First Footing
Scotland. It was about as far away from Los Angeles as Taylor Carswell could get where English was still the predominant language. After the bitter end of her turbulent eight-year relationship with Braden Norwood, she longed to escape the fast-paced world of Hollywood and begin a new, quieter life as a novelist.
When the realtor first showed her the whitewashed stone cottage on the outskirts of a village near Loch Lomond, a sense of peace enveloped the former screenwriter. Although the building was small in size, she preferred it to the larger terraced and semi-detached homes in more urbanized areas.
"The remote location may seem intimidating, but Edinburgh is less than two hours' drive from here," the agent declared, believing no single woman—especially one from Los Angeles—would want to live in such an isolated locale.
"You don't need to sell me on the place. This is exactly what I'm looking for!" Feeling the need to explain her desire for solitude, she added, "I'm going to write a novel, and I don't want any distractions."
"That's good because you certainly won't get any here."
For two weeks the realtor's assurances proved true. There was nothing in the quiet Scottish countryside to take Taylor's mind off her work, whether it was outlining her novel or decorating her new home. The next day, however, the tranquility was broken by the sound of a dog's barking. Thinking there might be a stray on her property, she went outside to investigate. Upon opening the front door, she saw a lively Scottish terrier chasing a rabbit across her front yard.
"Willy!" a man's voice rang out. "Get back here."
The obedient dog immediately ceased his pursuit and returned to his owner.
"I hope my dog didn't disturb you," the man apologized.
"No, not at all."
"We haven't met yet," he said, striding up her driveway. "I'm your neighbor."
"I wasn't aware I had one," Taylor laughed and turned her head toward the direction of the distant houses in the village.
"Although you can't see it from here, my home is about a twenty-minute walk toward the lake. My name is Robert Cairns, by the way."
"Mine's Taylor Carswell. Would you like to come inside for a cup of coffee or tea?"
"I'd love to. Do you mind if I bring Willy inside? He's housebroken."
"Sure. I love dogs. In fact, I was thinking of getting one myself."
"I take it from your accent, you're American," he said while his hostess was putting a pot of coffee on.
"Yes. I just moved here from Los Angeles."
"It must be quite a change for you."
"A welcome one. I've decided to write a novel."
"Ah! I'm glad to meet a fellow writer!"
"You're a writer, too?"
"Yes, but not a novelist. I'm a history professor at Edinburgh University, and I'm taking some time off to write a book on Bonnie Prince Charlie."
As Taylor watched Robert stir the cream and sugar in his coffee, she was taken by his good looks. His fair skin, blue eyes and reddish brown hair were attractive features in their own right. Added to his tall, muscular frame, they made for a powerful combination—not that Taylor was interested in entering another relationship. Far from it! Eight years with Braden had cured her of any romantic notions she once had.
"So what kind of dog are you thinking of getting?" Robert asked.
"I haven't decided yet. Perhaps a golden retriever or an Irish setter. Although now that I've met Willy here, I might want to buy a Scottie."
"Willy's a good dog. His full name is William Wallace. I just call him Willy as a nickname."
"William Wallace. It's just the type of name I'd expect a history professor to give to his dog."
"I also have a cat."
"Let me guess: Robert the Bruce?" she laughed.
"Actually, that's my name. Robert Bruce Cairns. My parents were history buffs, too. I call my cat, who is female, Mary."
"As in Queen of Scots?"
"Correct."
The afternoon passed quickly with the two neighbors enjoying a second cup of coffee and entertaining conversation. It was only when the sun dipped low in the west that Robert rose from his chair and thanked Taylor for the coffee.
"Perhaps sometime you'll let me repay you for your hospitality?" he offered. "Say, dinner at the inn in the village?"
"Please don't be offended, but I've just ended a relationship ...."
"I'm not talking about a date, just a friendly dinner. You'll find that in rural communities like ours, it's nice to be on good terms with your neighbors. After all, you never know when you might need their assistance."
