“I know it’s been a while, but I didn’t expect to be greeted with a thrashing.”
Ian lowered the umbrella. Standing in the front hall was his older brother, Donald, a dish towel wrapped around his ample waist.
“Good Lord,” Ian said, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. “How the devil did you get in?”
“I have a key, remember?” his brother replied, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. “You really should change your lock, you know—this place isn’t safe.”
“Edinburgh, or this neighborhood?”
“Both—either. Take your pick. Nowhere is really safe these days. I hear you’re pursuing a madman. How’s that going?”
“What are you doing here?”
Donald frowned and pushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His face was long and aquiline, like his brother’s, with the same keen gray eyes, but his hair was blond, his body soft and given to fat. He had put on a stone or two in the years since Ian last saw him. Taller than his brother by a couple of inches, Donald Hamilton was a substantial physical presence.
“You could at least pretend to be glad to see me.”
“Sorry, fresh out of pretense today,” Ian said, shoving the umbrella back in its stand.
His brother crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side. “Really, little brother, you wound me.”
“I haven’t heard from you for years, and you suddenly show up without warning. Why are you here?”
“Well, most immediately, to cook you dinner. I’m making my specialty, haggis under glass,” he said, flicking the dish towel onto his shoulder.
“Seriously, Donald, it’s late and I’m tired.”
His brother met his gaze. “Seriously, then?”
“Aye.”
Donald held out a trembling hand. The long, tapered fingers everyone had predicted would belong to a great surgeon someday shook with a visible tremor. “I’m done with it, Ian—finished. No more drinking for me.”
For a moment, Ian’s heart leapt. That was followed by a hollow thud in his chest. He had heard it all before—the vows, the promises, the declarations of sobriety. It had never come to anything. The bottle had always proven stronger than his brother’s will.
He cleared his throat. “Can’t you get sober in Glasgow?”
“Everything I care about—and fear—is here. You should know that better than anyone,” he added, his gray eyes burning into Ian’s. They were red-rimmed and swollen, and Ian suspected it wasn’t from frying onions. “If I can’t face Edinburgh, I can’t shake the bottle.”
“And the gambling—are you giving that up as well?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Donald said. “You’ve heard it all before. But this time I’m determined. It’s not too late to go to medical school; I could still get a degree, you know.”
“You could,” Ian said, keeping his voice steady and uninflected. He didn’t want to provoke his brother into one of his rages. Though they usually happened when he was drunk, Ian had too many memories of Donald’s rants, and had learned to be wary.
“You don’t believe me.”
“It’s not up to me,” Ian replied carefully. “The important thing is that you believe—”
“Don’t condescend to me!” his brother hissed, and Ian instinctively backed away. “I’m sorry,” Donald said quickly. “I’m afraid I’m a bit out of sorts—no booze and all that, eh?” he added with a little laugh.
“Of course,” Ian replied. “Now then, you said you’re making dinner? Let’s have it, then—I’m famished.”
His brother’s face brightened. “Right!” he said, brushing away the rogue lock of hair. “I was joking about the haggis—I made shepherd’s pie.”
“Beef or lamb?”
“Both. Hope you’re hungry. If I recall correctly, your appetite was not always up to snuff.”
“No fear of that. I’m famished.”
Ian followed his brother toward the kitchen, relief flooding his limbs. Donald was sober—for now, at least, so there would be no drunken rages, no descent into self-pity and maudlin monologues.
At the kitchen door Donald turned to him. “D’you know there’s a wee mouse in here?”
“Did you kill it?”
“Couldn’t catch the little bugger. I can get you a trap tomorrow.”
“I’ll get one,” Ian said, wondering if he meant it.
“Suit yourself. And now, behold!” Donald said, opening the oven and drawing forth a golden-brown shepherd’s pie. A waterfall of saliva cascaded into Ian’s mouth—it smelled wonderful, and he remembered what a good cook his brother was.
Donald set it on a pineapple-shaped brass trivet on the kitchen table, standing back to admire it. “I haven’t lost my touch in the kitchen—or so I hope. You can give me the report when you’ve had some.”
The report was favorable. Ian was soon on his second helping, the two of them seated before the fire in the parlor, Donald sipping a ginger beer. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the flat—the Turkish cushions, mahogany armoire, and rich fabrics.
“You’ve done well for yourself, by the look of it.”
“This is all Lillian’s work,” Ian replied, tearing off a chunk of bread to sop up the sauce on his plate.
“How is dear Lillie?”
“She has arthritis and thinks she’s hiding it from me.”
“Always the sharp-eyed one, Brother Ian. It must feel strange to be in the same harness as our dear old da, eh?”
Ian wiped his mouth with a monogrammed linen napkin. “I seem to have a knack for it.”
“Good on ye, as they say in Glasgow.”
“How is life in Glasgow?”
“Crude, rude, profane. Inebriated. I felt right at home. Do you ever miss the Highlands?”
“I dream about it sometimes.”
“Remember the smell of heather in early spring?”
“Aye, and the wild mountain thyme.”
“‘And we’ll all go together,’” Donald sang softly. “Remember when we used to sing that?”
“I remember it all.”
“And yet here you remain,” Donald remarked. Lighting another cigarette, he tossed the match carelessly in the direction of the fire. It landed short of the grate, falling upon the carpet.
Ian leapt from his chair and swept it quickly into the fireplace. “Be careful! You could have burned the rug—”
“Or started a fire?” Donald suggested.
Ian clenched his fists and turned away.
“I saw the way you peered at me when I lit that cigarette. I’ve also noticed you don’t smoke.”
“It’s bad for your health,” Ian muttered without turning around. “Surely as a ‘medical man’ you ought to know that.”
“But that’s not why you don’t smoke, is it?”
“If your idea of a jolly evening is discussing the reasons behind my personal habits, I suggest we call it a night,” Ian replied tightly.
“Not another word—promise. Hand to heart, hope to die.”
“Let’s have no more talk of dying. I’m well enough sick of it.”
They sat staring at the leaping flames in the fireplace, their hungry orange tongues licking the air.
“Your shoulder still bother you?” Donald asked.
“Not too bad,” Ian lied. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, least of all his brother’s.
“Mum would be proud of you, you know,” said Donald.
“What about Father?”
“What about him?”
“Wouldn’t he be proud as well?”