Page 14 of Kirkyards & Kindness
I’m still amazed—and honored—to have been pulled into the fold. I’d always been someone who had plenty of friends, but the older I got, the more my work took over, and my deep school friendships shallowed into the casual “let’s grab a drink” sort.
While I outwardly take full responsibility for letting those friendships slide, I inwardly acknowledge that it had also been a mutually widening gap. I became the career woman, intent on getting her detective shield and then a spot on the major crimes team. I only dated casually, enjoying the company of men but prizing my independence. My friends had careers, too, but most of them had also married and started families and moved to the suburbs and beyond.
I feel the same way about marriage and babies as I do about pets. I’m not actively against having them, but I don’t actively seek them out either. When the right one came along, I’d feel like a missing piece of my life had fallen into place, but if there was a hole, it required a very specific and rare piece. And until I found it, I was happily pursuing my life. My friends didn’t understand that. If I wasn’t dead set against a long-term relationship, that meant I must want one. Our conversations increasingly became me trying to not talk about my job while they alternated between talking about how amazing marriage and motherhood was and “teasing” me about how much they envied my freedom.
There’s also the problem of drift that comes when friends find a life partner, and that’s what’s happening with Isla and McCreadie. After years of quiet yearning, they are officially courting. Because Isla is a widow, they are much freer to be alone together. That’s wonderful for them, but on a purely selfish level, I kinda wish they needed a chaperone now and then, because otherwise, if they aren’t busy at work, they’re usually off together.
The fact that I’m mildly put out by that horrifies me. I am so happy for them. While I do miss our quartet, I miss my friend-time with Isla more. And still more, I worry about Gray.
Duncan Gray is not sociable. At all. He has endless acquaintances and one very good friend. I know I’m also a friend, but it isn’t the same. Gray misses his time with McCreadie, and a few oblique things he’s said suggest he wonders whether part of their adult friendship had been an excuse for McCreadie to be around Isla. It wasn’t—that was just a bonus. But for someone like Gray, who built very firm walls against the world, as both a “bastard” and a man of color, it wouldn’t take much for him to second-guess.
I can’t ask Gray how he feels about McCreadie drifting. Imagine asking your average modern-day guy how he feels about something, and then multiply that tenfold for a Victorian one. Even if Gray felt displaced, he wouldn’t want to approach and examine those feelings any more than he’d want to approach and examine a sleeping tiger.
No, strike that. Gray would totally approach and examine a sleeping tiger, partly out of curiosity and partly for the adrenaline rush. But if he’s fretting about his friendship with McCreadie, then he’s put that firmly aside and told himself he’s being silly, and he’s happy for his friend and his sister, and all is fine. Which is exactly what I’m doing, too.
I switch to my inside footwear and hurry up to the first floor, where I can hear Gray and McCreadie in the library. They’re talking about a case. Not ours but one of McCreadie’s. The clink of glasses says they’re enjoying a glass of scotch.
Gray and McCreadie, drinking and talking shop. Hearing them is like slipping into the comfiest pajamas. My smile grows, and I pop my head in. Of course, I won’t intrude, but I want to be sure they aren’t waiting for me to discuss the Bobby case. As I glance in, Gray smiles and motions at a third glass, already poured.
I slide into the room and take the vacant chair. Before I sit, McCreadie rises, his manners as impeccable as his dress. When I first arrived, I considered McCreadie an exceptionally handsome man marred by unfortunate whiskers. I’ve gotten used to the whiskers. They’re fashionable, and they suit him. So he’s just a very handsome guy with the kind of personality you hope for in someone who looks like that.
McCreadie is affable and good-natured, endlessly charming, bright, and ambitious. I think back to those old friends of mine and how they’d have jumped to push McCreadie my way. All those qualities, plus he’s a dedicated cop? What more could I want? In a friend, nothing. He’s perfect as that, and otherwise, he’s perfect for Isla, who deserves the best.
“Good to see you,” I say. “Joining us for?—”
Gray clears his throat. “Hugh has a special surprise evening planned for Isla. He is whisking her off to a romantic picnic. She went upstairs to change.”
“Ah. That sounds lovely.”
Color rises in McCreadie’s cheeks. “I hope so. Not everyone appreciates surprises, but Isla seemed pleased.”
“Isla adores surprises, and you know it. Stop worrying. So where are you taking her?”
He answers, and we let the conversation turn that way as we enjoy our drinks and wait for Isla. When she appears, she looks as nervous and giddy as a high-schooler going to the prom, and my heart swells for her.
She deserves this. She really does. Her marriage was an utter disaster, with a boor who married her for her family money. I don’t think there was physical abuse—Lawrence knew her family would see that. Instead, he battered her in all the ways that don’t show, taking a headstrong, independent woman and shattering her confidence. With his death, Isla slowly began picking up the pieces and figuring out how they fit back together. Now with McCreadie’s adoration, I can see the woman she was meant to be, intense and introspective but also vibrating with life.
We see them out, and it’s like seeing a bridal couple off on their wedding night, family and friends cheering them on. Then the door shuts behind them, and Gray exhales.
“When I heard Hugh, I kinda hoped . . .” I say.
“Yes, I know.”
“And then I felt incredibly guilty and selfish for being disappointed.”
“Yes, I know.”
I straighten. “But we still have dinner, right? Mrs. Wallace didn’t decide we can eat cold ham?”
The ghost of a smile. “Mrs. Wallace will insist on a proper dinner. Afterwards, we will discuss the case. Just the two of us.”
“That’s never so bad, right?”
His gaze softens as he looks at me. “It is never bad at all,” he says, but we both feel the very slight lie in our words. There are times when we are happiest together, just the two of us, when we can be as silly and strange as we like. But we miss this part—bouncing around a case with our friends. The excitement of a shared investigation. And we’re left wondering, both of us, I think, whether we’d imagined McCreadie and Isla’s excitement with our investigations, and it hadn’t just been an excuse for them to spend time together, and now that they’ve achieved that, are they still going to care about our cases?
We take dinner in the dining room, which is really the only place Mrs. Wallace is happy with us eating. Unless you’re sick in bed, meals are for the meal room. I dine with Gray, which is one of many advantages to being his assistant. I no longer need to serve the food and endure Mrs. Wallace’s censure if I actually talk to those who are dining.
