She's already walking away, chin up, shoulders squared, determined to storm the Balfour stronghold like the Normandy beachhead.I follow her---with my head down so I can enjoy the sight of her shapely legs as she moves quickly but gracefully.I almost trip over another gent, offering a half-hearted apology.When I come up alongside Gretchen, I can see her lovely face and the wee upward curl of her lips.My body remains on high alert, the way it does right before I perform a mad stunt or engage in a bar fight.My every nerve crackles with pent-up energy and the possibility and danger.
I grab her hand---can't help myself, really---and together we hustle down the stairs and into the lobby.Mrs.Agnew is at her post, peering over half-moon spectacles and watching us with dimpled cheeks.Outside, the clouds have begun to disperse as if Gretchen's mere presence alters the weather.She walks like she owns the village, and maybe for today, she does.
"Where to first?"she asks."Should I be concerned that this is the part where you lead me into a bog and abandon me there?"
"Nah."I waggle my eyebrows."Here in Scotland, we save that for the second date."
That statement earns me a crooked grin.
My car takes us where we need to go faster than most any other vehicle in the village could.Only Rory MacTaggart's Jaguar F-Type might outdo my Boxter.He's had the car for ten years and refuses to let go of it.But my Porsche Boxster is relatively new and much sexier.I even tell Gretchen that.
She aims a skeptical look at me as the Boxster purrs down the road, the wind whipping her hair behind her."You're definitely overcompensating for something with this car."
"Aye, of course I am," I tell her while shifting gears."I'm deeply insecure, but it only comes out at high speeds and in death-defying drops."
She laughs with her head thrown back, her sunglasses shielding her gaze."This is the only way I ever want to travel from now on.American sedans can go straight to the nearest garbage dump."
We take the long drive out to the old bridge that my ancestors constructed in the fifteenth century, past the low stone walls with their tufts of wild gorse.Gretchen stays silent for several minutes.She watches the landscape rolling by as if she's determined to memorize every hill, every blade of grass, and every crumbling ruin.When she does speak again, her voice has become softer.Maybe she thinks I can't hear her over the wind, but I can.
"I used to think the Smokies were the prettiest thing on earth," she says, half to herself I reckon."But this land...it's incredible."
I don't respond at first because the sentiment behind her words is oddly touching.To break the moment would be sacrilege.
When we pull up to Mam and Da's cottage---whitewashed, with a steep roof and a garden running wild with bluebells---Gretchen doesn't wait for me to open her door.She leaps out, peering up the path and scanning the scene with an academic's curiosity.And, I suspect, a touch of nervousness.
"Ready?"I ask, rounding the car.
She straightens her clothes and checks her hair in the car window's reflection."They'll like me, right?"
I stare at her blankly.Gretchen survived an encounter with Dougal MacWraith, walked through the village in the rain, and ate enough food for two men in Davina's chippy.Yet she still wants to meet my family.The moment I met this lass, I never stood a chance.The world, tilted on its axis, seems briefly and inexplicably right.
"They'll love you," I assure her, kissing her cheek."Even my Da will fall under your spell, and he mistrusts anyone who pronounces 'loch' with a hard K."
She beams."I watched a YouTube video about that once.Pretty sure I can pronounce it right."
"Don't try it without supervision, else ye might snap yer vocal cords."
"Ha-ha."Gretchen elbows me."I'm looking forward to hearing all your childhood adventures."
When we finally ring the bell, a chorus erupts from within.Not actual voices, but the yapping of three Balfour family spaniels, each more deranged than the last.The front door flies open with such force that I scuffle backward a step, and the Balfour dogs tumble out like cannonballs, followed by a woman with an apron dusted with flour and a hair clip that seems to be constructed out of repurposed knitting needles.That's Mam.
But how will she react to Gretchen?"
Chapter Thirteen
Gretchen
Meeting Kirk's family feels weird and premature.I mean, I barely know the man, much less his parents and brothers.But here I am anyhow.The spaniels waste no time swarming us, though not in a threatening way.They're just so dang excited that my ankles are immediately slobbered on by three different mouths.This must be the most undignified greeting I've ever received, but somehow, it puts me at ease.Maybe that's because being welcomed with the kind of abandon only a dog---or three---can muster is so opposite to the Balfour "tough guy" aesthetic.
The Balfour matriarch moves fast.She seizes my hand before I can say hello, her fingers strong and showing only the barest signs of ageing.I wonder if that's a family trait.
Kirk clasps my hand, nodding toward his mom."Meet Kenina Balfour, my mother, and Roy Balfour, my father."
Kenina shakes my hand vigorously.
"Och, you're as pretty as a sunrise over Loch Lomond," his mother proclaims at a volume that probably carries all the way to Loch Ness."And she's American!Kirk, ye dinnae tell us that.But it's no matter."
She beams at her son, who's gone a fraction pinker than usual.The three dogs pinball around my calves, tangling my feet, then vanish as swiftly as they arrived.I suspect they're a recon force for the main event, the Balfour family meet-and-greet.