Taylor blushed with embarrassment. How foolish of her to automatically assume he was attracted to her!
"Thank you. I could use a friend. You never know when I might need to borrow a cup of sugar."
* * *
In the months that followed that first meeting, Taylor Carswell and Robert Cairns saw a good deal of each other. They routinely went on long walks with William "Willy" Wallace, enjoyed dinner at the village pub, went boating on Loch Lomond and even took occasional trips to enjoy the nightlife of Edinburgh. By the time the first substantial snowfall of the season deposited two feet of snow on the village, the friendship had blossomed into romance.
One blustery night, as the couple sat in front of the fire, Robert saw a long scar on Taylor's forearm that he had not noticed before.
"It looks like you had a nasty cut there," he observed. "What happened?"
"It was nothing," she insisted, but the pained look on her face told a different story. "I slipped with a knife when I was carving a ham."
Robert suspected the injury had something to do with her breakup. Although he was curious about the relationship that had sent her running five thousand miles from the West Coast of America to the Scottish Highlands, he did not want to press her for information, hoping she would eventually trust him enough to open up to him.
That would not be the day for confessions, however. Instead, Taylor stared moodily into the fire, her mind delving into the past.
When she first met Braden Norwood, he was a contestant in a televised singing contest. While he had no great talent as a vocalist, he was extremely good looking. His blond hair, blue eyes and dimpled cheeks led to his becoming a fan favorite. Adoring adolescent and teenage girls fell in love with his baby face and gave him enough call-in votes every week not only to keep him in the competition but to make him one of the finalists. Despite not being declared the winner, his appearances on the show made him a quasi-celebrity. The exposure on national television led to a recording contract and singing engagements. Although the gigs led to several infidelities with fans and groupies, those months immediately after the show ended were the happiest the couple would have.
Sadly, the singer's popularity did not last long. The following season of the competition introduced another handsome singer who won the fickle hearts of the young fans, and Braden Norwood's career came to a grinding halt. The one record he released had poor sales, and fewer and fewer people showed up for his live performances. Within three years of the start of his signing a record deal, he could not even get a job singing jingles for TV commercials.
As he saw his dreams of fame and fortune dying before his eyes, Braden took his anger and frustration out on Taylor in the form of both mental and physical abuse. The scar on her forearm had been the result of an argument that had escalated and sent her crashing through a window. Still, she had remained with him. Time and again she believed the promises he made to her. Yet as many times as he swore he loved her and was going to change his ways, he repeatedly went back on his word. It came to the point where she could not take the abuse any longer.
Stop it! she admonished herself. I came here for a new life, not to hash up old memories and wallow in self-pity.
* * *
One December afternoon Robert and his Scottie trekked across the snow to Taylor's cottage.
"Come inside where it's warm," she said, removing his snow-covered coat. "I'll get you something hot to drink, and Willy can go lay on the rug beside the hearth."
After Robert warmed his hands by the fire, he took a handful of envelopes out of his coat pocket.
"Here's your mail," he announced.
In bad weather, he often brought her mail up from the village, saving her the need of venturing out in the cold, a favor for which she was extremely grateful.
A red envelope with an American stamp in the right-hand corner immediately caught her attention.
I wonder what this could be, she thought, frowning, and ripped it open.
It contained a Christmas card, but no one had signed it. Her face lost all its color, and her hand trembled.
"Taylor, are you all right? What's wrong?"
It took several minutes for her to regain her composure.
"It ... was just so ... unexpected," she answered, still clearly shaken up by the unsigned holiday greeting.
"You sit down. I'll get the coffee."
Once Robert went into the kitchen, Taylor tore the red envelope and card in half, and leaning over a softly snoring William Wallace, she tossed them into the fire.
Who could have sent it? she wondered fearfully. No one knows I'm here.
Several minutes later, Robert, carrying two cups of hot coffee, sat beside her on the sofa.
"Are you okay now?" he inquired.
"Yeah. It just took me by complete surprise; that's all."
