“Asshole,” London muttered under her breath.
Murray was unperturbed. “Well, I’m putting a wee spin on it.” He winked at his daughter and she grinned, like she was in on a secret. “Long ago, right here on Glenvulin, there was a king who had grown very sick. So, he asked the eldest of his three sons to go to the well of true water on the very northern point of the island and bring him back a drink so it might heal him.”
It became clear to me why the council asked Murray to continue this tradition. His deep, gravelly voice was easy on the ears, and he had a warm, engaging way of weaving a tale. As he continued to tell the story that I knew from my childhood, I liked that he’d switched it up so that it was three princes who faced the frog guardian at the well instead of three princesses. The folktale was our version of the frog prince, really. But Murray had made her a frog princess instead so that the female had the power in the story.
As the children gasped at all the right points, I found my focus moved to London.
She appeared more transfixed than the children.
When Murray was drawing the tale to a close, he looked up and paused mid-story.
I bit my lip against a curious smile because he’d locked eyes with London and apparently that was enough to pull him from his train of thought.
London’s cheeks flushed, and I caught Cammie’s eye above her head.
Cammie waggled her brows, and I stuffed the last of my sandwich in my mouth to stop from physically reacting.
Murray found his footing again and continued.
London, however, stepped away. “I need another drink.” She was gone before the fisherman finished his tale.
“What is going on there?” Cammie murmured.
“I don’t know. But I say we leave it alone.”
“Sure.” She nodded in agreement, but her eyes twinkled with mischief. “It would be nice, though. Murray deserves a good woman. And London deserves a permanent visa.”
“Leave it alone, Cameron McQuarrie.” A smile curled the corners of my mouth.
“Oh, I know when not to play matchmaker.”
“Tug-of-war is starting,” I evaded, brushing past her.
“Aye, it started eighteen years ago!” she called after me.
Cammie McQuarrie. She always had to have the last word.
21.Quinn
The community center was packed to the rafters with folks.
Usually, we announced ourselves to our audience, but Aodhan wanted us to start playing as soon as we hit the stage. We weren’t playing the music for the ceilidh dancing, only opening the social event. Aodhan had hired a folk band from Scaris who played the accordion and fiddles for the traditional Scottish dance music. The main hall was dressed for the occasion with banners showcasing heraldic badges of local clans with swathes of Glenvulin tartan fabric draped across the walls.
As snare drummer and the equivalent of our pipe band’s major, I took the stage first and stood central to Ramsay, Laird, Murray, and Forde.
Folks milled around the bar area and sat at the tables positioned on the edges of the room, but there were so many people attending the end-of-games ceilidh that they were spilling onto the main dance floor. They had drinks in hands, laughing and chatting as they gathered in kilts and tartan dresses and skirts.
My gaze swept the room and I spotted my sister. She stood at a table with a tray of drinks in hand, surrounded by the usuals—Taran, Tierney, and London. The wee jump in my heart rate atthe sight of the gorgeous brunette at my sister’s side was now a familiar and regular occurrence.
Straightening my shoulders, I positioned the sticks over my snare drum and began our performance, beating traditional windmills. I started basic with a flam right beat with my right hand, miss with the left, and it was loud enough to draw the attention of those nearest the stage. I built the tempo, switching to flam right left, then flam right left right, and as Forde joined me on his tenor drum, the crowd began to quiet.
Just in time for Ramsay and Laird to join in with the bagpipes.
Finally, Murray’s bass drum joined, a booming thrum echoing across the hall.
It was an intro piece that we quickly switched into “Scotland the Brave,” a firm favorite of pipe band audiences. Sure enough, cheers rent the air at the familiar melody.
I grinned at Forde because truthfully, I loved performing and feeling the way our sound reverberated through a crowd, stirring their spirits. It was Forde who had gotten me into the band. When we were kids, he’d learned the drums, and my maternal grandmother had taught me piano, so we both knew how to read music. Forde started learning the tenor drum in the hopes of starting a local pipe band. In a way, it was his version of playing out his rock star dreams. At first, I just needed an excuse to get out of the house and away from my marriage—as terrible as that sounded. However, soon I’d fallen in love with the snare drum.
