Page 48

FENELLA

C offee mug in hand, Fenella leaned against the kitchen counter of their new house, trying not to laugh as she surveyed the corner of the living room that Din had dedicated as his reading nook.

The brass octopus lamp held pride of place beside his leather recliner, its multiple arms reaching out in all directions like a mythical sea creature suffering an emotional breakdown.

But it was the newest addition that he'd just finished hanging on the wall that really completed the aesthetic disaster.

"Scottish Terriers playing poker." She shook her head. "Where did you even find this newest monstrosity?"

"The internet, where else?" He took a step back to observe his work, and a look of smug satisfaction spread over his face. "It's whimsical, and it makes me smile every time I look at it." He turned to look at her, and his grin widened. "Just like every time I look at you."

She snorted, spluttering coffee, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Did you just compare me to this abomination?"

"It is not an abomination. It's art."

"It's what happens when art has too much whiskey and makes poor life choices."

He walked up to her and kissed her on the lips. "You love it. Admit it."

"I hate it." She was barely managing to keep a straight face.

"I saw you smiling at it."

"I was grimacing." When he made a sad puppy face, she finally conceded. "Fine, it's charming in its ridiculousness, and the most important thing is that it makes you happy."

The truth was that she felt a little guilty about him giving up his university position to live with her in the village because she was not too keen on going back to Scotland with him.

He'd assured her that he wasn't doing it because of her and that it was only a sabbatical, and if she got tired of the village and wanted a change of atmosphere, they could move to Edinburgh, and he could resume his teaching.

Still, he was leaving the decision up to her.

It was a sensible approach, and given her history, she probably would get tired of living in this tiny community, but right now she liked it too much to ever want to leave.

After half a century of being on her own, she had safety, family, friends, and a job she loved. Why would she want to give it up?

She'd had enough adventures to last her at least a few centuries.

Din reached for her hand and led her to his recliner. "Come sit with me. See for yourself how cozy it is in my reading nook."

"I know it is." She settled against him, careful not to spill her coffee.

The electric recliner was ridiculously comfortable, she had to admit. Din had spent an absurd amount of time testing chairs before selecting this one, which was big enough for the two of them to cuddle on together.

She loved this corner of their home precisely because it was so perfectly Din—intellectual pretensions mixed with absolutely terrible taste, all wrapped up in endearing optimism and enthusiasm.

Their house was a two-bedroom Italian villa in what was considered the 'old' section of the village, though 'old' was relative when the entire village was new. It had come fully furnished, but they'd managed to make it theirs with some minor redecorating in the week since they'd moved in.

Frankly, it had looked better before the application of Din's eclectic style, but it now felt more like home.

"What are you reading?" she asked, when he reached for the book he'd left open on the side table.

"Robert Burns," he said, then added with an exaggerated Scottish accent, "Would ye like me to read ye some proper Scottish verse, lassie?"

"I don't know who he is, but as long as it is not in Gaelic, I'm willing to listen." She settled more comfortably against his chest.

He cleared his throat dramatically. "Here's a classic— ‘A Red, Red Rose.'"

He began to read. "'O my Love is like a red, red rose,'" he began properly enough, then continued, "'That's newly sprung in June, O my Love is like a melody, That's sung by a Highland coo.'"

Fenella was no expert on poetry, but that didn't sound right. "Highland coo?" She twisted to look at him. "Did Robert Burns write love poems about Highland cows?"

"Oh, aye," he said, returning to the exaggerated accent. "Burns loved a good Highland coo. Very poetic, coos."

"You're making this up."

"I would never." He continued with a straight face, "'As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I, And I will love thee still, my dear, Till all the seas gang dry. And also till the coos come home at teatime no less.'"

Fenella laughed. "You're terrible."

"'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,'" he continued, ignoring her protests, "'And the rocks melt wi' the sun, And the Highland coos learn to dance, In kilts sized extra-large for their bums.'"

"Stop," she gasped between giggles. "You're being disrespectful to Scottish literature."

"On the contrary. I'm enhancing it, and Burns would approve. He was very fond of coos."

"He was not!"

