Finding It (20 page)

Poppy snorts. “You are a cheeky monkey.”

“Rub Roy?” Fanny frowns. “Who is Rub Roy?”

“She’s making a pun on the movie,
Rob Roy,
starring Liam Neeson.” Poppy explains. “I think our friend has a wee crush on the Scot.”

“Really?” Fanny giggles. “Which one?”

I shrug. “Take your pick.”

“Remember that thing you said earlier about the fleet of men-hating female aliens coming from outer space to gather up all of our menfolk to use as slaves?”

“Yeah, forget I said that,” I grin.

Poppy and Fanny laugh.

“So,” I say, kicking a stone with the toe of my Wellies. “Who is Fiona?”

“I am Fiona.”

I spin around and discover a tall super-slender brunette with large, twinkling eyes and a mischievous grin standing behind me. Her jaunty ponytail, pixie bangs swept to one side, black denim pants tucked into high Wellies, and crisp white blouse rolled to the elbows remind me of Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
—or what Audrey Hepburn would have looked like if she’d made
Scottish Holiday
instead of
Roman Holiday
.

“Hello, Fiona. I’m Vivia.” I look over her shoulder. “Where are your friends? Haven’t they arrived yet?”

“Um—” Fiona’s cheeks turn pink.

Too late, I realize my
faux pas
. I assumed all of the women taking part in this sheep-shitty excuse for a vacation would be traveling with their besties. Maybe Fiona doesn’t have a bestie.

Fanny nudges me in the side, but I ignore her.

“What happened, Fee?” I playfully punch her arm. “Did you do an old bait-and-switch? Tell them they were going to spend a week at some chi-chi spa in the Highlands getting rubdowns by brawny lads in kilts, and then bring them here and say, ‘Surprise! We’re really getting up at the crack o’ to shovel sheep poo!’”

Fiona’s cheeks turn a deeper, more violent shade of pink. Poppy clears her throat. Fanny nudges me harder.

“It’s all good, girl.” I nudge the other woman. “You can work on our chain gang. I’ll share a shackle with you. We’ll be—”

“Vivian!” Fanny grabs my forearm and squeezes it. “This is Fiona MacFarlane. She owns MacFarlane Farm.”

“What?” A quick glance at Fanny tells me I have, indeed, stepped in the proverbial sheep shit. “Fudgebuckets. Sorry. I thought you were…”

I let my thought trail off because I can’t think of a word to finish the sentence without insulting my hostess. I thought you were…sad? Lonely? Rejected? Friendless? Why not just grab a cattle brand and burn a big fat L on her forehead?

Sheepballs! I’m the loser with chronic diarrhea of the mouth.

“Och.” Fiona dismisses my apology with a wave of her slender hand. “I am just glad I can count on you to be my shackle buddy—should we ever find ourselves incarcerated. I didn’t have a shackle mate the last time I was in the pokey and I spent all my time in solitary just to avoid becoming someone’s biatch.”

She delivers her declaration with such a deadpan expression, I wonder if she is serious. Finally, her lips begin to twitch, pulling up at the corners.

“Nicely played, Fiona.” I grin.

“I had you going for a minute, didn’t I?”

“I was sweating bullets.”

“Worried you’d stepped into a scene from
Sheepshank Redemption
?”

“Ha!” I laugh. “I see what you did there. Nice.”

Poppy groans.

“That bad?” Fiona asks.

Fanny wrinkles her nose and nods her head.

When we finish laughing, we take turns introducing ourselves.

It turns out; my shackle mate is married to Hottie MacScottie, also known as Angus. Fiona MacFarlane was born and raised in Toledo, Ohio, which explains her flat Midwestern patois and dry sense of humor.

“How did a girl from Toledo end up in the Highlands?” I ask a similar question each time I meet an American living abroad. More often than not, the answers fascinate me. “Was it love?”

“No.” Fiona chuckles and shakes her head. “I came to Scotland because I was burnt out—of my job, my relationships, my life—and on the verge of a Chernobyl-sized meltdown. A colleague suggested I take time off and invited me to stay with her parents, who happened to own a sheep farm in the Highlands.”

“This farm?”

“No,” Fiona shakes her head. “That farm is nearby, though.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what did you do before you became a shepherdess?”

“I was a psychiatrist at a substance abuse hospital for wealthy women.”

