The abbey bell chimed as I knocked on Angus's front door. When he opened it, a waft of Italian spices and garlic greeted me.
“Guid evenin’, Sarah. Ye cleaned up well.”
He had, too, but I kept that appraisal to myself. His locks were still damp ringlets around his face. I coveted his blue cashmere sweater that made his eyes impossible to ignore.
“Wow, it smells delicious here.” I offered him my precious scones, minus the one I’d saved for myself.
“Grand, thanks for sharin’, and”—he gestured with his free hand—“come in.”
I noticed his bare feet and kicked off Katrine’s clogs. I hadn’t thought to borrow socks, and the tiled entryway felt like walking on ice cubes. A shiver traveled up my legs.
“Can I help with anything?”
His house layout was similar to Katrine’s. It lacked the extra seating area beyond the kitchen, and only two oversized leather chairs flanked the fire—not enough for a family. I followed him past the dinner table, already set for two.
Angus placed the scones on the counter beside an opened bottle of red wine. “Ye can finish preparing the garlic bread. The butter’s already melted in the pan and ’tis waitin’ to meet the bread. Ye’ll find the aluminum lives in the drawer beside the oven.”
I’d heard him say, “al u MINI um,” like Maggie said it, not the American pronunciation of “uh loo muh nuhm.” A pang of missing Maggie’s English wit was swiftly replaced by the realization she’d be the last person to believe me. Veena would probably think I’d had a nervous breakdown—therapists can’t help but see everyone through a mental health lens. Jocelyn had a poker face from years of consulting; she’d privately simmer with the news.
“We’re havin’ spaghetti with lamb red sauce. Ah hope ye’r nae a vegetarian.” Angus’s accent was easy enough to understand, and the deep resonance of his voice comforted me.
“No, I’m not. I’m an omnivore without much chance of converting.” I suspected we were eating his lamb and pushed the thought of those sweet creatures out of my head. A lonely glass of red wine sat next to the bottle.
“If ye enjoy red wine, that glass ’tis yers. It’ll drink well with the meal and ye’ll keep me from drinkin’ alone.” He sipped from his glass.
“Thanks.” I wanted to start asking questions of him before he had me on my back foot. “So, how long have you known Katrine?”
He stirred the spaghetti. “Since we were wee ones. She actually babysat me for a while. We laugh about that. We grew up and attended school together till she left for university. Her family home’s on the south side of the island near mine. Ah suspect ye’ll have a steady stream of visitors, comin’ under the guise of checkin’ on ye.” He put the metal strainer in the sink. “If ye’r lucky, they’ll bring more scones. Kat learned her bakin’ from her mum. They both have a talent for it.”
I hadn’t expected visitors and crossed my arms as I considered it. When he strained the pasta, a cloud of steam billowed up toward his face.
“When Kieran was lost at sea, everyone took shifts tendin’ to her and the bairns.” He ran water over the pasta and gave it a shake. “The islanders helped raise them. We’re all waitin’ on the news of her first grandchild.”
Angus put a generous mound of pasta on both plates and ladled sauce over them, handing me mine. Apparently, he thought I ate like a horse. He was right. I was starved. We sat across from one another at his kitchen table. When he reached for my hands, palms up, arms straddling his dinner, I mirrored his gesture, clasping his calloused fingers. My face flushed; I attributed it to being overdressed.
Angus said grace with his eyes cast down. “We’re thankful for the bounty of food, for the wellspring of the land, and our island community. We ask that ye hold Brìghde, bringin’ forth a healthy wee one and the miracle of life for us to behold.” He gently pressured my fingers, and I felt a tiny jolt. He’d yet to let go of my hands.
Did he want me to add to the blessing? I felt his lingering touch beckoning me. Uncharacteristically, I said, “Amen.” Even though he released his hold, something about him still tugged at me.
Angus echoed, “Amen” and placed his napkin in his lap. “Mah brother’s the local priest. Every week for a year, a mass was offered in Kieran’s name. Kat spent the first week at the abbey prayin’ her heart out, and when her prayers weren’t answered, she hasn’t set foot in it again. She’s forgiven Kieran for fishin’ that day, but she’s nae found her peace with God for takin’ him so soon from her and the bairns. Ah suspect she may never. That woman kens how to nurse a grudge. Ah stay clear of her bad side.”
While he spoke I took my first sip of wine, tasting its smooth fruit-forward finish. I’d expected to celebrate my return with Ian, uncorking a fabulous bottle from his cellar, not sitting across from a total stranger. When I realized Angus had waited for me to eat first, I hastily twirled too much spaghetti around my fork. Instead of starting over, I stuffed it all in my mouth, but a piece dangled, which I slurped up. He pointed to his chin as his amused eyes stared into mine. I dabbed red sauce off my face, glancing down to check if I’d splattered my borrowed clothes and felt relieved, they remained clean, but blushed uncontrollably again under his attentive eyes.
