Skye sank into the chair and placed her handbag on the table. She slid the scarf from her neck and laid it on top of her bag.
Callum claimed the seat opposite and leaned forward.
Hands clasped together, she rested her elbows on the table and set her chin on her hands. Eyes, green as the Scottish Lowlands, glistened at him. “Oh, my, where do I start?”
He smiled, unable to take his gaze from her. “You talk different.” She was different, in many ways. Would there still be something left of the girl he’d loved forever?
And then she laughed. There were some things time could never change. How he’d missed that sound.
“Elocution lessons,” Skye confessed. “Orders of Mrs. Robinson.”
“Mrs. Robinson?” Wouldn’t do to let her know he knew.
“Oh. My mother. She remarried eighteen months after Da died.”
She didn’t waste much time. He’d not verbalize the thought and risk hurting Skye. “Well, I like the way you sound. But has some Aussie crept into that refined accent?”
Skye gazed at him through lowered lashes before glancing up again. She laughed. “I guess it has. I have spent almost a lifetime in the country.” Skye unclasped her hands and twirled a strand of hair around her index finger, just as she always had for as long as he could remember. She leaned forward. “You sound so different, too.”
“I spent some time out of Glasgow. I guess the patter eased.”
“Eased? How about completely disappeared?”
He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. If she showed any interest, Callum wanted to know it was because of who he’d been, and still was, not for what he had become. How would she react if she knew he’d studied medicine in Edinburgh and was no longer just Callum Robert McGuire, son of a pub-owner? Now he went by the title Dr. C. R. McGuire. Callum had to know if the years under Rita Robinson’s sole influence had changed her.
And her mother? Would she eat her words that he’d amount to nothing?
Skye’s father was the one who’d inspired him. His death spurred Callum to study medicine, specializing in the field that sought to treat those afflicted with the very disease that had claimed the life of Dr. Lewis Hunter.
Clearing her throat, Skye broke the silence between them. “You sound good, Callum. You look good, too.”
She liked the way he spoke? Voice coaching. But he’d not tell her of his determination that if he and Skye ever met again, her mother would have one less reason to disapprove. His accent had grated on Rita. She’d constantly reprimanded him for stringing his words together. How could he help it? He was from Glasgow—and not the posh side like the Hunters.
Wouldn’t you love to hear me now, Mrs. Robinson?
“I can’t believe we’re sitting here together, after all this time.” Her laughter filled the space around them.
Callum fixed his gaze on Skye. Taking her hands in his, he caressed her skin with his thumb. “Why didn’t you write?”
“What?” She breathed out the word.
“Why didn’t you write to me? You promised you would keep in touch, that we’d find a way to be together again.” The memory of those agonizing months that had trickled day by day into years of waiting, not hearing, ached in Callum’s chest.
“I did write—for months. You never wrote back.”
“How could I? I had no address. I needed that first letter from you. But it never came.”
Skye’s eyes narrowed. Creases formed across her brow. “Mother…she encouraged me to write to you, and then offered to post my letters. She even extended her shoulder to cry on when the mail box remained empty. I trusted her…”
Was that woman so malicious? Callum squeezed Skye’s hand.
She returned the gesture. “When I speak to her again, I will confront her on this. If I ever speak to her again. I promise, Callum, I did write.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. He didn’t want to think about Rita Robinson and all she’d stolen from them. Skye had written, that’s the only thing that mattered.
“I believe you.” Callum wanted to take her in his arms and make up for sixteen years of lost kisses. Easing out of his seat, he leaned across the table and slid his hand up her arm until it was lost beneath her auburn tresses. He drew her head closer until they were inches apart, her breath warm against his cheek, her lips beckoning.
“Callum.” Tavish’s voice broke the moment. Of all the times for his brother to intrude.
Callum released his hold on Skye and sank back into his chair.
“Ah’m sorry, bit Da’s lookin’ fur yi. The guys it the bar want yi tae gie ’em a wee chant agin.” Tavish turned to Skye and grinned. “An who’s this guid lookin’ bit oh gear?” He glanced at Callum. “Who’s yir bonnie freen, big brither?” Tavish stuck out his hand to Skye and winked. “Hiya. Ah’m Tavish, byraway.”
Callum couldn’t believe it. His little brother was hitting on her.
