CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ~ ABBY ~ NOW
Whit’s fur ye’ll nogo by ye.
That saying has been playing through my mind since Graeme said it the other day.I’m not sure how I feel about fate or destiny, and yet I can’t deny the pull I feel to this country.Or to Graeme.He and I have spent a decade and a half orbiting each other, sometimes within reach, but often not.Part of me has loved him since the day we met, and even our years apart didn’t change that.
I headed out on my own for a bit after lunch with the others today, and yet again found myself wandering through Greyfriars.The quiet solitude of the graveyard seemed like the place to be as my mind spun with thoughts.Should I have allowed things to go so far with Graeme last night?Probably not.It was never my intention to send him mixed signals, but I realize that’s what I’ve been doing, and he deserves better than that.I’ve been allowing my anxiety and my need for control led me down a path that’s bound to hurt both of us once more.
When I walked back through the gates of Greyfriars half an hour later, I had no more answers than when I arrived, but the voices in my head had quieted somewhat.As I was walking down Candlemaker Row, something compelled me to venture into one of the shops.I spent half an hour perusing the selection of occult items and books, and did something I rarely do: I bought things for myself.I left with a candle, a perfume oil, and an amethyst crescent moon stone that the woman in the shop told me symbolized growth, change, and new beginnings.
The urge to buy things carried me into the shop I’m in now, and so far I’ve collected a couple of postcard-sized art prints by local artists, a pair of silver thistle earrings, and a wool Highland cow brooch that was handmade in Callander, the town where my grandma was born.
I stop in front of a display of artwork in various sizes and mediums.A soft laugh escapes me when my gaze lands on a watercolour word art print that says,Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.If Fern were here, she’d tell me the universe was speaking to me and sending me signs.Maybe it’s time I finally listen.
I add the print to my basket and head for the checkout, pausing at the rack of books beside the counter.One about Scottish myths and folklore catches my attention, and I take it down for a closer look.The woman at the counter comes over as I’m eyeing the unfamiliar publisher logo on the back.
“All of these books were written by Scottish authors and published right here in the city,” she says, pointing to the sign at the top of the rack that reads ‘Proud to support local talent in the UNESCO City of Literature’.
“Edinburgh is the UNESCO City of Literature?”I’ve been to several bookstores in the city, and we visited The Writers’ Museum on our first visit here, but as a book lover and someone who works in publishing, I can’t believe I didn’t know that.
“Aye, since 2004,” she says.“The city boasts countless bookshops, and many shops like mine carry books too.”
We continue to chat as she rings up my purchases—including the book on Scottish folklore, plus one about hauntings in Edinburgh I think Fern would enjoy—and then I head back out into the sunshine.Without a destination in mind, I pick a direction and walk.
I’m approaching a small church on an unfamiliar street when a flash of white catches my attention.A bride is standing under a cherry blossom tree, looking picture perfect as soft pink blossoms flutter around her.The gems in her raven curls and on her dress reflect the sun, making me think of the faeries and other magical creatures in the book of folklore I just bought.My fingers itch to snap a picture, but that would be too weird.
The bride turns her head in my direction, and a slow, inquisitive smile flits over her face when our eyes meet.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, you just look so beautiful,” I say.
Her smile widens as she lifts her full skirt and walks toward me.As she draws closer, I see she’s likely in her forties rather than her thirties like I first assumed.“Thank you.Are you Canadian?”
“How did you know?”I ask.“Most people hear the accent—or lack of one, I guess—and assume I’m American.”
She points to herself, the skin around her crystal-blue eyes crinkling with mirth.“Fellow Canadian.”
“Ahh, well, congratulations, fellow countrywoman.Are you marrying another Canadian or...?”
“A Scot, although we met in Canada,” she says.“We worked for the same company and were best friends for years, then fell in love.”
You can’t make this shit up.Knowing she wouldn’t understand if I started laughing, I bite the inside of my lip.
“What are you doing in Scotland?”she asks.
Now I do laugh.“Well...long story short, I fell in love with my Scottish best friend too, but I fucked it all up.”
She lets out a snort, then waves a hand in front of her face as she giggles.“Sorry, sorry, it’s not funny, but I’ve been there.Had that ‘all is lost’ moment where I thought our relationship was doomed and I should return to Canada.And now here I am.”Her expression softens into a sweet smile as she pats the full skirt of her wedding gown.“What’s your name?”
“Abby.”
“Is it too late to fix things, Abby?”
When I consider my collective history with Graeme, I can’t help but wonder if he deserves better.I’ve hurt both of us over the years.I’ve also loved him with all my heart, and still do.And for whatever reason, he still loves me too and has made it clear he sees a future with me.
“Do you live here or are you just visiting?”the bride asks patiently when I take too long to respond.
“Visiting.This is my second time here.”
