everything spinning in a new direction.
C HAPTER 13
It was still morning, and Sheepish Expressions could only have been open for a short time. The parking lot was completely empty on this rainy Saturday, but a tour bus pulled in just as I arrived.
Upon exiting the bus, a woman turned to her male traveling companion, and said, “The Loch Ness Monster is only a legend. Just another tourist attraction, if you ask me.”
The bus driver heard her, and piped up, saying, “Oh no, it’s real for sure. Enough o’ us have seen Nessie tae confirm her existence. And bones of another huge sea serpent were recently found in Russia, a cousin to our famous girl, their researchers say.”
The woman harrumphed her disbelief. I figured the bus driver had a good line; whether or not the tourists believed in the giant lake dweller or not, they sure were showing up in one busload after another hoping for a sighting.
I stepped inside the shop behind the skeptic and took a sharp turn away from the counter. I slunk amongst the fine woolen clothing, enjoying the textures of all the lovely apparel. July hardly seemed the right time of the year to buy woolen products, but that wasn’t stopping these shoppers. The woman next to me picked out an armful of brightly patterned cashmere scarves. When she noticed my interest, she said, “I know it’s still July, but Christmas will be here before we know it. My friends and family will love these!”
After making a mental note to do some holiday shopping myself before flying back to Chicago, I ducked into the attached knitting room, where I pored over binders and magazines filled with patterns. They could have been Greek for all that I understood of the directions, but the photos of the finished products again lured me into thoughts of retrying my hand at knitting.
When I returned to earth from a dreamworld of possibilities, the knitting room was empty. So was the shop, judging by the lack of voices. Presumably the previous tour bus had departed for its next destination, and the next one hadn’t arrived yet.
I heard a male voice call out, “Anybody left inside the shop?” and before I could figure out my plan of action, a female voice responded, “They’re all gone, John. Next bus arrives in about five minutes.”
John. That must be John Derry, Kirstine MacBride’s husband, the one who tended the farm’s sheep, the same one who had egged on his wife when she verbally attacked Vicki in the pub. I couldn’t see him at the moment, but I had a visual in my head of the big, brash bully. I’d been about to declare myself, but now I only wanted to hide. I ducked down on the other side of the wall.
“Can I have a word with ye, Kirstine?” I heard him say to his wife. My ear had adjusted to the local accent enough to recognize that John’s was different—somewhat similar, but not exactly the same. Nor did it sound like the rest of the MacBrides’.
I panicked, hearing their voices coming closer. Hiding had been a stupidly rash move on my part. It’s one thing to be discovered alone in a back room, paging through magazines, blissfully unaware of your surroundings. It’s another to be caught hunkered down, listening like a Peeping Tomette.
But that’s exactly what had happened.
I’d hunkered.
And I was about to be busted with no good explanation to offer.
“The inn had ta close,” John said from way too close, right on the other side of the wall. “And now the nosy American is here at the farm, those two gettin’ tight like herrings in the salt.”
Were they talking about me? Of course they were. Nobody else fit that description. And my current dilemma went a long way in proving the nosy part.
“The plan is in place,” Kirstine said. “She could ruin it for us.”
“I’ll take care oof it. We want what’s rightfully due us, is all.”
“Turner should’ve warned the rest of the family,” Kirstine said, “before it was too late. He’s supposed to be the loyal family
C HAPTER 13
It was still morning, and Sheepish Expressions could only have been open for a short time. The parking lot was completely empty on this rainy Saturday, but a tour bus pulled in just as I arrived.
Upon exiting the bus, a woman turned to her male traveling companion, and said, “The Loch Ness Monster is only a legend. Just another tourist attraction, if you ask me.”
The bus driver heard her, and piped up, saying, “Oh no, it’s real for sure. Enough o’ us have seen Nessie tae confirm her existence. And bones of another huge sea serpent were recently found in Russia, a cousin to our famous girl, their researchers say.”
The woman harrumphed her disbelief. I figured the bus driver had a good line; whether or not the tourists believed in the giant lake dweller or not, they sure were showing up in one busload after another hoping for a sighting.
I stepped inside the shop behind the skeptic and took a sharp turn away from the counter. I slunk amongst the fine woolen clothing, enjoying the textures of all the lovely apparel. July hardly seemed the right time of the year to buy woolen products, but that wasn’t stopping these shoppers. The woman next to me picked out an armful of brightly patterned cashmere scarves. When she noticed my interest, she said, “I know it’s still July, but Christmas will be here before we know it. My friends and family will love these!”
After making a mental note to do some holiday shopping myself before flying back to Chicago, I ducked into the attached knitting room, where I pored over binders and magazines filled with patterns. They could have been Greek for all that I understood of the directions, but the photos of the finished products again lured me into thoughts of retrying my hand at knitting.
When I returned to earth from a dreamworld of possibilities, the knitting room was empty. So was the shop, judging by the lack of voices. Presumably the previous tour bus had departed for its next destination, and the next one hadn’t arrived yet.
I heard a male voice call out, “Anybody left inside the shop?” and before I could figure out my plan of action, a female voice responded, “They’re all gone, John. Next bus arrives in about five minutes.”
John. That must be John Derry, Kirstine MacBride’s husband, the one who tended the farm’s sheep, the same one who had egged on his wife when she verbally attacked Vicki in the pub. I couldn’t see him at the moment, but I had a visual in my head of the big, brash bully. I’d been about to declare myself, but now I only wanted to hide. I ducked down on the other side of the wall.
“Can I have a word with ye, Kirstine?” I heard him say to his wife. My ear had adjusted to the local accent enough to recognize that John’s was different—somewhat similar, but not exactly the same. Nor did it sound like the rest of the MacBrides’.
I panicked, hearing their voices coming closer. Hiding had been a stupidly rash move on my part. It’s one thing to be discovered alone in a back room, paging through magazines, blissfully unaware of your surroundings. It’s another to be caught hunkered down, listening like a Peeping Tomette.
But that’s exactly what had happened.
I’d hunkered.
And I was about to be busted with no good explanation to offer.
“The inn had ta close,” John said from way too close, right on the other side of the wall. “And now the nosy American is here at the farm, those two gettin’ tight like herrings in the salt.”
Were they talking about me? Of course they were. Nobody else fit that description. And my current dilemma went a long way in proving the nosy part.
“The plan is in place,” Kirstine said. “She could ruin it for us.”
“I’ll take care oof it. We want what’s rightfully due us, is all.”
“Turner should’ve warned the rest of the family,” Kirstine said, “before it was too late. He’s supposed to be the loyal family
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