“Tavish, don’t you recognize who this is?”
Skye laughed and took Tavish’s hand. “Hello, Tavish. Looks like you don’t remember me. It’s only been sixteen years.”
Only? It’s been a lifetime.
Tavish snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Ahm ah blotto oot ma heid? Skye Hunter. Whit yi daein here in Glesca?”
Callum could tell by the frown on Skye’s face that she struggled to understand Tavish, so he answered on her behalf. “Skye’s performing in the opera at the Armadillo. She’s the Phantom of the Opera’s leading lady. The prima donna.”
Skye touched Callum’s arm. Her hand lingered. “The Armadillo?”
He laughed. “It’s what we’ve nicknamed the Auditorium. You’re clever enough to figure out why.”
“It does look rather like one. But armor-plated creatures aside…you’re into opera? I’m surprised.”
“Yi dinnae knaw the half—”
“Tavish!” Callum glared at his brother then turned his attention back to Skye. “What do you say we go and say hello to my ma and da?” Callum grabbed Skye’s hand and stood. He nudged Tavish aside. He’d have to talk to his family. He should be the one to tell Skye everything about his life. When the time was right.
“Why dinnae yi let hur dae a turn wi yi an yir guitar? Surprise Maw an Da?”
There went spending the evening getting to know her again. But, she was here for a few months. There’d be other opportunities to find out all that she’d done with her life. So why not? He’d love to have her up there singing with him. “What do you say, Skye?”
She gave Callum a blank look. Seemed he’d have to play interpreter for some time.
He tipped his head to where his guitar stood on its stand. “You want to do a few songs with me? It’ll be like the old days.” Or would it? He sang pub songs. She sang opera. Unease wrapped its fingers around his heart and squeezed. He chewed the side of his mouth. What if they sounded awful together now?
~*~
Sore throat aside, she wouldn’t miss this. “I’d love to.” Skye brushed her hand across his cheek, attempting to allay his apparent fears. “Don’t worry, Callum, I’ll put away my opera voice. It will be just like the old days.”
His dark eyes bored into hers, the spark undeniable. Was it possible they could rekindle what they’d lost? In an ebb and flow of emotions, his somber expression retreated as a smile spread across his face. “Great, because I don’t have an opera voice to match yours. Besides, I don’t know how well opera would go down here.” His smile gave way to laughter as he turned to Tavish. “Grab Skye’s things, would you, and put them behind the bar. We’ll get them later.”
Holding Skye’s hand, Callum drew her along, weaving through the crowded room to where his guitar rested. His hand was warm and strong. Stronger than she remembered. It was also smooth and soft, but washing dishes every day would do that, she guessed. Had he become nothing more than he’d been when she left Scotland? Still working and singing in his parents’ tavern? Didn’t he want more out of life? Should he? One day, when he inherited McGuire’s, he’d be a business-owner, at least. That wasn’t so bad. Did it really matter if he was a pub-owner, a singer in a bar, or a…a pilot, or a brain surgeon? He was Callum McGuire—the man she’d loved since she was seven. The only man she’d ever loved. But was a future possible for them? For all she knew, he could be married.
She glanced at his ring finger. Naked. There was hope that he was still single.
Callum pulled another high wooden stool beside his for Skye. Then he picked up his guitar and slid the strap around his neck as he sat on the stool. He glanced at her and grinned, raking his fingers through his hair. It seemed darker than she remembered, but there was still a tinge of auburn in the brown. He wore it shorter on the back and sides now. She liked it—made him look more distinguished.
Skye took in every movement Callum made as if it were the first and last time she’d witness it. She returned his smile, remaining standing. She was used to performing in this manner. This was just another audience, a small one at that.
He rubbed his hands on his jeans before strumming the guitar. The sound attracted attention. “Tonight I’d like to introduce you folk to a special guest—a friend from yesteryear. Some of you might remember her.” Callum rolled his hand toward Skye. “Let’s give a warm, Glasgow welcome to one of our own…Skye Hunter.”
Cheers, claps, and whistles rose to the roof. A few men and women shouted out her name. Skye took a small bow—it seemed a more appropriate gesture dressed in her jeans and for the audience before her, than the curtsy she was used to on stage in her opera gowns before adoring theatregoers.