"He was. There's an entire chapter about it in his biography. Burns and Bovines: A Story of Deep Appreciation ."

She swatted his chest. "There is no such book."

"There could be." He set the poetry aside and wrapped both arms around her. "Should I write it? I think I have a calling."

"Your calling is to stop desecrating our culture."

"Never." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I just love hearing you laugh, and nothing is too sacred to be sacrificed on the altar of your happiness."

"Now, that was poetic." She put her coffee cup on the side table and cupped his cheeks. "And deserving of a proper kiss."

He dropped the poetry book, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her deeply, pouring all of his love for her into the kiss.

"I should probably get ready for work," she said when they came up for air, though she made no move to get up.

"You have time." He gestured to the octopus lamp. "Harold doesn't think you need to leave for another twenty minutes."

"You named your lamp Harold?"

"He looks like a Harold. Very distinguished."

"That lamp is the least distinguished thing I've ever seen."

"Which is precisely why he needs a distinguished name. For balance."

She shook her head but couldn't stop smiling. "And the painting? Does it have a name too?"

"That's obviously 'Dogs Playing Poker: The Scottish Edition.' It's self-naming."

"Obviously." She rested her head against his chest. "I love our home. I just want you to know that."

"Even Harold?"

"He's growing on me."

Din laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "That's the nicest thing you've said about my decorating choices."

"Don't get used to it." She glanced at the clock, a nice one that she'd selected. "I really do need to get ready now."

"Five more minutes?"

"Atzil will have my head if I'm late. He's still grumpy about me taking the whole week off."

"You deserved a week off. You deserved a month off. A year, even."

"A year off would drive me crazy. I like working at the Hobbit." She finally, reluctantly, extracted herself from his lap. "What will you do while I'm gone?"

"Read actual Burns poetry. Go over paper submittal. Contemplate buying a matching painting for the other wall."

"Don't you dare."

"Scottish Terriers Playing Golf?"

"Din..."

"Highland Cows Playing Backgammon?"

"I'm leaving now." She bent to kiss him, intending it to be quick but lingering when he cupped her face.

"I'll walk you to the bar," he murmured against her lips.

"You don't have to. Harold will get lonely."

"I want to." He smiled. "Harold will survive without me for a few minutes. Besides, it will be good for him to develop some independence."

Fenella laughed as she headed to their bedroom.

As she changed into her work clothes, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked settled. Happy. There were still bad nights, still moments when shadows made her heart race, but they were becoming less frequent.

She was healing.

"You are beautiful," Din said from the doorway.

"I'm just wearing my bar uniform."

"You look beautiful in your uniform." He crossed to her, turning her to face him. "Beautiful anywhere, in anything."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "I love you."

"I love you, too." He kissed her forehead. "We should go, or Atzil really will have both of our heads."

As they stepped outside, the evening air was perfect—warm but not oppressive, with a breeze carrying the scents of various flowers from their neighbors' gardens.

They walked hand in hand toward the Hobbit, passing familiar faces, exchanging greetings. The pub came into view, its round door partially open.

"Have a grand time tonight and call me when you are ready to come home. I'll come to get you."

"I will," she promised, stretching up to kiss him goodbye.

That was the compromise they'd reached. Din would no longer sit at the back of the bar every night she worked, but he would escort her to and from the Hobbit, even though the village was probably the safest place on the planet.

As she pushed through the door into the familiar chaos, Fenella felt that warm sense of belonging wash over her again.

"You're smiling," Atzil said as she joined him behind the bar. "Had enough rest?"

"Yes, sir. I'm more than ready to get to work." She put on her apron and tied it in the back. "And I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I'm here to stay."

After fifty years of roving and never quite fitting anywhere, she finally had a home, with throw pillows that she'd selected herself and an ugly lamp selected by Din, a job where she was valued, and a community that had become family.

And Din, wonderful Din.

She wouldn't change a single thing.

Well, maybe the painting. The painting could go.

But even as she thought it, Fenella knew she'd never let him get rid of it. That horrible Scottish Terrier poker game was part of their story now, part of what made their house a home.