The spotlight needed to move off me. “It’s hard to imagine how excruciating that time must have been for Katrine. She’s fortunate to have family and such a tight-knit community to help her through. That’s less common nowadays in America. We’re often more isolated, having relocated for a job far from where we grew up. Add to that the sixty-plus-hour work week most folks log and there’s not much time to volunteer in the community and make new ties.”
Angus offered me the plate of garlic bread before he took a piece. “Iona’s a small island. Everyone kens yer business even if ye want to keep it private. It only took a few hours for word to spread that Brìghde’s gone into labor and ye’r watchin’ Kat’s horses with Mary’s hip surgery th’morra. ’Tis a lot of local excitement for the island.”
It didn’t sound exciting, but I took his word for it. Just imagine the rumors that would fly if they knew how I actually arrived.
Angus continued. “Dinnae be surprised to have yer suppers made for ye this week. Ah figured ah’d best get on yer dance card early and warn ye. Ye did look a bit terrorized when ah asked ye to dinner. Ah’m nae that frightenin’, am ah?”
Frightening was the last word I’d use to describe him. His square jawline gave him more of a rugged look, like the island’s landscape. “Oh no, it’s not you—I’m not very social. I was hoping to do some writing while I was here.” I took another sip of wine. “Is there a polite way to decline these dinner invitations?”
“Ah suppose ye could beg off sayin’ ye tend to write best in the evenin’s. Folks will respect that. Perhaps ye can offer us a readin’ before ye go. Will ye be writin’ about Iona?”
My full mouth gave me a moment to collect my thoughts. “I imagine Iona may figure in. I’m not in the habit of sharing my work, and I don’t call myself a writer since I’ve yet to be published. Mostly, I write to understand myself better, so it’s intended to be private.”
“Ah can respect yer privacy.”
I hadn’t meant to rebuff his requests, but he seemed affronted, so I continued. “The only time I’ve read my writing to strangers was during a writers’ retreat with my all-time favorite author, Terry Tempest Williams. She gave us the assignment to write from a childhood memory and requested we read it aloud the next morning. Everyone had two minutes to share it. I stayed up practically the whole night editing my two-minute debut. I realized then how different writing is when I’m anticipating a reader. Honestly, for me, it breaks the flow. In the end, I doubt what I read was that much better than what I’d started with—I did, however, lose sleep over it.”
“Ah’m nae familiar with this author. What’s she written?”
“Oh my god, you’ve been missing out. She’s my muse. Reading her books inspires me to write. Her voice is so embodied, and she inevitably reconnects me to what I care about. In her book Refuge, she interweaves a sense of place, specifically the Great Salt Lake, with her mother’s dying of cancer. Her family was exposed to the fallout of the atomic bomb test in the fifties.
“She’s a naturalist, an activist, and she’s written to help save our wild spaces. She wrote The Hour of Land about America’s national parks. It’s about what you would expect, what the land means to us, but she brilliantly adds what people have forgotten—what we mean to the land. She understands this inherent reciprocity we have with the landscape.” I took a bite before continuing. Angus had asked me the one question that would get me talking, like asking Ian about wine.
He spurred me on, “What else has she written?”
“Oh, the one about her mom was amazing. It’s titled When Women Were Birds; Fifty-Four Variations in Voice. The week before her mother died, she gifted Terry her lifetime collection of journals, asking her not to read them till after her death. Later, Terry discovered they were all blank. The book is about her memories of her mother, reflecting on what it means to have a voice, on what is seen and unseen, on faith.”
Angus had finished half his meal. “Ah’m intrigued. Where do ye recommend ah start?” He went to top off my wine glass, but I put my hand over it, and he only refilled his own.
“Oh, that’s tough. Terry Tempest Williams’s books are all quite different. However, a central thread is how she connects her observations of the natural world or art to a deeply personal inner landscape of discovery. I’d suggest Leap. It was inspired by seeing Hieronymus Bosch’s Triptych, The Garden of Earthly Delights, at the Museo Del Prado in Madrid. She returned daily to study it and based the whole book on it. Terry was raised as a Mormon, and a museum print of this triptych was thumbtacked to the bulletin board above where she slept. However, Terry’s grandmother only hung two of the panels, the ones depicting Heaven and Hell. The middle panel, Earthly Delights, was missing. She dives into that painting, her life, and our society in ways that address issues of faith and passion. I’ve underlined countless passages and written in the margins. Reading Leap, and many of her other books, provokes a conversation within me.”