I keep an it’s-all-good smile plastered on my face, but inwardly I am cringing. I always feel awkward around psychiatrists, like they’ve got x-ray vision and can look through my skull at all of the anxieties and neuroses swirling around in my brain. I can almost hear her tsk-tsking,
“What a shame. An unhealthy need for approval, employs sarcasm when nervous, and addicted to chocolate. She appeared sane.”

I glance at Poppy and Fanny. They’re twin deer caught in the headlights, anxious smiles frozen on their faces, eyes wide and unblinking. It’s like they’re afraid Fiona might turn her x-ray vision on them and discover a hidden personality disorder.

“Relax, ladies,” Fiona laughs. “You will remain free from any psychological assessment as long as you don’t lie down on my couch. Be warned, though. Enter my living room at your own peril.”

Fiona says the last two sentences in a spot-on impersonation of Vincent Price delivering the “Thriller” monologue. I half expect her to end with a diabolical “Muwahahaha.”

The sun quietly slipped behind the mountain while we were talking, casting us in muted shades of gray.

“Fiona MacFarlane, you are one twisted puppy.” I grin. “I think we are going to be good friends.”

She smiles. “I hope so.”

In the distance, a dog barks and sheep bleat, until a rumbling drum roll of thunder drowns them out.

“So you left Ohio on a mental health break and just never went back?” Poppy asks. “Just like that?”

“Something like that.”

“Go, girl!” Fanny says, pumping her fist.

“I felt a soul connection with Scotland and the Scots, as if I had been wandering my whole life and had finally found my home.” Fiona begins walking and we follow, making our way down a brick path leading to six identical stone cottages. “I enjoyed helping my friend’s parents tend their sheep, so I bought this farm and a herd of sheep from Collum MacFarlane, Angus’s dad.”

“Did he throw his son in as a bonus?” Fanny asks.

“No.” Fiona makes a sharp right toward the third cottage. “Angus thought I was a silly American woman with more romantic notions than common sense. He was an ass, always scowling and muttering in Gaelic under his breath. He even started a betting pool at the pub in town. Most of the village placed bets as to how long it would be before I killed my herd or packed up and moved back to the States.”

“Don’t you miss the life you gave up?”

“I’ve never thought of it as giving up one life for another. That implies loss. I’ve lost nothing. I still have my friends, my family, my skills, my memories.” Fiona pulls a ring of keys from her pocket and slides one of them into the lock on the cottage’s front door. “In Scotland, I have made new friends, acquired new skills, and every day I am making new memories.”

“What about your career?”

“What about my career?”

“Don’t you miss being a psychiatrist?”

Fiona pushes the door open before turning to look at me, tilting her head and narrowing her gaze. It’s an x-ray vision pose if I ever saw one.

“As a psychiatrist, I helped women on their journey towards empowerment. I believe I am doing the same thing with this sheep farm, giving women the opportunity to learn a new skill, challenge themselves, become more empowered by stretching their boundaries.”

Fanny gives me her are-you-paying-attention look, and I know she is thinking about my fear of losing my identity through matrimony.

Fiona opens the door to our temporary home.

I think of Luc while Fiona shows us around the surprisingly posh little cottage. and while she answers questions about the work we will be doing on the sheep farm. After Fiona leaves, I think of Luc while I am unpacking, showering, moisturizing, and putting on my flannel sheep pajamas (Oh, yes I did!). I even think of Luc while composing tweets about my new Wellies (it’s raining fabulous), journey over Loch Ness (no sighting), and first impression of the MacFarlanes (as charming as their cottages).

I fall back onto my bed, hug my iPhone to my chest, and stare at the ceiling, as if the answers to my problems are etched on the wooden beams.

What is wrong with me?

I changed my hairstyle, wardrobe, hobbies, and sexual history to be with Nathan, the man I thought I loved, but I won’t change my mailing address to be with Luc, the man I know I love?

That’s a rhetorical question. I know the answer. I am unwilling to bend because bending for Nathan nearly broke me; just as bending and scraping to please my father nearly broke my mum.

I am afraid if I give up my career, surname, and homeland to marry Luc, I will become a boring nonentity. I will become one of those sad, slightly-manic women you meet at the grocery store who initiate needless discussions with strangers about floor cleaner because they are lonely and desperate to connect.