Robert suspected the card had been sent by Taylor's former boyfriend, but he did not ask her to confirm or deny his suspicions.
She'll tell me about him in her own good time, he thought. And even if she doesn't, what does it matter? He's thousands of miles away in California. It's doubtful he'll ever come between us.
As the two cuddled affectionately in front of the roaring fire, Robert brought up the subject of the approaching season.
"Are you planning on visiting America for the holidays?" he asked.
"No," Taylor answered, her muscles tense at his question. "I'm afraid I don't have very pleasant memories of Christmas."
"Oh?"
"It was Christmas Day when I ... I finally ended things with Braden."
"I'm sorry," he sympathized, but he was encouraged by the fact that she was finally starting to trust him. "Was the Christmas card from him?"
Her hand shook so badly that she spilled her coffee on her lap. William Wallace's head popped up, wondering what all the commotion was about.
"I don't want to talk about it!"
"That's okay. You don't have to," Robert said soothingly.
Taylor went into her bedroom and changed her pants. When she returned, her neighbor poured her another cup of coffee.
"Did you know that for nearly four hundred years Christmas was not celebrated in Scotland?" he asked, hoping to steer the conversation toward an impersonal topic that would not upset her. "Presbyterians, believing Christmas was a Catholic celebration, frowned upon it. It wasn't until the 1950s that it was celebrated here, and even then it was only a low-key holiday. Unlike American Christmases where people give piles of gifts, we Scots usually give only one gift or put a few small gifts in a stocking."
"I'm glad I didn't grow up in Scotland," Taylor laughed, having apparently recovered her good cheer. "My happiest times as a child were the holidays: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas."
"In Scotland we have Hogmanay, our New Year holiday."
"We celebrate the New Year, too."
"Yes, but toasting with champagne and kissing at midnight doesn't compare with our Hogmanay celebrations, some of which include fire festivals and parades."
"You mean fireworks?"
"I'm not talking about the pyrotechnical displays you have on your Fourth of July although some places have those, too. I'm talking about fireballs, weighing anywhere from five to fifteen pounds, made of rags, twigs and/or coal, wrapped in wire cages and dipped in paraffin. They're attached to five-foot metal chains, and people marching in the parade swing them over their heads. During Edinburgh's procession, people with wax-based torches march down the Royal Mile from the castle to Holyrood Park."
"Sounds like fun," Taylor said politely, but clearly she was not impressed.
"That's just part of the celebration. It's like a giant street party in Old Town. With upwards of a hundred thousand people attending, it's a four-day celebration, starting on December 28th and consisting of parades, concerts, dancing and fireworks."
"That sure beats watching a ball drop in Times Square. Are you going to Edinburgh for Hogmanay?"
"Not this year. I'd rather spend the holiday here and enjoy an old-fashioned redding ritual."
"What's that?"
"On December 31, people clean their house and pay off their debts before the ringing of the bells at midnight. This ritual, called redding, is a way of getting ready for the New Year. It's a time for clearing out remnants of the old and getting ready for the new with a clean slate."
A wistful smile lit up Taylor's pretty face.
"Out with the old and in with the new. I like that. It's the reason I came here to Scotland."
Out with the life she had shared with Braden Norwood and in with the new one she hoped to share with Robert Cairns and Willy.
* * *
Christmas was a quiet day. There were no decorations in the stone cottage, not even a small Christmas tree in the corner, a stocking hung on the fireplace mantel or a wreath on the front door. Although Taylor bought a gift for Robert and a box of gourmet dog biscuits for William Wallace, she did not bother to wrap them. There was no holiday turkey and the usual trimmings, but she would cook a roast and serve it with potatoes, smashed peas and a homemade cake.
As she sat alone in the cottage Christmas morning—Robert was not expected until late in the afternoon—she wondered if she would ever enjoy the holidays again. Braden had nearly destroyed her life. Would he destroy her love of Christmas, too?
I know I swore to put that horrible day behind me, she told herself, but how can I block it out of my mind?
