Free My Very Best Friend by Cathy Lamb Page B

looks like you, uptight, and as if it had a snake up its butt, but what you said to her was uncalled for now, wasn’t it?
As for Gitanjali. You will hardly recognize her presence because she’s from India. Don’t deny it and stop it this instant.
So, Lorna, as a proud gardener, the president of the club, and a Scotswoman, I’ll have to insist that you act like a pleasant human to the women in gardening club or stay home and dust.
Olive
     
    “How does it feel to be back in Scotland, Charlotte?” Toran stretched his legs out in front of his fireplace, which was huge, with a rock hearth and a mantel made of polished wood. He had long legs, hard and muscled. I tried not to stare. My oh my. I had made Partan Bree soup with crab, white rice and sherry, barbecued beef steaks with shallots, bread, and Scottish Whisky Dundee cake with orange and lemon. When he saw what I had cooked when he came in from work, I thought the man was going to swoon. He said, “I wish I had more trucks to loan you.”
    I had tried not to giggle, because that would have been unbecoming for a person my age, and too simpering to boot. So I blushed.
    “It feels like I’ve returned home only a few key people are missing.”
    He smiled, soft. “I understand. You must miss your father and grandparents even more when you’re here. And Bridget. I’m sorry, I truly am.”
    He was so quick, so intuitive. We talked, and he asked all sorts of questions about me and my work as a writer. He was truly interested, which is so sexy. A listening man is a sex-able man. You can have wild good sex with a listening man. I think. I mean, I would have if I had been given the opportunity.
    I reminded him not to tell anyone about how I write, as I am “part hermit, part recluse, part insanely private,” and he said, “Your secret is safe with me unless you refuse to make me this Scottish Whisky Dundee cake again.”
    I reassured him I would make him the whiskey cake again.
    “Dance with me, Charlotte,” he asked as the fire burned down.
    “Right now?”
    “Yes,” Toran said, spreading his arms out. “Dance with me.”
    “There’s no music.”
    “One moment please, lass.” He turned on rock music, the dancing sort.
    He held out his arms. “Let’s dance like your parents used to dance together.” He pushed a table and a chair out of the way. “Your father was my role model on how to treat a woman, so let’s see how I’m doing.”
    “The only type of dances I know are the traditional Scottish Highland dances where I’m kicking my heels up with my arms in arcs in the air, back straight. I can also do the foxtrot, some salsa and ballroom dancing, but with this free dancing, wiggling everywhere to a beat everyone hears that I don’t hear, I’m awkward and unbalanced.”
    “Every Scot knows how to dance.”
    “I think that gene has gone missing.”
    “No, you have it. It’s given at birth. We danced as kids, and I remember you could dance then. The four of us danced in the meadow all the time.”
    “And in the river.”
    “And on top of the hill.”
    “And on the beach.”
    “Then that proves it. You can dance.”
    “It’s been years. I have no rhythm. You will confuse me with an electrified chicken.”
    “You see? You are so funny, Char. An electrified chicken.” He laughed. “Come on, luv.”
    He pulled me into his arms. I was stiff at first, rigid like a stick. My long brown skirt didn’t help, and my sturdy brown shoes were not slidey enough.
    “If you dance I’ll let you have some of my Scottish whiskey.”
    “I can’t refuse then, King Toran.” I smiled. I sounded almost flirty. Was that flirting? I pulled back and curtsied. I smiled at him. I hadn’t seen him in twenty years but now here he was, a man. A heck of a handsome Scotsman.
    I placed my hand in his, and his fingers curled around mine.
    He twirled me around. He spun me, he turned and dipped me.
    I laughed. I twirled, I spun, I tried to dip him. He was too tall. We swayed