Lorie Langdon - Doon

“James Thomas Kellan MacCrae.” White teeth flashed in a cocky grin as his image became clearer. “Or ye can call me Jamie, if ye like.”

“Are you … real?”

“Aye.”

Slowly, I lifted my trembling fingers to the cool glass. In our reflection, his large hand moved to cover mine. And I felt it—a whisper of energy against my flesh.

“Verranica …” His soft brogue stretched my name into a caress laced with longing.

Suddenly, his image began to recede toward the river, and he reached for me as we drifted farther apart. Swirls of mist enveloped the stone path beneath his feet, winding their way up his body. “Come to me …”

I stumbled forward and pressed against the glass. I could no longer feel him. “Wait!”

The door swung open behind me, breaking the spell. The boy vanished. I whirled to find Kenna walking into the room.

“Are you searching for something?”

My pulse fluttered like hummingbird wings, and I gripped the window ledge behind me as I swayed on my feet. What the heck had just happened? If I was losing my mind, it was a pleasant way to go. But a deep instinct told me I hadn’t invented Jamie MacCrae in my head. He might be a ghost, perhaps, but definitely not a psychotic delusion. Wait, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Did I?

Remembering Kenna had asked me a question I grunted, “Huh?”

“I thought you might’ve been searching for the bridge.”

“What bridge?”

“The Brig o’ Doon.” Kenna drew out the last word with a perfect Scottish brogue, sending tingles skittering over my shoulders. “It’s Alloway’s most famous landmark.”

The gray arch I could see from my window was the Brig o’ Doon? I spun around and strained my eyes through the looming darkness … wondering if it resembled the stone pathway from my vision. “Can we walk down there?”

“Sure, but not tonight. There’s a trail from the backyard, but the caretaker, Mrs. Dell, warned me before we arrived that it’s badly overgrown. No sense breaking a leg our first night here. Get it? Break a leg?”

Kenna’s drama club pals back home would’ve appreciated the joke, but I couldn’t even muster a chuckle. I shoved my hands in my pockets to hide their shaking, and turned from the window to see Kenna analyzing me, her head cocked to one side. “Are you okay?”

I stared at her for a moment, considering if I should tell her about the visions … or hauntings … or whatever. Instead, my brain circled back to the arch of ancient-looking stones I’d seen and the possible connection to the actual bridge outside my window. “So, why is the Brig o’ Doon famous?” I was pleased my voice only sounded a few octaves higher than normal.

“Uh, Brigadoon !” At my lack of recognition, she added, “The musical by the immortal Lerner and Loewe?”

She hummed a haunting melody as she ran her fingers along my stack of books, knocking them over like dominos, and then turned to me expectantly. “Surely you recognize ‘Almost Like Being in Love.’”

“Nope.” She’d made me watch so many musicals over the years … I certainly couldn’t remember them all. I pressed my lips together and shook my head as I walked over to the dresser and righted my precious tomes, glancing at my copy of Oliver Twist . That musical I remembered, due to its grievous omission of the character Monks.

Kenna rolled her eyes. “You researched Alloway, right? Robert Burn’s poem, The Tam o’ Shanter , is set on the Brig o’ Doon. That ring a bell?”

“Of course. I just didn’t realized that the Brig o’ Doon was so close to the cottage.” It’s not like any of the roads we’d traveled had been straight. However, the more I thought about it, I did remember her telling me something a long time ago about a bridge near her aunt’s and a dark-haired boy with a brogue that used to call to her. “Didn’t your imaginary friend live under that bridge?”

Kenna snorted. “Not under the bridge—he wasn’t the troll from The Three Billy Goats Gruff . Finn lived on it. I can’t believe you remembered that.”

It was a random thing to remember … or was it? What were the odds that both she and I imagined Scottish boys standing on an ancient stone path and calling for us to come? One in a million?

“Vee …” Kenna stalked toward me with narrowed eyes. “You’re doing that twisty thing with your hair. I can read you like a script, remember? What’s really going on?”

Not realizing I’d been tying my hair into a knot, I lowered my hands and pushed out a loud breath. It had always been hard to keep secrets from the girl who knew me better than anyone on the planet. “Remember when I asked if you’d seen that hot blond guy in the kilt earlier?”

“Yesss …”

“Well, I … ah … keep seeing him … everywhere. The same gorgeous boy in a kilt. Even once in Bainbridge, right after I broke up with Eric.” I slumped back against the dresser and stared at my cuticles. It sounded even more insane when I said it aloud. But if I was going to tell her, I might as well tell her everything. “He was here just now. Before you came in, and he … ah … talked to me.”

“Really? You know what my dad would say, don’t you?”

I shook my head. Kenna’s dad taught undergraduate psychology. Growing up, he’d had a psychological reason for everything, even why my dad walked out on us. Kenna crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, staring up at me with grave eyes. “He’d say ‘Kilt Boy’ is your anti-Eric.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s your knight in shining armor. The perfect boy. Someone heroic who’d never choose their own interests ahead of yours.” Her fingers absently brushed the quilted fabric of the comforter as she continued. “Think about it. He conveniently shows up after Eric dumps you, then again after your mom chooses Bob the Slob. Doesn’t that seem a little bit convenient?”

She had a point. He had a knack for appearing just as my life was turning upside down. “So I’m crazy? That’s the explanation?”

She stood and bridged the gap between us in a couple strides. “Actually, you’re one of the sanest people I know. You’re probably just hungry, sweetie. And tired.”

As if on cue, my tummy growled like a ferocious animal.

“See?” Kenna patted me on the arm. “I’m sure you’ll feel better with a full belly and a good night’s sleep.”

Maybe … but that place deep inside of me that insisted I wasn’t delusional didn’t buy into the imaginary hero theory either. But to convince Kenna that I wasn’t cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, I needed some kind of irrefutable proof.

As I followed Kenna down the back stairs to the kitchen, my inner Nancy Drew went on full alert. I’d noticed tons of books in the library downstairs on Scots folklore and history. It seemed like the perfect place to start researching the mystery of the Vanishing Golden Boy. Besides, with the image of Jamie’s pleading eyes as he faded away burned in my brain, getting any sleep was highly doubtful.

Every truly happy memory from my childhood involved an old woman who dressed like a rainbow and the house she adored. I’d come to stay at Dunbrae Cottage the first time when I was six, right after my mom died. I remember living in a world enshrouded with grief, all drawn curtains and mourning clothes. Then Dad put me on a plane—alone—which was terrifying, except I did get as much soda as I could drink. After landing, I emerged from the breezeway to find an old lady wearing an emerald green dress and a fuchsia turban. Clutched in her hands was a sign that said “Welcome Mackenna” in pink glitter.