Images of the downed Douglas fir surrounded by shattered ornaments and broken strands of lights haunted her. She was reminded of the pain she suffered when Braden punched her in the face and sent her sprawling into that tree. It had not been the first time he punched her, but it was the last. Was it the physical injuries she sustained or the affront to the festive Christmas celebration she had planned for them that pushed her to the breaking point?
Tears began to fall from her eyes.
"Why can't I forget?" she sobbed. "Why does that day come back to haunt me over and over again?"
Despite a complete absence of holiday spirit, she forced herself to go into the kitchen and start baking. Once the cake was in the oven, she turned her attention to the roast.
It was turkey that Christmas and homemade tiramisu for dessert.
"Don't torture yourself!" she cried.
To keep her mind focused on the present, she thought about what treat she would prepare for William Wallace. After all, even dogs deserved special treatment on the holidays.
By the time Robert arrived, the holiday meal was cooking, and the table was set.
"I brought a bottle of Glenlivet," he announced after kissing Taylor and wishing her a merry Christmas.
It had been eggnog that fateful day. She could still feel the cool, creamy beverage on her bare leg as she lay sprawled out on the floor on top of the downed tree. It had spilled when Braden, in an act of rage, overturned the table and smashed her great-grandmother's antique crystal punchbowl, shattering it beyond repair.
Stop it right now! she scolded herself.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" Robert asked, as his dog went to his customary place on the rug beside the fireplace hearth.
"No. I've got everything under control."
"It smells delicious."
"Thank you. The roast ought to be done in about ten minutes, and then we can eat. While we're waiting, let me give you and Willy your presents."
Upon hearing his name, William Wallace sprang up and danced around her feet. She opened the box and removed a peanut butter dog biscuit, which the Scottie carried to his rug and proceeded to devour.
"I hope you don't mind, but I didn't get a chance to wrap it," Taylor said, handing over a white box that contained an aran wool sweater from Ireland.
After thanking her for the gift, he reached into his pocket and took out a small present wrapped in red and white foil paper and topped with a green bow. Her heart raced, when she unwrapped it and found a blue velvet jeweler's box. Before opening it, she looked up into his face. The look of anticipation in his eyes, tinged with a shadow of doubt, gave her a clue as to what was inside.
"Will you marry me?" he asked when she finally opened the lid and saw the diamond engagement ring inside.
"Yes!" she cried, melting into his arms.
Although she had grown to love Robert, relief was the overpowering emotion she felt.
This is my new beginning, my chance for a happier life.
The romantic moment was broken by the sound of the kitchen timer announcing that the roast was done.
* * *
During the last week of December, Taylor rarely thought about Braden Norwood. She and Robert spent a good deal of time together, discussing plans for their future. The biggest decision they had to make was not the date of the wedding or where they would go for their honeymoon but where they would live once Robert completed writing his book on Bonnie Prince Charlie. Since his apartment was too small, they decided to buy a house close to Edinburgh and keep her cottage as a vacation home.
What a difference a year makes! Taylor thought on the morning of December 31. Last year this time I was looking for a place to hide, swearing to myself that I would never trust another man again.
As she was finishing a bowl of porridge, she heard the familiar bark of William Wallace. All smiles, she ran to the door and threw it open.
"What are you doing?" she asked, surprised to see Robert putting branches above her door.
"Have you forgotten what day it is? On December 31, it's customary to put branches from a rowan tree above the door for good luck. This," he said, hanging mistletoe nearby, "is to prevent illness. And hazel is meant to protect the house and all who dwell within."
Robert stepped inside, carrying more greenery.
"Holly keeps away mischievous fairies."
"Good!" Taylor laughed. "Those darned fairies present such a problem!"
"Finally," he announced, "doors are opened to bring in fresh air. Now your house is ready for New Year."
"I think that's enough fresh air," she said a few minutes later, her teeth chattering from the cold.
Once she stopped shivering, Taylor began cleaning. Given the small size of the house, it was not a daunting task. She and Robert washed, polished, vacuumed, scrubbed and wiped—all in accordance with the redding ritual.
