When the battered cod arrives, I smile and hum with satisfaction.The fish been cooked to perfection.Even Gretchen enjoys the meal, her faint suspicion vanishing along with her food.The lass has quite the appetite and no shame about eating with gusto---or as she would say, "gobbling it all up."She loves the deep-fried Mars Bar, and I enjoy them too.But ahmno the sort who likes cooking anything that way.
After our meal, Gretchen poses a question I hadn't expected to hear from her."Would you like to go hiking with me?Exploring the mountains and lochs feels like something two people should do together."
My first reaction is to laugh, but her expression tells me she's serious.I settle for smiling and raising an eyebrow."Would ye want to hike at night with me?"
"Sure, if you're game.I did come to Scotland to have an adventure, after all."Her lips curl into a playfully devious smile, and she slants toward me."Unless you have a distillery tour planned for your late social calendar?"
"I'll have you know, the only thing on my agenda is brainstorming ideas for new stunts.But that can wait until tomorrow."I lean in, lowering my voice, "You're not afraid of the dark, are ye?"
She snorts and shakes her head, then spears the last wedge of Mars Bar with her fork and wags it at me."Besides, I've got a bodyguard.Clan Balfour's finest, the stunt man himself."
"Ah, but ye need to be careful."I lower my voice and give her my patented wolfish smile."We Balfours are devious, unpredictable, and occasionally prone to tossing unsuspecting Americans into lochs."
Gretchen whispers in my ear."I grew up rafting whitewater rivers.Alligators, water moccasins, the ever-present risk of hypothermia---please, Kirk, don't threaten me with a good time."
A soft laugh spills out of me.I know she's joking.This woman enchants me again and again, like no other could.I'm halfway out of my seat now, pocketing my mobile and leaving a tip heavy enough to make Davina beam from behind the counter.As we step out into the blur of drizzle and lamplight, thanks to the dreary sky, the village is nearly silent now.Since we cannae hike in the rain---too much risk of Gretchen slipping---I offer to show her my favorite indoor activities.But when I voice my suggestion, she decides to mock me, her cheeks dimpling.
"A little rain makes you give up?"She pokes my arm with one finger."Surely the great Kirk Balfour, stunt man extraordinaire, can manage to impress a lady despite the weather."
"Would ye want me to impress you?"
"Sure.Nobody has ever bothered to even suggest they might do that."Her voice becomes a sultry whisper, and her lips graze my cheek."Are you prepared to turn me on with death-defying stunts?"
I almost spit Irn Bru at the sheer delight in her voice.Some primal part of me that's likely ancestral and surely Neolithic sings at the notion of impressing her in any way, let alone by risking life and limb.Bod and Donais, if she'd asked me to scale a crumbling clock tower while blindfolded and reciting Hamlet, I'd probably do it twice.
She slips her arm through mine as if it's the most natural thing in the world."So, Kirk, show me what real Scots get up to when it's too wet for Highland Games."
We pass the empty bus shelter and cut a sharp right toward the far end of the village.Along the way, we make a quick stop at a local shop that sells, among other things, brollies---what Gretchen would call umbrellas.By the time we reach our destination, however, the rain has abated.Only the puddles remain.And within ten minutes, the sun has reemerged too.
"Still want that tour of the mountains?"I ask.
"You betcha.Unless you're getting tired of me..."
I chuckle."Never, lass.Never."
We climb into the Porsche, and either because it's a hire car or because she's feeling rebellious, Gretchen insists on driving.I let her do that, mostly because the thought of an outsider tackling these sodden single-lane glens is more entertaining than risky, and also because that allows me to study her profile as she focuses on the road.If heaven exists, it's probably less scenic than a Highland B-road at dusk and nowhere near as pulse-pounding.
She doesn't speak for the first ten minutes.I give her space to concentrate and adjust to the unfamiliar situation.Beyond the village, we mainly see sheep and fallen rocks, but not much else.When we crest the rise above Loch Fairbairn, the scene is so cinematic I almost doubt my own eyes, despite the fact I've often visited these craggy mountains.I tell her what the mountains and the crags mean to me, and she smiles.The Highland landscapes are more than beautiful here than anywhere else in the world, full of mystery and magic.And aye, a few fairies.Gretchen gives me a sideways "oh, please" look that suggests she thinks I'm having her on.
"You doubt my veracity?"I ask."Ah, lass, ye wound me deeply."
She studies me sideways."I can honestly say I've never heard anyone use the word veracity before, except maybe Harvard academics."
It's my turn to tease her."That's not true, lass.The Highlands are full of geniuses.And for the record, 'veracity' is my favorite word.It's right up there with 'bollocks' and 'peely-wally.'"
Gretchen's lips purse, like she's holding back a grin.I take that as a small victory.We park in the tourist lot, and she finally relinquishes the key fob.Mostly because I threatened to drag her out of the car myself.I think she's in love with my Porsche.
But now, we hike.
The lass insists on setting the pace, which means I'm obliged to step lively or watch her power ahead and leave me talking to myself instead of her.The path up Beann Dealgach is muddy but not impassable.Still, I let her lead, mainly because she looks luminous in the deepening gloom, all athletic purpose and laser focus.It's worth risking a damp backside if it means I get to follow her for half a mile.And admire her bum along the way.Now that is a sight worth hiking for.
But maybe we should've brought a lantern.
Well, I'm fair certain she'll want to turn back soon.
Gretchen falls silent again as we climb, her eyes scanning the horizon the way a mountaineer might, as if she's already memorizing the lay of the land.Occasionally, she stumbles on the stone-cobbled bits, and I reach for her elbow.But quick as a fox, she rights herself and ploughs ahead.
Our breaths cloud in front of us, and when Gretchen does speak, her words come in bursts as if she's only just remembered I'm here too."This is...unbelievable.It's so gorgeous it looks fake.Did you pay someone to stage all this?"
