see-Scotland-in-seven-days coach-bus tour as a journey that was taking them home.
She wasn’t into cold, rain, and sheep.
Nor was she a Kilt-o-maniac.
Not anymore, anyway.
She was going to Barra for one reason only. And her greatest wish was to leave as quickly as possible. Though she would be sure she took time to pick up some nice newly printed guidebooks and maps for Margo’s collection. Perhaps, too, a nice length of heathery-colored tweed that Margo could no doubt whip into something stunning.
Mindy smiled. She wished she had her sister’s sense of style. But having spent her entire adult life wearing an airline uniform left her a bit spoiled. To her, a top was a top was a top. And as for some women’s passion for shoes, well, she just didn’t get the thrill.
She paused to let an air crew hurry past, the flight attendants smartly elegant in stewardess blue and with well-polished heels to match. Looking after them, Mindy felt a pang as they disappeared into the crowd, the rattle of their wheeled crew luggage and the click-click of their heels bringing back memories.
She looked down at her own shoes, bought especially for this trip, and almost laughed out loud.
Thick-soled black leather walking boots too bulky for her checked bag, they were like nothing she’d ever worn before. She hoped they’d protect her from turning an ankle in some godforsaken Hebridean bog.
Nothing else mattered.
Except perhaps getting checked in and to the gate before she changed her mind and made tracks straight for Global’s Newark crew lounge, friends she missed, and—one could dream—a fast ticket to her old job!
She was tempted.
Especially when—nearly an hour and much hassle later—she reached the boarding gate and had the bad luck to sit down next to a talker.
“We’re going on a history and heritage tour,” the middle-aged woman gushed, her eyes lighting with the zeal of a die- hard Scotophile. “We’re all Scottish”—she indicated the little group standing close by, all wearing badges proclaiming their names and that they were on a Celtic Twilight tour—“and we’ll be visiting the ancestral castles of each one of us.
“Treading in the footsteps of our forebears and”—she heaved a great sigh, getting misty-eyed—“breathing in the air of our native land.”
Mindy nodded. She wished she’d noticed the woman’s KISS ME, I’M SCOTTISH pin before she’d sat beside her. Years of suffering Margo’s endless pining for the Highlands had put her off such people. She started to say something, anything, to be polite, but before she could, the woman leaned close.
“You must have Scottish roots.” She pulled a card from her jacket pocket and pressed it into Mindy’s hand. “I have an online business that sells Scottish memorabilia. We do everything from T-shirts and coffee mugs emblazoned with your clan name and crest to teddy bears wearing your own family tartan.”
“I’m not Scottish.” Mindy resisted announcing that she, like the woman herself, was American. “But—”
“I must tell you”—the woman spoke right over her—“we’re ending our trip with a gala weekend at Ravenscraig Castle near Oban. They have a state-of-the-art genealogical research center called One Cairn Village where we can reference everything we learn on the tour. They even do—”
“Ravenscraig Castle?” Mindy’s heart sank.
She’d booked her first night in Scotland at the castle hotel. It’d caught her eye because of its proximity to Oban, where she’d board the CalMac ferry to Barra. And because a castle hotel sounded luxurious and she deserved a night of pampering before stranding herself on a rocky Hebridean island that surely lacked most modern conveniences.
But she’d somehow overlooked that Ravenscraig had a genealogy center. The place would be overrun with history buffs and ancestral enthusiasts.
Mindy shuddered.
The talker
She wasn’t into cold, rain, and sheep.
Nor was she a Kilt-o-maniac.
Not anymore, anyway.
She was going to Barra for one reason only. And her greatest wish was to leave as quickly as possible. Though she would be sure she took time to pick up some nice newly printed guidebooks and maps for Margo’s collection. Perhaps, too, a nice length of heathery-colored tweed that Margo could no doubt whip into something stunning.
Mindy smiled. She wished she had her sister’s sense of style. But having spent her entire adult life wearing an airline uniform left her a bit spoiled. To her, a top was a top was a top. And as for some women’s passion for shoes, well, she just didn’t get the thrill.
She paused to let an air crew hurry past, the flight attendants smartly elegant in stewardess blue and with well-polished heels to match. Looking after them, Mindy felt a pang as they disappeared into the crowd, the rattle of their wheeled crew luggage and the click-click of their heels bringing back memories.
She looked down at her own shoes, bought especially for this trip, and almost laughed out loud.
Thick-soled black leather walking boots too bulky for her checked bag, they were like nothing she’d ever worn before. She hoped they’d protect her from turning an ankle in some godforsaken Hebridean bog.
Nothing else mattered.
Except perhaps getting checked in and to the gate before she changed her mind and made tracks straight for Global’s Newark crew lounge, friends she missed, and—one could dream—a fast ticket to her old job!
She was tempted.
Especially when—nearly an hour and much hassle later—she reached the boarding gate and had the bad luck to sit down next to a talker.
“We’re going on a history and heritage tour,” the middle-aged woman gushed, her eyes lighting with the zeal of a die- hard Scotophile. “We’re all Scottish”—she indicated the little group standing close by, all wearing badges proclaiming their names and that they were on a Celtic Twilight tour—“and we’ll be visiting the ancestral castles of each one of us.
“Treading in the footsteps of our forebears and”—she heaved a great sigh, getting misty-eyed—“breathing in the air of our native land.”
Mindy nodded. She wished she’d noticed the woman’s KISS ME, I’M SCOTTISH pin before she’d sat beside her. Years of suffering Margo’s endless pining for the Highlands had put her off such people. She started to say something, anything, to be polite, but before she could, the woman leaned close.
“You must have Scottish roots.” She pulled a card from her jacket pocket and pressed it into Mindy’s hand. “I have an online business that sells Scottish memorabilia. We do everything from T-shirts and coffee mugs emblazoned with your clan name and crest to teddy bears wearing your own family tartan.”
“I’m not Scottish.” Mindy resisted announcing that she, like the woman herself, was American. “But—”
“I must tell you”—the woman spoke right over her—“we’re ending our trip with a gala weekend at Ravenscraig Castle near Oban. They have a state-of-the-art genealogical research center called One Cairn Village where we can reference everything we learn on the tour. They even do—”
“Ravenscraig Castle?” Mindy’s heart sank.
She’d booked her first night in Scotland at the castle hotel. It’d caught her eye because of its proximity to Oban, where she’d board the CalMac ferry to Barra. And because a castle hotel sounded luxurious and she deserved a night of pampering before stranding herself on a rocky Hebridean island that surely lacked most modern conveniences.
But she’d somehow overlooked that Ravenscraig had a genealogy center. The place would be overrun with history buffs and ancestral enthusiasts.
Mindy shuddered.
The talker
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