I am imagining a future where I wear purple velour track suits to run errands in my minivan and spend hours torturing my Facebook friends with updates about my trip to the dentist.

Vivia Perpetua Grant-de Caumont

26 mins

Just got back from the dentist. The hygienist was a little rough and now my gums are sore. No root canal needed, though. So, yay me!

Maybe this is another case of my over-dramatic imagination running buck-stinking-wild.

If Fiona has been able to fashion a new life in Scotland, why can’t I do the same in France? She struck a good balance between career and love. She’s interesting and funny. She works on a sheep farm surrounded by brawny, belching, butt-scratching men, but can still hang with the girls and rock a pair of black skinny jeans.

Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe Luc wants me to continue working as a travel columnist after we are married. Maybe he would be totally cool with me keeping my surname, blowing off his stuffy faculty functions, and wearing leather leggings and vintage band T’s to the grocery store. After all, I had pink hair and a painful freshly-inked ass tat on our first date, and he was more than totally cool about it.

Since we’ve never actually had a serious conversation about getting married, I don’t know what his expectations are for the future Madame de Caumont, mistress of his ancestral chateau.

Hope surges through my veins like a sixty-four-ounce can of Monster Energy Drink, making me feel amped up, jittery with unspent energy, and ready to take on the world.

I suddenly sit up. I know what I am going to do.

I’m calling Luc! I am going to call Luc right now.

Invigorated by my newfound confidence, I practically leap out of bed and begin pacing the length of my room, trusty iPhone clutched in my hand at the ready.

I will simply phone Luc and tell him to forget about the Bishop Raine BS, because that is precisely what it is: bullshit. I will tell him I love him and want to be with only him. Then, I will question him about his expectations for a wife, let him know my expectations and boundaries, and negotiate a marital contract.

Yes! I pump my fist in the air. Let’s do this thing!

I dial his number. It rings once, twice, and then—

“
Bonjour. C'est Jean-Luc. Veuillez me laisser un message et je vous téléphonerai aussitôt que possible. Merci
.”

My call goes to voicemail after only two rings. I know what that means. Luc looked at the caller ID, saw my number on the screen, and declined the call. It’s the only explanation since every other time I called it rang five times before going to voicemail.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins screeches to a halt and I drop back onto the bed, like some dramatic post-energy drink crash.
Dude! I am, like, totally drained.
Someone give me twenty cc’s of hope stat.

I toss my phone on my bed, grab my MacBook, and pad into the cozy living room. Fanny has made hot chocolate spiked with Amaretto—she grabbed a bottle when we hit the Tesco in town while I grabbed four boxes of Borders Strawberries and Cream Shortbread. Poppy has a small fire crackling in the fireplace.

Fanny looks up and frowns. She mouths, “Are you all right?”

“Chocolate, artery-clogging butter cookies, and friends.” I force a smile and put the box of Borders Shortbread on the tray beside the chocolate. “What more could a girl want?”

“David Tennant,” Poppy says.

“Zac Efron,” Fanny counters.

“Luc de Caumont.” I avoid their gazes as I place the cookies on the tray beside Fanny’s steaming chocolate. “But I guess a girl can’t get everything she wants.”

“Boo.” Fanny crumples a napkin and throws it at me. “You were supposed to say Ashton Kutcher.”

“Ah, yes! Ashton.” I hold my MacBook up. “Thanks to the wonder of online streaming, Ashton is always just one click away, always faithful and ready to charm.”

We are in our wooly socks and flannel jammies, huddled together by the fire, watching the downloaded version of
The Guardian
on my MacBook, when it begins to rain.

When I fall into bed later, howling winds rattle the shutters and heavy raindrops plink against the windows like pebbles. I leave the curtains open and stare out at the forbidding inky darkness, thinking how perfectly the bleak, gloomy landscape matches my mood.

A bolt of lightning suddenly appears from the heavens, dividing the sky into two purplish-black jagged pieces—like the jagged pieces of my broken heart.

Heavy Petting

Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel

Bishop Raine tells @PerpetuallyViv to just go, girl. Now dating New Age guru & founder of Hippie Chick Clothing, @SummerCane

Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

Did you know sheep spend 1/3 of their lives ruminating? #ZeninThePen #WiseWoolyBoogers Too bad some humans don’t mimic sheep: #ThinkMore #BleatLess @StevenSchpiel