no for an answer.
The little woman suddenly looked every one of her ninety-two years. “I need you,” she muttered as if mortified by her weakness.
The smell of lemon polish permeated the air. Cate leaned a hip against the oak counter that supported the cash register. “What’s wrong, Miss Izzy?”
When the old Scottish lady blinked back tears, Cate couldn’t tell if they were genuine or manipulative.
Isobel’s bottom lip quivered. “I don’t have room in the apartment for two huge men, so I’ve told the lads they have to stay up at the big house.”
The big house was Isobel’s lavish and incredibly beautiful property on the mountaintop above Candlewick. Izzy hadn’t been able to spend the night there since her husband died six months before. Like many of the businesses in Candlewick, Stewart Properties was housed in a historic building on Main Street. Izzy had taken to sleeping on the second floor above her office.
“Makes sense,” Cate said carefully, sensing a trap. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“The boys wanted to surprise me for my birthday. They’ve hired a caterer to prepare dinner for us tonight. I hadn’t the heart to tell them I didn’t want to come.”
“Oh, I didn’t remember it was today. Happy birthday. But Brody was here before. Surely the two of you spent time up on the mountain.”
“He did a few chores for me. Checked on things. I pretended like I was busy. And since it was just Brody, he slept on the sofa, ye know...in the apartment...with me.”
“Miss Izzy...” Cate trailed off, searching for words. “Your grandsons must have an inkling of how you feel. Maybe this is their way of breaking the ice. It’s been six months. The longer you stay away, the more difficult it will be. I’m guessing they planned the birthday dinner to lure you up there.”
“It doesn’t feel like months,” the old woman said, her words wistful. “It seems like yesterday. My dear Geoffrey’s spirit is a ghost in every room of that house. Go with me,” Izzy pleaded. Gnarled, arthritic hands twisted at her waist. For a split second, Cate witnessed the depth of Isobel Stewart’s anguish at losing the love of her life.
“It’s a family celebration,” Cate said. “It will seem odd if I come.”
“Not at all,” Izzy said. “It was actually Brody’s idea.”
* * *
Five hours later Cate found herself on the doorstep of Stewart Properties, bouncing from one foot to the other in a futile attempt to keep warm. At the curb, she had left the engine running in her modest four-door sedan.
At last, when Cate’s fingers were numb, Izzy appeared. She looked remarkably chipper for someone who was about to face an unpleasant experience. “Right on time,” Izzy said. “You’re a lovely young lass. Men don’t like a woman who can’t be punctual.”
Cate helped the old woman into the car. Izzy was wrapped from head to toe in a brown wool coat and a heavy woven scarf in brown and beige. “That’s a stereotype, Miss Izzy. I’m sure there are as many men as women who have trouble being on time.”
Isobel snorted and changed the subject. “I thought ye’d wear a dress,” she complained.
Cate extracted the car from the tight parking space and adjusted the defroster. “It’s going to be close to twenty degrees tonight. These are my best dress pants.” She’d worn them back when she was on her way to becoming a doctor...in the days before her world fell apart.
“Pants, schmantz. Brody and Duncan are hot-blooded men. I’m sure they would have enjoyed seeing a glimpse of leg. Yours are spectacular, bonnie young Cate. When you’re my age, you’ll wish ye’d appreciated what ye had when you had it.”
There was no arguing with the antiquated, sexually regressive logic of a woman in her nineties.
Cate sighed. Unfortunately, the road up the mountain was easily traversed and not long at all. When they pulled up in front of the Stewart mansion—Cate would be hard-pressed to describe it as anything else—they had time to spare. Izzy’s home was spectacular. Weathered mountain stone, rough-hewn lumber, copper guttering, giant multipaned windows that brought the outdoors inside... This magnificent architectural gem had once graced the cover of Southern Living.
Cate touched the petite woman’s arm. “Are you going to be okay?”
Izzy sniffed. “Outliving your friends and contemporaries is bollocks, Cate.”
“Miss Izzy!” Her friend’s lack of respect for social convention still caught her off guard at times.
“Don’t be prissy. What’s the point of getting old if ye can’t say what ye please?”
“So back to my original question. Are you going to be okay?”
Izzy gazed through the windshield, her cheeks damp. “He built that house as a thank-you to me. Did you know that?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t. A thank-you for what?”
“Giving up Scotland. My family. My home. Coming here to America with him. Silly fool.” She stopped. Her throat worked. “I’d have given all that and more for one more day with the auld codger.”
Cate felt her own throat tighten, and not only because of Izzy’s emotional return to the house where she had spent a decades-long marriage. Izzy had pledged herself and her heart to a man who was her soul mate. Cate had never even come close. And now she had made the most wretched mistake of her life.
She turned off the engine and gripped the steering wheel. Brody was inside that house. What was she going to say to him?
Izzy moved restively. “Might as well get it over with,” she muttered. “I’ll not cry, mind you. Too many tears shed already. Besides, I don’t want the lads to think they’ve done wrong by me. Let’s go, Cate, my girl.”
The two women scuttled up the flagstone walkway, buffeted by an icy wind. Moments later the double, burnished-oak front doors swung open wide. The massive chandelier in the foyer spilled light into the darkness. The diminutive Scotswoman was caught up in the enthusiastic hugs of her two über-masculine grandsons.
Brody’s thick, wavy chestnut hair shone with strands of reddish-gold mixed in. Duncan’s was a darker brown and straighter. He had the rich brown eyes to match. Though the brothers were alike in many ways, Izzy had once upon a time explained to Cate that Brody favored his Irish-born mother while Duncan was a younger version of his Grandda.
Now that Cate had finally met Duncan, she agreed. It was astonishing to see how much Brody’s younger brother resembled Geoffrey Stewart. She wondered if it was painful for Izzy to look at Duncan and see the memory of her young husband in the flesh.
Cate hung back, still not sure why she had come. Izzy seemed to be handling things with grace and bravery. It was Cate whose stomach quivered with nerves.
Izzy drew Cate forward. “Cate, my dear, meet Duncan.”
Duncan Stewart lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “Charmed, Miss Everett.”
Brody
