want to have expectations, but of course I did. Bare minimum. Like I’d expected he would have taken a shower, worn a shirt without holes—he practiced law and must have owned at least one decent shirt—maybe have put away the porn or offered me a glass of water, even asked me how my life had been. He hadn’t needed to belabor his indifference toward me. I could see that for myself.

  And listening to him repeat (as if I didn’t understand English) that he was not my father, made one thing clear: some dreams should only be chased, never caught. Learning that lesson cost me a second chance with the father I needed; I never contacted him again. But second chances cut both ways—my father didn’t contact me either. Even terminal cancer hadn’t moved him to pick up the phone.

  I think meeting him then had likely played a part in why he had left this place to me, and why I had chosen to claim it. The stones pressing into my back, the ground beneath my feet, this inheritance—it all felt like part of a “post-midnight confession” of sorts. The hour had tolled upon Gerard’s death and the opportunity for what could have been had escaped. It was too late to ask questions or to say all the things I’d meant to say, to hear all the things I’d wanted to hear.