Free The Secret Gift by Jaclyn Reding Page B

Rover. Moments later, he was pulling away.
    Libby stood and watched as the shopkeeper started tugging a succession of drawers on the wall behind him, sorting through gadgetry of every type imaginable.
    He was an older man, perhaps seventy, with a balding head and wisps of wiry, grizzled hair. A natty cardigan sweater and trousers covered his narrow frame, and he wore thick-lensed eyeglasses on a nose that was both short and veined. His dark eyes, however, had a twinkle about them that came just as easily as his warm smile. He reminded Libby of the spry terrier, Robbie, she’d had as a child, who till his fifteenth year had still trotted about the beach like a puppy.
    “Is this it?” The shopkeeper lifted the item up to see it through his bifocals better. “Nae, that’s for a French connection.” And then he chuckled at his own joke. “French connection—funny that.”
    He continued yanking out drawers, muttering things like “German” or “Japanese” as he went. And then ...
    “Ha! I knew I had it. One U.S.-to-U.K. voltage converter.” He showed it to her proudly. “Now mind this switch here. For the laptop it doesn’t matter, because most laptops are built to handle voltage variances, but check the settings if you’re planning to use this for your hair dryer or that sort. If you have the setting too high, you’ll burn the wee thing clear out.”
    Libby nodded. “Thank you, Mr ... ?”
    “M’Cuick,” he answered. “Ian M’Cuick of M’Cuick’s Hardware and Everything.”
    Libby smiled. “Well, you’ve certainly lived up to that name.”
    He shoved his hand toward her. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss ... ?”
    “Libby Hutchinson.”
    “Welcome to our wee village, Miss Hutchinson.” The shopkeeper smiled, leaning on the counter. “I hope you’ll enjoy your visit. Anything else I can get for you?”
    “No, I think that’s all for now.” And then she paused.
    He hadn’t been at the shop the day before when she’d come asking if anyone could tell her about her mother. It had been a woman, older, most likely his wife.
    “Then again, I wonder if I might ask you a question?”
    “Cairr
-tainly,” he replied, stuffing some of the gadgets he’d taken out back into their drawers.
    “Have you lived in the village for very long?”
    “All my life. Born in this very house, above this very shop, one blizzard-stricken December night.” He turned, grinning. “Or so my mother liked to tell me.”
    “I wonder if you would remember a girl who once lived here.”
    “I should think so. What was her name?”
    “Matilde Donn.”
    This time Libby gave the surname she’d found in the church records, not Mackay. Even so, she’d expected the same frown and shake of denial she’d received the previous day. Instead, the shopkeeper got a look of obvious recognition on his face, just as he had when he’d been searching for the converter.
    “Matilde Donn. Now that’s a name I havena heard in a long time. Oh, she was a fine, bonny lass, she was. Went off to America I heard, some thirty or more years ago. Aye, I knew her. But I’m afraid I canna tell you where to find her now. She’s ne’er come back nor written since she left us, I’m sorry to say. Do you know her?”
    Libby looked at him. “She ... she was my mother.”
    He stopped what he was doing and looked at her curiously. “You’re Matilde’s girl?”
    “I am—at least I believe I am. You see, my mother always told me her name had been Mackay, Matilde Mackay. But according to the church records I found, her surname would have been Donn.”
    Ian simply nodded. “Aye ...”
    “Would you know why? Would you know if perhaps she had married once before?”
    Where his face had been open and willing moments earlier, it now took on that same expression Libby had seen the day before. It was a look of hesitant withdrawal. His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “I’m afraid I cannot answer that for you, lass.”
    Libby stared at him, frustrated.