He smiled. “That’s high praise for an author. She sounds almost like a companion. What’s the conversation ye’r havin’ with her now? Ah’d like to listen in if ye let me.”
The wine had loosened my tongue, so I didn’t edit my response. “Well, one of the underlying questions in my life is about faith, and I don’t mean the religious kind. There are so many other dimensions to it, like what it means to have faith in myself, or faith in another person, or faith in the world. My…” I hesitated, searching for a word to encapsulate my journey with Faith. “My sabbatical has been an exploration of these questions.” I felt overheated and swept my hair to one side so the back of my neck cooled off.
Angus left the silence between us, like a bridge we’d yet to cross.
“I’ve not found this kind of faith in the four walls of a church or in its doctrine.” When I stopped speaking, there was another spacious silence.
Having a conversation that included pauses for silence was rare. Ian was usually ready with what he wanted to say, often interrupting me, and I’d lose track of what was arising within me. Angus listened attentively, drawing me out of myself and the protective shell I typically showed the world. I couldn’t help but feel he heard more than what I said.
He’d already finished his dinner. My plate had plenty left on it and I felt overexposed for talking more than I’d intended. I overloaded my fork again, but this time, I let it all go and started over, twirling less spaghetti, feeling protective of my borrowed clothes and self-conscious of Angus’s eyes on me.
He smiled knowingly. “Ah look forward to readin’ her body of work. Listenin’ to yer love of her has me keen to experience it mahself.”
I needed to re-engage my plan to have Angus do the talking, “Who’s your favorite author?”
He stood to get seconds. “Ah, there are a few. Neil Gaiman consistently impresses me. Have ye read anything by him?”
“Nope, do tell.” I hadn’t anticipated enjoying myself so much. Angus shared Ian’s knack for pairing the wine with the meal and I took another sip.
Angus returned to the table with an insignificant extra portion, a gesture to keep me company while I ate. “American Gods, ye’d probably like. ’Tis a fantasy of sorts. ’Tis complicated. One of the subplots is that various Gods immigrated to America with people who were devoted to them. However, as people shifted their attention to watchin’ television, they neglected their Gods, and various power struggles ensued. ’Tis an interestin’ commentary on ‘screen life’ even before we all became dependent on our mobiles. Ah dinnae ken if he meant to raise the alarm about the moral imperative of where we put our attention, but it struck me that way.”
Attention is the holy grail. I heard the Hooks’ wisdom and also thought of the connection to the non profit, The Center for Humane Technology’s work around the attention economy, but those were topics for another time.[1] “Sounds intriguing. Can I borrow your copy?”
“Aye, ah can surface it for ye.” He glanced at my clean plate and raised his goblet. “To inspirin’ authors and powerful narratives that influence how we live our lives.”
After we clinked glasses, his remained suspended as his eyes held mine. Something unspoken passed between us. It felt flirtatious, like an invitation to what I didn’t dare consider. “To the chef, who cooks as well as he listens. Thank you for a lovely dinner.”
“’Tis been mah pleasure. Will ye join me for scones and a whisky? Ah ken most people like tea with them, but at this hour ah find a whisky’s best.”
My mother had taught me to drink scotch. I hadn’t strayed from it until I met Ian and started drinking wine. “Sure, I’ll take a splash.” While my belly was full, my taste buds didn’t want to leave without enjoying one more sacred scone. Besides, the pairing enticed me as an apropos celebration to end my first day on Iona, especially since it had begun with Katrine’s scones.
We cleared the table, and Angus washed while I dried. He gestured toward cabinets, so I knew where to put the dishes away. His home had no feminine touches, no flowers, or flowing curtains, and no photographs of children that I could see.
After drying his hands, he checked his cell phone. “Ah’ll start a fire. We can enjoy it while we wait. Ah confess, ah’d hoped we’d have heard somethin’ by now.” He took out two short glasses and poured a generous amount into the first one.
“Um, less than that for me, please. So, do you have kids of your own?”
“Och aye, about fifty-six of them before lambin’ season. But if ye’r askin’ about the two-legged kind, nae one. Ah’v nae married the one ah love.” His longing hung in the air. I wondered if he was referring to Katrine.
He offered me my glass and the plate of scones. I glanced around for the butter and his hand was on it before I mentioned wanting it. The leather seat with a slight view of the front door was more well-worn, so I chose the other one, putting the scones on the coffee table.
Angus sipped his whisky before placing it and the butter beside the scones. He pulled a butter knife from his back pocket and handed it to me. “Ah’m a chosen uncle to a whole brood of bairns, and that’s been enough thus far. Ah, like ye, prefer mah own company. Solitude is a kind of medicine for me. Kat respects that.”
