To Scotland With Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Bread sounds good.”
    She took her old place at the table next to the sewing machine, where she’d sat as a child. Deydie sliced off a hunk of hard wheat bread, slathered it with butter, and set it before Cait.
    â€œSit with me. I’ve something to say,” Cait said.
    â€œI’m warming up by the fire,” Deydie replied mulishly. She stared at a point just above Cait’s shoulder. “I’ve something to say to ye, too. And I’ll only say it once.” Her gran paused like it troubled her to continue. “I got yere note. It’s a hard thing to lose your man the way ye did. At such a young age. I’m sorry for yere loss.”
    Cait’s throat tightened, knowing how hard it was forDeydie to give any kind of sympathy. The old gal just wasn’t that type of gran. Cait could’ve lied and accepted Deydie’s condolence, but she had to tell the truth, no matter how painful and embarrassing. “Don’t be sorry. We were getting divorced.”
    â€œDivorced?” Deydie growled the word as if Cait had blasphemed.
    Cait rose and went to her gran, standing before her like a kid in trouble. She needed Deydie’s support in this. “He died in bed with another woman. He’d been having an affair for months. It wasn’t his first indiscretion, either.”
    Deydie stilled so completely she could’ve become one of the stones in the hearth. Finally, she spoke. “Then good riddance to him.” She spat in the fire, and it sizzled.
    Relief spread over Cait—Gran understood. “I’ve come home to stay. But I won’t put you out. I’ve rented the room above the pub until my cottage can be repaired.”
    â€œGraham.” Deydie hissed his name as if he ranked lower than a beach rat.
    â€œHe wanted nothing to do with it. I twisted his arm. I’m stubborn, remember?” Hoping to change the subject, Cait scanned the room, her eyes landing on Deydie’s bed. “Show me what quilts you’ve been working on.”
    â€œNot now.” Deydie walked away, preoccupied. “You’ll be staying for supper.” It wasn’t a request. She went to the cupboard and pulled out potatoes, carrots, onions, and a cutting board. She set them, along with a paring knife, in front of Cait’s place at the table. “Go on, now. Make them good-sized chunks to add to the stew meat.”
    Automatically, as if Cait were eleven again, she sat down, picked up the knife, and began peeling a potato. As obedient now as she’d been then. One of her earliestrecollections was chopping vegetables for Deydie. Back then, her gran had taught her all sorts of things.
    It all changed when Cait’s mama got cancer. Not an instant change, but small shifts from an attentive gran who’d taught Cait how to sew, to the gran who saw only fault in Cait for looking so much like her absent father.
    Deydie resented that Da’s life hadn’t changed with Mama’s illness. He stayed in Aberdeen or Inverness, working in the law offices, returning only on the weekends. The sicker Mama got, the more Cait’s father stayed gone. But that wasn’t the worst part. When Mama needed Deydie most—when Cait needed her most—he’d accepted a transfer and moved them to Chicago. Only months later, Mama died, and Deydie wasn’t there. He’d ripped Deydie’s daughter away from her, and he’d ripped Cait from the only life she’d ever known.
    Cait’s hand began to shake, but she kept on peeling. She dared a glance at Deydie, who stood over the sink, talking to herself. Mostly mumbles, but a few discernible words flew out. “Misguided.” “Confounded.” “Devilment.”
    Finally, Deydie set two bowls and two spoons on the table. She stood back and openly studied her. “What have ye done to your hair? Dyed it?”
    Cait held up a lock. “No dye. It’s just gotten darker