CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ~ ABBY ~ NOW
The satisfyingclickof the camera shutter is matched by the satisfaction that settles in my chest when I peer at the screen.A magpie perches on the gravestone closest to me, the blue in its tail and wing feathers a stark contrast to the weathered stone beneath it and the cherry blossoms in the distance that are disappearing into the fog.
Hardly anything is blooming yet back home.It was a long, harsh winter, with snow falling as recently as the week before we left.I’m glad I’ll be in Kingston when everything does bloom; Toronto has plenty of parks and outdoor spaces, but not many near where I lived, and the season sort of passed me by, other than stopping to admire gardens and trees now and then.Drew and Brodie’s yard has a magnolia tree, which I’m looking forward to watching blossom.
I do one final visual sweep of Canongate Kirkyard, pausing to snap a couple of shots of the fog hanging over Calton Hill.I needed a bit of time on my own this afternoon, so I went on a long photo walk, stopped for coffee and shortbread, and then wandered into the kirkyard on the walk back to MacKinlay Tower.I’m not sure if my head is any clearer, considering I thought about Graeme the entire time, but my body feels loose and relaxed.
I make my way out of the graveyard, stopping to capture a shot of the Robert Fergusson statue in front of Canongate Kirk.I already have at least a dozen photos of it from this trip and the last one, but there’s something about the long-dead, babyfaced poet surrounded by pink blossoms that always catches my attention.
As I lower my camera, tingles race along my arms and spine.The fog is thicker now, shrouding the buildings and muffling the sound of traffic on the Royal Mile.I glance around, overcome with an intense sense of déjà vu.
Something moves up ahead.A second before the shadowy figure separates from the fog, I know it’ll be Graeme.Images flicker through my mind of him emerging from the fog at Greyfriars Kirkyard fourteen years ago.Those images mix with thoughts of him as a Gothic romance hero and memories of our first kiss, surrounded by centuries-old graves, with the scent of petrichor heavy in the air.
“There you are,” he says, his soft smile hitting me directly in the chest and knocking the air out of me.
Here I am, Graeme.You found me.You always find me.The words race through my mind without making it past my lips.
“Have you seen Guillermo del Toro’sFrankenstein?”he asks.When all I can do is nod, he says, “Did you catch the Canongate bits?I wasn’t in the city at the time, but my parents were ecstatic that it was being filmed so close to the flat.”
“Drew and I watched it together a couple of months ago, and we both screamed at the TV when we recognized where Oscar Isaac was walking,” I say.“I’ve seen other movies and shows filmed here, but that was especially exciting because this area feels like...”I trail off and look away, taking a sudden interest in the cherry blossoms at my feet.
“Home,” Graeme murmurs, almost too quietly for me to hear.
“Were you looking for me or did you just happen to find me?”I ask.
“Just luck,” he says casually.“I was heading home from running errands when something told me to venture down the Mile.”
The fog must be messing with my mind because his words conjure up thoughts of some supernatural force pushing us together.
I motion up the hill, and we turn in that direction, walking slowly.“You were hard at work in your office when I left earlier.”
“Aye, I’m supposed to be on holiday, but there’s always something that needs handling,” he says.“Brodie called and asked how I felt about hosting dinner at my place tonight, so I ran out to grab a few things, and picked up a package for a neighbour while I was out.”At my curious look, he adds, “She works from home and gets most things delivered.She missed this parcel, so I offered to pick it up for her.”
“Aren’t you a good neighbour,” I say, bumping his shoulder with mine.
He bumps me back.“I try.Living in Skye and being more isolated reminded me of the importance of community and being neighbourly.”
“Tell me about Skye,” I say.
He side-eyes me.“You’ve been, remember?”
“I know, but only for a couple of days, and that was fourteen years ago.What’s it like living there?I imagine it’s a vast difference from living in Edinburgh.”
He chuckles.“You could say that.”We reach MacKinlay Tower, and Graeme unlocks the heavy wooden door, motioning for me to go in first.“Skye has an otherworldly beauty to it.The people are warm and friendly.There’s less availability there—fewer shops and eateries, and not a lot of the ‘conveniences’ we have here in the city—but I love supporting small, local businesses where you get to know the people who work there.I also love things like honesty boxes and croft shops.”
His voice echoes off the stone walls, vibrating through me in a way that makes me feel surrounded by him.
“That sounds nice,” I say.
“Aye, it is.There are pros and cons just like anywhere else.Not being able to get things delivered quickly was a big adjustment when I first moved.Between that and the fact some businesses are only open seasonally, you really have to plan carefully.But I got to know my neighbours well, and we helped each other out.”
“I love that.”We reach the top floor landing, and I lean against the wall to catch my breath while Graeme unlocks the door.“I didn’t evenknowmy neighbours in Toronto.”
“Do you miss the city?”he asks as we kick off our shoes inside the front door.
“Honestly?Not at all.Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of great things about Toronto, but I never felt truly at home there.”