"At least I don't have any debts to settle," Taylor laughed as she wiped the Windex off the windows with a paper towel. "I don't owe a dime to anybody."
A sudden gust of wind rattled the panes. It died down just as rapidly as it had erupted.
When the house was finally clean enough to earn the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, she and Robert went into town to get dinner at the pub. A small crowd of villagers were gathered there, starting the celebration early. The recently engaged couple joined in.
At quarter after eleven, Robert suggested it was time to go.
"Before the New Year arrives?" Taylor asked.
"Yes. We've got to be back at your house by then. You don't want to miss first footing."
"Another Hogmanay custom?"
"To ensure good luck for the house, the first foot to enter after midnight should be that of a dark-haired male, preferably with a darker than average complexion. It's believed to be a throwback to Viking days, when a blond stranger arriving on your doorstep meant trouble."
"So I have to go home and wait for some stranger to come to my house? What if no one shows up?"
"There are a number of dark-haired men in this village who go to people's houses once the clock strikes midnight. They bring with them shortbread which signifies an abundance of food; salt meant to bring flavor; whisky is for good cheer; and a coin to ensure prosperity."
"Sounds like you've done it before."
"Not me. My hair is too light."
"Dark hair or not, you brought good luck to me," Taylor said, hugging him tightly.
After stopping at Robert's house to pick up William Wallace, the couple returned to Taylor's stone cottage.
"Good. We made it on time," he said, checking his watch.
"Damn it!" Taylor said. "I should have bought a bottle of champagne for the occasion."
"This is Scotland, lass, not America. Open up that bottle of Glenlivet I bought you."
It was William Wallace, the lovable Scottish terrier, that first heard the approaching footsteps. He rose from his rug beside the hearth and barked.
"That must be the dark-haired man," the homeowner said.
"It's too early," Robert mumbled to himself. "It's not midnight yet. Angus ought to know better."
The front door began to open before Taylor could reach it.
Don't first-footers bother to knock? she wondered.
It was not Angus as Robert had anticipated, nor was it a stranger to Taylor that stood on her threshold. In fact, it was not a dark-haired man at all. The first foot poised to step inside the whitewashed cottage belonged to a fair-haired man with blue eyes and a dimpled face.
I was mistaken. There was a debt I haven't paid, Taylor thought, staring in horror at Braden Norwood's blood-stained corpse with her kitchen knife still protruding from his chest.
The guilt that she had been carrying for the past twelve months weighed down upon her. Braden had been abusive, but he never forced her to remain with him. The decision had been entirely hers. She had ample opportunity to leave him, but she remained—a glutton for punishment. Then came last Christmas and the fight that sent her crashing into the Douglas fir. After he tipped over the table and smashed her great-grandmother's punchbowl, Braden left their apartment. She should have packed a bag and walked out then.
But I didn't. Instead, I waited for him to return, and when he did ....
Meanwhile, Robert, whose view of the threshold was blocked by the open door, wondered what was happening.
"Angus?" he asked. "Is that you?"
There was no answer. Braden was incapable of speaking, and Taylor was reliving the most traumatic time of her life.
I was waiting for him. I stabbed him, murdered him in cold blood and claimed I acted in self-defense.
"Angus?" her fiancé called.
Taylor seemed not to hear him as, her eyes fixed in horror on her former lover, she took a step backward into the room. At the same moment, Braden Norwood put his foot over the threshold.
As the clock began to strike midnight, Robert rose from his seat to welcome Angus. However, there was no one there. He made it to the front door in time to see the woman he loved fall to the floor. He picked her up, carried her into the living room and placed her on the couch.
Ten minutes later when Angus arrived to perform the ritual first footing, he found his friend grieving over Taylor's dead body, unaware that she had died in order to pay the overdue debt to the man she had murdered.
Poor Willy! Salem was the first one to step into his dog house after midnight on New Year's Eve. And he didn't leave until he finished all of Willy's dog food.
