I feel a surge of pride to be standing in the lands of my ancestors. “It’s good to be home, where my ancestors once walked. I can truly feel their presence.” When I glance at Finella, I catch the smallest of smirks on her lips. Okay, sure, I’m only one-sixteenth Scottish, but that means something. I take in a deep breath. “It’s nice to meet you, Finella. I can’t get over how green it is here. Coming from a dry environment, it’s refreshing to have nature all around us.”
“’Tis beautiful here.” She rests her hands on her hips, a wry smile tugging on her lips. “We’ll miss it, but we’re excited to go on a much-needed holibags.”
Holibags?
What the hell does that mean?
“Come, come,” she says. “We’ll talk more inside. You two must be hungry. I’ve fried up some haggis for you with some tatties and neeps.” She grabs both of us by the hands and guides us into the cottage. As we step inside our new home, I’m shocked at just how spacious it is. Off to the right is a stone fireplace and wood-framed hearth with a cast-iron stove in the middle. Two red couches sit on either side of the white-walled room, facing each other, with an oak coffee table in the middle.
To the left is a tiny kitchenette equipped with a two-burner stove, minifridge, and sink. Minimal cabinets, and instead of doors under the sink, the nook is blocked off with a white-and-red-checkered curtain. Okay, that’s kind of adorable. To the back is an open door leading to a narrow set of stairs. No pictures adorn the walls, and there are no decorations to speak of. The rest of the space is dominated by a two-person dining table, laden with dishes of food. Quaint, but just enough.
A hell of a step up from our one-bedroom, window-barred, cracked-ceiling apartment in Los Angeles, that’s for damn sure.
“Hope you enjoy the space,” Finella says, pride puffing her chest.
“It’s lovely,” I say.
“Perfect,” Dakota adds.
“Now, there’s one bedroom on the ground floor and one upstairs. Bathroom around the corner. We keep a bucket next to the toilet, and if you go number two, we ask that you use the bucket to help flush it down.”
I glance at Dakota, whose eyes widen with humor. I hold back my snicker, not wanting to be rude. But come on . . . a toilet bucket?
Yup . . . lovely.
“The fridge has some food in it,” Finella continues. “Not too sure what ya girls like, but it has the basics. The Mill Market is down the street. Shona knows you’re coming, so she can help show you around and order you anything you might need.”
“Shona is the owner?” I ask.
“Aye.” Finella sits us both down at the table and ladles out food. Balls of fried something that must be the haggis—whatever that is—and two mashed-up-looking things. The tatties and neeps, I suppose. “Everyone in Corsekelly knows you’re coming. The town is quite welcoming to newcomers, and they’ve already promised me and Stuart they’ll take good care of you while we’re gone.”
“Thank you,” Dakota says, picking up a fork and digging right in. I pick up my fork as well but wait for her to taste the food first. When she doesn’t seem to balk, I give myself the green light to eat up. “This is delicious, Finella.” The tatties and neeps are mashed with a hint of nutmeg flavoring. Interesting but delightful. And the haggis has an oaty texture with a hint of pepper and a crumbly sausage feel.
I think I can get used to this.
“Thank ye. ’Tis an old family recipe. My Rowan’s favorite.”
Rowan. Is that someone’s name?
“You won’t see much of him,” Finella continues. “Quite busy being the handyman around town.”
So it is someone’s name.
“Is Rowan your son?” I ask.
“Aye, he is. Strapping lad, though a tad grumpy, and keeps to himself. He does fancy himself a blonde, though. Especially a bonny one.” She wiggles her brows, and I feel my face flush.
“Hear that, Bonnie? Strapping,” Dakota says with a smile.
“Are either of ya attached?” Finella asks.
“Both single,” Dakota answers.
“Is that so.” She smiles widely.
“I’m not ready to date, though,” Dakota quickly says. “I had a bad breakup with my girlfriend about a year ago. Still nursing those wounds.”
“Och, ya fancy the lasses? You should meet Isla Murdach—she runs Murdach’s Wee Bakeshop. I’d think she’d take kindly to you.”
Now it’s Dakota’s turn to blush. I nudge her under the table with my foot. “Hear that? She’d fancy you.”