Callum strummed another chord. “So, what would you like Skye and me to sing?”
“’Are You Sleeping, Maggie,’” someone shouted.
“’Gypsy Rover,’” came another request.
“’Danny Boy.’”
“’Loch Lomond.’”
“’Blow the Candle Out.’”
“Aye, that’s a guid wan.”
“’Blow the candle out.’ ‘Blow the candle out.’ ‘Blow the candle out,’” the patrons chanted.
Callum held up his hand and the crowd quieted. “Looks like we have a favorite then.” He strummed G seventh, followed by C.
As Skye sat down, she spotted a bodhrán beneath Callum’s chair. It had been years since she’d played an Irish frame drum. Sliding off the stool, she bent down and picked up the instrument. She slipped her one hand against the inside of the drumhead and eased back onto the stool. Pitch and timbre control, she reminded herself. Would she still remember how to play? With the wooden tipper held securely in her other hand, and the drum resting on her thigh, supported by her upper body and arm, she began to strike the goatskin head. A low, bassy sound rumbled, blending with the melody of Callum’s twelve strings.
When he’d played the intro, he began to sing in a low, smooth voice. Skye hummed along softly. She knew which verses were hers to sing in this traditional Scottish song of a singer who comes to visit his love on a moonlit night, suggesting they blow out the candles and lie in each other’s arms.
On the last verse, her voice lingered, as did her gaze…and the memory. How often they’d spoken of building a life and a family together.
Cheers interrupted her reverie, one person’s voice louder than the rest. Tavish. “Aye, that’s whit ah’m talkin’ aboot.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s hear it fur Callum and Skye. Whit a voice she’s goat furra chantin’, man.”
Skye shook her head, unable to stop her grin. Would she ever understand him?
“More. More. More,” came the response.
Callum changed key. The mournful tune of “Danny Boy” flowed from the instrument.
She and Callum sang in perfect harmony as they had when they were teens. Would he walk or drive her home as he had in their youth? Would he kiss her good night before he left?
Feeling the heat rise from her neck, she pushed the thought aside. She shouldn’t get involved with Callum. She’d only be in Glasgow for a few months. Then their ways would part once more, and she’d have to deal with the hurt all over again.
But it would be nice to feel loved—even if just for a little while.
~*~
“’Twa Bonnie Maidens.’”
The song request threw Callum for a moment. His mind swung like a pendulum. Skye. Katie.
If Skye’s father hadn’t died, and her mother hadn’t taken her away to the other side of the world, Callum and Skye would have lived the dreams they’d made for years. They’d have married and had a couple of kids by now. He likely wouldn’t have become a doctor, and she an opera star. But would that have mattered? They would still have made beautiful music together right there in McGuire’s as they were now. And they would’ve been happy.
Callum had loved Skye his whole life. They deserved this second chance.
Katie…his heart ached at the pain he had caused her. Not long ago, she had been his future. Finally, after fifteen long and lonely years, he’d tried to move on, to be happy with someone else. He couldn’t. Katie only knew his affections a scant few months. The moment he realized that although he loved Katie, he wasn’t in love with her, he’d broken things off. She took it far worse than he’d expected.
I won’t give up on you, Callum. I’ll win back your love.
And for the past three months she’d tried. Relentlessly. Phone calls, gifts, unexpected visits to his work, his home, McGuire’s. At every try, Callum gave her no encouragement, no hope of reconciliation. In time, she’d have to accept and respect that his decision was best for them both.
He released a soft sigh, thankful that Katie was away in Edinburgh, helping her mother care for her ailing father. The last thing he needed was Skye getting the impression he was involved with someone else. If he’d only known that Skye would be coming back to Glasgow the very same year he’d started dating Katie, he would never have become involved to begin with.
“Callum?” Skye interrupted his thoughts. “Where did you disappear to?”
He shook his head. “Uh…nowhere.”
“Will we do ‘Two Bonnie Maidens’? Or should I rather say ‘twa’?” Her lips parted into a smile.
Setting down his guitar, Callum took her hand. “I think we’ve entertained enough for one evening.”
“But…we’ve only done two songs.”
“What do you say we get out of here?”
Skye encased his hand between hers, like a mother hen folding her wings over her chicks. Was she trying to protect what might be?