Since there was no good answer to that, Aila held her tongue. Rab, having completed his tour of his new home, found them. She tweaked his ear affectionately. When she’d found him waiting patiently beside her car, she’d nearly wept with relief. Violet had taken her desperate claim that she’d always wanted a dog and adopted the “stray” without protest, thank God. Whether Donell intended it or not, the dog was hers now.
A soothing anchor amid the turmoil in her mind.
She’d have to get food for him. A collar, tags, leash, bowls…a bed. Far more pleasant thoughts than anything that might arise in the conversation to come. Aila went to the cupboard to find a bowl. Filling it with water, she set it on the floor for him.
“Red or white?”
“I believe Brontë usually liked to drown her sorrows in a pinot noir, aye?”
With a sympathetic nod, Violet retrieved a bottle from another cupboard. Attention focused on opening it, she voiced her concern casually. “Is that what we’re doing? Drowning your sorrows? What happened, dear? Kyle isn’t bothering you again, is he?”
“Nay, nothing like that,” Aila assured her. “He hasn’t given me a hint of trouble since ye laid into him the last time he dared show up at yer door.”
Fetching a plate of meat, cheese, and grapes from the fridge, she carried it to the table. Rab caught the scent of meat and followed, flopping down at her feet as she sat, confident a snack would be coming his way. He’d trained her well over the past week.
Kicking off her shoes, she drew one foot onto the chair seat and hugged her knee. She’d taken a minute at the inn to change from her historic clothing into a pair of leggings and an oversized jumper. They provided ease of movement and shed the constant reminder of where she’d been for the past eight days.
The visual one at any rate. She hadn’t been able to keep her thoughts straight on the way home any better than she’d managed to keep to her own lane on the motorway.
Violet brought the glasses to the table, covering the short distance without her cane. She sat and allowed Aila the courtesy of enough time to take a sip. “If not Kyle, what is it?”
How could she explain? Brontë had gone from single to a serious relationship in the relative blink of an eye, have a boyfriend who was technically over a hundred years old, and shuffle both him and herself back in time over and over for months at a time without once tipping off her grandmother to the truth of it. Violet was a clever woman. It wasn’t easy to pull the wool over her eyes.
Brontë had done it by telling the truth of who Tris was, where he was from, and how she’d found him with just enough sarcasm to turn truth into jest. Despite her practiced talent in that area, Aila didn’t have the fortitude or the heart to pull that off right now.
Moreover, she didn’t want to deceive in any way the woman who’d taken her in and given her a place to live at the worst moment of her life. The worst. That was saying a lot, given the life she’d led. In the months since, Violet had offered her friendship, kindness, and caring. It’d be a pure bitch move to repay her with falsehoods.
Damn, Aila had truly missed the woman who’d become such a blessed friend to her.
Swirling her wine until it climbed to the rim of her glass, Aila pondered what she could reveal. “How well do ye ken Auld Donell, Vi?”
It was as good a place as any to start.
Since Aila had recently cursed the man in her presence, the older woman wasn’t surprised by the question. “I first met him decades ago, not long after my dear Peter died. I can’t recall how precisely, but he offered some kind words and encouragement that resonated with me for many a year afterward.”
“What did he say?” Aila lifted her glass to her lips.
“Something along the lines of ‘what has passed is in the past, let it go and carry on.’”
A high-pitched squeak of disbelief ended with a snort into her glass. Aila set it on the table and wiped her lips. “Of course, that’s what he’d say. Bastard.” The last word was muttered under her breath.
“Oh, it was phrased far more kindly than that, I assure you. And much needed at the time.” Violet tasted her own wine. “I saw Donell many times over the next few years, then not again until my granddaughter brought him home a few months ago.”
Brontë hadn’t invited him here. It had been part of his ploy to manipulate her life and future. Aila ate a piece of prosciutto and offered two more to Rab. “Then ye ken he has a way of sticking his nose into people’s business.”
Violet nodded as she popped a chunk of gouda into her mouth. “I know he considers himself something of a matchmaker. He had a hand in Brontë meeting Tris, though she wouldn’t say precisely how. Did he try to set you up, as well? Is that why you were so angry with him? I know how you dislike being managed.”
“After a fashion.” Too tense to eat anything more, she continued to feed the dog. “He asked me to run an errand for him. He never mentioned the man who would be there, though I believe it’s what he had in mind all along.”
Violet clicked her tongue. “It must have gone badly if he managed to upset you to that extent before brunch? I’ve never known Donell to choose so poorly.”
There was a hint of something in the old woman’s tone. Not a falsehood precisely so much as artifice. Aila’s eyes narrowed. “Do ye ken something ye’re no’ saying, Vi?”
Vi ate her grapes with wide-eyed innocence. “I don’t know anything…unless there is something you know that I should know.”
“Like…ye know?”
Violet shrugged. “You tell me.”
