As we neared the market stall, Janice spotted Cammie, her eyes lighting up. She gave her a quick nod of acknowledgment as she helped a customer. Greg saw us, waved, and immediately took over so Janice could round the stall to greet her daughter properly.
“I didn’t know you were coming along today.” Janice enveloped Cammie in a tight hug. Cammie and Quinn had inherited their height from their mum’s side of the family. I’d always thought Janice was so tall and elegant. She’d had masses of blond hair like Cammie when she was younger but now her thick hair was cut into a silvery-blond bob that framed her angled jawline. Dressed in a silky wide trouser and matching shirt set, she looked anything but an island farmer. Unlike her husband who wore a ratty worn sweater and jeans. Greg was about an inch shorter than Janice and all the hair on his head had migrated to the bushy beard on his face.
They looked like they should be opposites.
But Quinn had sworn he’d never seen his mum happier than when she married Greg.
I saw it too when we were kids. Greg McNulty was a kind man who thought the sun rose and set with Janice.
Memories washed over me, tightening my chest a bit.
“We’re showing London around her first games.” Cammie turned to gesture to us. “You remember London. And, of course, Taran.”
A flare of panic in Janice’s eyes made me feel terrible, so I stepped forward. “Hi, Janice. How are you?”
Her relief made me feel even worse. “I’m well, Taran. It’s … it’s so good to see you. I heard about the break-in. Are you both all right?”
News traveled exceptionally fast on Glenvulin. Every local who had seen us this morning had come up to ask after our well-being. The break-in had put everyone on alert. “We’re all good, thank you.”
Janice seemed to sag with the release of tension as she turned to London. “And are you enjoying the games?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of insane and wonderful all at the same time.”
We chuckled as Janice offered, “Aye, I bet the wailing sound of the pipes must take some getting used to.”
“Actually, we have the Tartan Day Parade in New York to celebrate Scottish heritage. Pipe bands march through the streets of the city. It’s incredible. I always liked hanging out of my balcony, watching them go by.”
“Do you have Scottish heritage?”
“I do. We’re Scottish on my dad’s side. My great-great grandfather was Scottish but my dad was never really into exploring his ancestry. Too busy saving lives.” There was a bitter note in her words that only Cammie and I picked up on.
“Oh?”
“He’s a neurosurgeon. Mom’s a cardiothoracic surgeon.” London gestured toward the strawberries they were selling. “Those smell amazing.”
Janice went with the subject change. “Take some, please. Let me get you a carton. Do you girls want anything else?”
I smiled to myself at her use of the wordgirls, as if we were teenagers. With the awkwardness over between Quinn’s mum and me, I let myself relax.
After we all had a small carton of strawberries to munch on, the three of us wandered past the other stalls, listening to pipers practice before their events. As we crested the hill toward where the caber tossing had been set up, Cammie asked London, “Have you heard from your parents recently?”
London snorted. “No. The last time I spoke to them, they pretended like they knew Nick was an asshole all along—note that wasafterhe got arrested for insider trading, not after I told them he’d beaten me and threatened me not to leave him. I told them I wasn’t coming back to New York—they got mad and said I was cut off financially. I got mad and told them they were cut off entirely. We haven’t spoken since.”
Anger boiled in my blood. London might be able to relay these facts with a blasé casualness born from years of neglect, but her parents infuriated me. My mum would have walked through fire for me. London’s parents might be renowned surgeons, but I held nothing but disdain for arseholes who procreated out of ego and then abandoned their child from the get-go because their work was more important.
“Good.” Cammie wrapped an arm around London, giving her a quick squeeze. “You don’t need those fuckers. Also, I hereby disown your father as a Scot.”
London almost choked on a strawberry as she laughed.
Affection for Cammie warmed me. Quinn’s sister and I might butt heads over her brother, and the introvert in me found herbluntness uncomfortable sometimes … but Cammie would walk through fire for the people she loved too.
For a while we marveled at the caber tossing, making inappropriate comments about some of the bulging calf muscles and biceps on display. London was more than bemused when she saw the length of the cabers—long logs.
“Okay, what the hell is happening right now.” She waved a strawberry, gesticulating toward the competitors. “I’m distracted by the kilts and muscles and beards, so I have no idea why these guys are putting their lives in danger throwing massive logs. Is it to see who can toss it farthest?”
“No.” I shook my head. “First, they’re called cabers. It derives from the Gaeliccabar, which means a wooden beam.”
“That is a log, not a beam, and it’shuge. These dudes are insane.”
