Cathryn Parry - The Sweetest Hours

Damn.

“Hold your horses!” Stephanie clomped into the room holding a white note card. She passed it to Kristin, whose face brightened further upon receiving it.

Clapping, Stephanie said, “Attention! The Burns Supper is now commenced! Kristin Hart will please read the opening grace.” Then Stephanie spoke behind her hand in a stage whisper to him. “I copied it from the internet. Let’s see how Kristin does with the accent.”

Oh, lord. It must be the Selkirk Grace. Would Kristin read it in English, or would she go for the vernacular?

Inside, he felt tense. If Kristin were going to give away his secret to her family, then now was her chance.

He waited, breath held...

Kristin cleared her throat, and with a flourish, she read:

“Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it.

But we hae meat, and we can eat,

And sae let the Lord be thankit.”

Yes, she gave the language a thorough butchering. And then she raised her head and smiled at all assembled, exquisitely pleased.

“I’d like some meat,” her father said plaintively.

“Doesn’t everything sound better with a Scottish accent?” Kristin sighed to no one in particular, ignoring her father. “God, I miss Nanny.”

“What did that poem say, Aunty?” her niece asked her. “It sounded funny.”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Kristin answered. “But Robert Burns was a witty poet in his day. I’ll research it later and explain it to you once I figure it all out.”

But Kristin didn’t look at Malcolm. She hadn’t given away her suspicions regarding him, either. She could have pointed out that he had admitted to her that he’d lived in the country and that he knew damned well who the national poet of Scotland was. She could have shared with the group that she’d overheard Malcolm speaking in a similar, heavily accented vernacular this morning. She could have offered him up to the laughter and the skepticism and the jocular infighting, all things he was so familiar with from his own large brood of cousins. But she had not.

She was keeping their secret.

He glanced down at his hands in his lap, feeling sick for what he had to do. At some point soon, he would have to betray her.

He felt thoroughly ashamed.

“Now?” the urchin shouted to her mom. “Can I dance now?”

“No!” her mother answered. “Not yet.” Then she marched into the kitchen and returned carrying a platter filled with hamburgers, each containing lettuce, tomato, cucumbers and, instead of a commercial bun, assembled with that same bread that he had eaten at lunch.

He nudged Kristin. “This looks familiar,” he murmured.

She nodded, smiling. “Our sandwiches today came from Stephanie’s diner. She runs Cookie’s Place.”

“Who is Cookie?”

“The lady who owned the restaurant before Stephanie. When she passed away, Stephanie bought it. First thing she did was choose a new name, and everyone in town got mad and refused to patronize the diner, so Stephanie switched the sign back. The diner is, and shall remain for all time, Cookie’s Place.”

“People just do not like change,” her father said. “It’s a fact.”

“Attention!” Stephanie announced. “I’m offering a substitution for those of you who are not adventurous with the new food that will be forthcoming.”

She waggled her finger at Malcolm, indicating he restrain himself and wait for the joy of the pending haggis.

Everyone except for him, Stephanie and Kristin lunged for a hamburger.

Stephanie shook her head at them. “Your forebears would be shamed.”

“Our forebears would be thankful we’d left the sheep behind in Scotland,” her father-in-law answered.

Malcolm silently agreed, watching longingly as they ate. “How is business at your diner?” he politely asked Stephanie.

“Truthfully, there are two factions keeping my operation afloat. Aura Botanicals employees, and my in-laws.”

“Yeah, and this is why we come to dinner at your house,” one brother remarked to PJ as he sank his teeth into the bun. “Your wife knows how to cook.”

Malcolm’s mouth watered. A sane response. And it would also be a sane response to reach forward and grab a hamburger along with the other men at the table. He knew what awaited them.

Stephanie left the room and returned with her iPod stand. “Now,” she said to her daughter. “Now it’s time for your part.”

Then she addressed the table: “Technically, I was also supposed to serve a Cock-a-leekie soup course, but since you people don’t like soup in general, I didn’t want to hear the bitching and moaning.”

Only silence answered her. With the exception of him, Kristin and the urchin seated beside him, the rest of them were munching and chewing happily.

“In any event, no matter, because it is time for the parade of the haggis. I’ll start the music, and Lily will dance the Highland Fling. Everyone will show the traditional respect.”

Malcolm had never heard of the Highland Fling being combined with the presentation of the haggis. He bit his tongue. Do not laugh.

The strains of a lone bagpiper playing a Scottish reel exploded over the small iPod speakers centered on the dining table. It was like nothing Malcolm had ever heard, and it struck him as uproariously funny. He wished his sister was here; she would appreciate the humor in this.

Don’t laugh. Don’t make a sound.

Stephanie planted her hands on her hips and scowled. Malcolm followed her gaze to Lily, cowering and doing her best to hide under the tablecloth.

“What?” Stephanie asked her daughter. “What is the problem now?”

“I need Aunty to dance with me!” Lily wailed. “I can’t remember the steps without her!”

Malcolm glanced to Kristin on his left.

“Of course I’ll help you, honey. Excuse me, George,” Kristin said as she attempted to edge backward from the tight circle.

Malcolm stood and assisted, pulling back her chair for her.

“Oh, Kristin, really?” her mom admonished. “You have a guest.” She glanced apologetically to Malcolm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m greatly interested in seeing this.”

“It’s for Lily,” Kristin mouthed to him, blushing further. But she held her niece’s hand and smiled at her.

“Please start the music again,” Kristin said to Stephanie, and took a position beside the girl. Kristin nodded at her, and they both turned out their toes like ballerinas, with hands on their hips.

Kristin looked down at Lily, nodding in encouragement. When they had eye contact, in a low voice, she said, “Step, bow, up on your toes... Go.”

Malcolm couldn’t keep his eyes off Kristin. Gracefully, like a dancer, she lifted her arms above her head and leaped in the stationary dance, said to have been traditionally performed on the face of a warrior’s shield before battle. Her legs pointing and kicking, she looked like a true Highland dancer. “One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, turn-two-three-four,” she instructed her niece.

And, God love her, as his aunt would say, the little girl kicked and twirled right along with her aunt. It was thoroughly charming.

After they’d finished their short duet and he’d risen to help them both into their seats, he asked Kristin, “You took Highland dance lessons?”

“Not really.” Her face still flushed, she smiled. “My grandmother thought she was paying for ballet classes, but unbeknownst to her, the dance instructor also taught us the Highland Fling and the Sword Dance so that we could compete at the Highland Games up in Quechee.”

“Quechee?”

“Vermont. They host a Scottish Festival there every August.”

“And did you compete?”