When he went outside for peat logs, I picked up the book beside his chair. Why were men so interested in war? I surmised it was better to read about it than be in one. He returned and built the fire, but his broad back blocked my view of his technique. I’d never used peat before, and my skills with wood were beginner level at best.
The white and green-hued rounded stones resembled Katrine’s fireplace. “The stones are unusual. Are they local?”
“Aye, ’tis green marble, unique to Iona, the sacred stone of St. Columba. ’Tis prized by island fishermen for protection, though Kieran and his friends apparently were nae carryin’ a large enough piece for the storm they faced. ’Tis said to have supernatural powers, for healin’ and to protect against shipwreck, fire, and miscarriage. Ah’d nae be surprised if there’s a pebble in Kat’s pocket now or if she slipped one in the bed with Brìghde. She still believes in its protection.” The fire blazed, and he sat back in his chair. “’Tis always on her in one place or another. Did ye see the jewelry she’s designed with them?”
I’d just taken a generous bite of my scone. Angus waited for me to swallow. “She’d offered to show me her studio after we rode, but the call came in, and there wasn’t time.” I hadn’t realized I’d reached for Faith’s necklace until his eyes rested upon it.
“That’s a bonnie pendant.”
“Thank you. It was a gift.” My index finger continually traced the infinity symbol as if it were braille. “I’d love to see more of her work. Does she sell it at the local jewelry stores?” My mouth was dry, and I swallowed the scotch instead of asking for water. It heated a path down my throat.
“Aye, they carry it. Katrine, like most artists, ’tis nae much of a businesswoman. ’Tis good that her needs are simple, and that Maeve earned a full scholarship to study abroad.”
“That makes all the difference. The cost of tuition is ludicrous in the States. Many graduates are saddled with student debt on top of having to find a way to make a living. The focus becomes how much money one can make, not necessarily having a fulfilling vocation and life.”
“We forget that money’s a currency, nae a God. Ah sense ye’r nae enthralled by it.”
“Not so much. It’s a necessity for sure, but I was fortunate to be raised with the privilege of having it, so it doesn’t have the same hold on me. Having enough food or a place to sleep was never an issue.” Until today. “My parents warned me about the lure of money, encouraging me to do what I love and trust the money would follow. It was sound advice I’ve chosen to live by. I don’t make much, but it’s enough, and most days, I’m grateful to be a teacher.” How did he get me talking again?
I took my last swallow of scotch. “I think people forget to ask: How much is enough?” It was so easy to talk with Angus, to reveal aspects of myself that I typically hid from strangers. The fire warmed me on the outside; the whisky warmed me from the inside, creating a pleasant buzzing sensation under my skin.
As Angus held the whisky bottle and gestured to refill my glass, I said, “I’ll be on my way. Thanks for helping with the horses’ blankets and for a lovely dinner tonight. Please let me know what you hear about the baby’s arrival.”
Angus stood to walk me out. “Ah’ll come by with news in the mornin’. Guid night, lass.”
I left Katrine’s plate and scones, but I couldn’t so readily leave Angus behind. Some men were immediately handsome, while others became more attractive as you got to know them; Angus was both. In the barn, his rolled-up sleeves had revealed muscled forearms; working the farm kept him in shape. There wasn’t a hint of gray in his hair. I guessed his age was closer to mine than to Katrine’s. Good for her! Men usually dated younger women.
After my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, it lit my way. I’d inadvertently left the front door light on but detoured toward the barn, giving in to the magnetic pull to check on the horses before I tried reaching Ian again. Demeter came purring up to me, rubbing against my lower leg.
Upon entering the barn, only Saorsa was visible at first and I tensed for a moment, afraid of mishaps on my watch. I peered into the stall to see Caim lying down. “Hey girl, stay there and rest.”
Saorsa nickered and brought his head out to greet me. I only stroked his face and kept the door between us to avoid covering Maeve’s sweater with horse hairs.
“Goodnight, handsome. Sleep well.”
Seeing the peat pile near the front door prompted me to carry a few in for a future fire. The last thing I wanted tonight was to smoke up Katrine’s house with my failed attempts to stay warm. Perhaps Ian could give me tips about how to start it when we talked. I sat before an imagined fire for my next attempt to reach him.
When the phone rang and rang, I hung up, a bit relieved. Something had shifted in me. My future will work its way out even if it doesn’t go as planned. I fetched Yeats for companionship and looked forward to the novelty of sleeping in a bed. When I crawled in, I intended to read, but my eyelids were drooping after only a page, demanding I surrender to sleep.
[1] Center for Humane Technology, http://humanetech.com also found on Substack.