His mouth opened and closed like a trout’s, but he finally said, “You’re a crazed bitch.”
“Oh, I’m a bitch because rude people piss me off? At least I said I was sorry. But not you. You’re just a big bully.” I slammed a pound note on the counter to cover the cost of the gum, the chocolate and the hissy fit, and walked out.
“I know you!” he shouted after me. “You worked with Karastovsky. I’ll make sure you never work again, missy.”
Oh, crap. I rushed across the lobby and escaped through the automatic doors. What was wrong with me? I never confronted people. Was this part of my new weirdness? Was I going to turn into a crazy old crone and mutter to myself? Would I scare small children wherever I went?
Maybe.
But as I walked down the short drive in front of the hotel, I smiled and started to laugh. It felt good to yell at that rude bastard. And why was standing up for myself such a bad thing? As far as his warning shot went, he had no power over who hired me. Still, it gave me a chill to think he would try to threaten my career. I pulled my jacket tighter and raised the collar as a brisk wind blew across my neck.
I forced all thoughts of rude Perry out of my head so I could appreciate one of my favorite places in the world. As I approached the Royal Mile, I drew in the fresh air of Edinburgh and got my first real up-close taste of the ancient city.
The Royal Thistle Hotel was perched on a slope half a block down from St. Giles’ Cathedral in the heart of the Royal Mile. The afternoon air was cold and clear, the sky a deep blue with the occasional white puff of cloud. It was a perfect day for a solitary stroll. I turned left toward Edinburgh Castle, breathing in the scents and absorbing the sounds. I stared at the proliferation of souvenir shops selling everything from tartans and kilts to whisky, to ashtrays and coasters and shot glasses, to cashmere shawls and fisherman knit sweaters.
As I walked along the smooth stone sidewalk, I tried to tune out my angry run-ins with both Perry and Martin. I stared at the window display at the Scotch Whisky Heritage Centre and laughed at myself for thinking I could actually handle a taste of Scotch right now, with jet lag tugging at me. I’d fall flat on my face and never make it back to the hotel. I made a mental note to stop back here in a day or so. I didn’t usually drink Scotch, but when in Scotland, a wee dram seemed the way to go.
It sounded as if I had an addictive personality, and I was okay with that. The thing was, I could just as likely be swayed by a piece of chocolate or a beautiful book or a twice-baked potato as I was by a shot of good Scotch. The only obsession I didn’t seem to possess was the shopping gene, much to the dismay of my best friend, Robin Tully.
Thinking of Robin made me smile, as I was reminded that she would be here tomorrow to lead a small group on a tour of Scotland. Besides being a talented sculptor, Robin owned a small travel company called Wisdom Quest. Most of her clients were Fellowship friends who sought out sacred places throughout the world where they could soak up the mysteries and magic while getting their auras polished and their portals tweaked.
The Fellowship-officially, the Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness-was the commune in Sonoma County where my parents had raised me and my five siblings. It was where I first met Robin. It wasn’t much of a commune anymore since its members had discovered capitalism and commerce in a big, fun way and become rich off the California wine boom. But everyone was still close and supported one another, as small town people tended to do.
I reached the fork at the top of the Royal Mile and crossed the cobblestone street to head up to the castle. I stopped and took a deep breath of clean air to clear away the prickly feelings. I gazed back at the picturesque, mile-long High Street that meandered down to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the queen’s official summer residence.
The city had changed in the three years since I’d been here. For one thing, there were more Starbucks now, including the one that shared the block with the venerable St. Giles’ Cathedral. And the Royal Thistle Hotel had expanded recently to include a luxurious health spa-not that I was complaining about that. I just hoped my favorite pubs were still in business. I had my priorities, after all.
I took my time hiking up the last block toward the castle. Halfway there I stopped, distracted by one store window that displayed an astonishing jumble of tartan kilts and sporrans. For some reason, they reminded me of big, brash Abraham. The last time we’d attended the Edinburgh Book Fair together, he’d worn his full kilt ensemble to the Saturday-night gala. Much to the delight of the crowd, he’d danced the jig and felt so unfettered that he declared he was going to wear a skirt from then on.