She walked down the length of the caber, trailing fingers over the wood, then came back on the other side. Leith ambled toward her with those mountains for shoulders and tree trunks for legs, all set against the delicate, lovely backdrop of Gleann. She was struck by how strongly he’d become part of this landscape. His father, too. The two MacDougall men, as big a part of Gleann as Loughlin’s orange cattle or Kathleen’s horrid cafe decor. And, from what Jen remembered, completely inseparable.
With a hard pang, she realized she missed Mr. MacDougall greatly. During the games, he’d given colorful, delightful commentary on the competitors and their form, and in between, he’d woven in stories from back home in Scotland. Later, she and Leith would sit with him on his front porch, turning the stiff pages of his old photo albums, listening to tales of his best throwing days in Fort William, near where he’d grown up.
Those photos had been her first true exposure to a culture that wasn’t American. She’d been enraptured. She’d been enthralled by Mr. MacDougall’s accent, dulled by decades spent in his new country.
“All kidding aside,” she told Leith, “you should be proud.”
“I am. I really am. But my wins were just the Gleann games, so small compared to others all over the country. And in the amateur division, not even pro. I don’t know why they make such a big deal out of it.”
She looked at him, astounded. “It’s not small to them. It’s their world. And you’re a huge part of it. You and your dad.” She spread her hands wide on the wood. “You’re theirs.”
And you were once mine.
The thought was so potent, so powerful, she feared she’d said it out loud. The look on Leith’s face said maybe she had. Or that he shared the same thought.
He placed his palms on the outside of her hands, his thumbs grazing her pinkies. The pinch of his eyebrows worried her.
“What is it?” She pressed closer, the caber the only thing separating their bodies.
“It’s just”—he looked up, right into her eyes—“when you say things like that, I’m even more conflicted about leaving.”
She gave him a tiny, close-lipped smile of apology. “That’s not what I meant to do.”
“I know. The thoughts are already there. Some things just bring them to the surface.”
They stood there in near silence, the only sounds the gentle splash of the stream and a single car negotiating the curve up from the small glen where Leith’s childhood house used to be. Thinking about that house, and the two men who used to live there, made her think of something. A crazy-good idea.
“I’m about to ask you to do something,” she said. “Something for the games.”
He was already shaking his head, his words overlapping hers. “I’m not throwing.”
She showed him her palms. “I get that. I mean, I don’t really get it, but I understand you don’t want to compete. Instead . . . would you consider being my athletic director?”
Stepping back, his hands slid off the caber. He didn’t look spooked, just surprised.
He took out that blue handkerchief—the one that reminded her so much of his dad—and wiped his hands even though they weren’t dirty. “I wasn’t planning on being in Gleann that weekend. The job in Connecticut has the potential to be huge; I may have to work.”
“It’s one day, Leith. Well, two if you count the opening party the night before. Just one day to give back to Gleann before you head out for good. Come on. Please. I need the help. I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to the athletic events, and with so many other changes I want to make, I’m sure I’ll be needed elsewhere.”
He slowly turned his head, scanning Gleann from one corner to the next, his longer hair curling around his ears. It might have been the sexiest he’d ever looked to her.
“There’s this buddy of mine, Duncan Ferguson. We used to throw together, and he’s still really active in the circuit. He lives just across the lake in Westbury. He might even have already signed up to compete here anyway. I’m sure he could help you out.”
“But—”
“I can’t give my promise, Jen.” There was such earnestness in his voice, such belief in his expression. “I make promises, I keep them. I wouldn’t want to say I’d do it and then let everyone down.” He glanced toward town, then back to her. “And I wouldn’t want to let you down.”
She could have prepped for a week straight on how that one sentence would make her feel, and she still would have stammered. She still would have felt the stumble of her heart. “I understand.”
He nodded once, in that way men learned in some sort of existential Guy School. “I’ll get you Duncan’s number.”
“Thanks.”
That word closed a chapter in their conversation. With a tap to the caber, he wandered off toward the playground equipment. The ladder and slide and play structure were faded and weathered. Exactly how she remembered them, but sadder. When he changed subjects and asked, “Hey, do you remember the last time we were here?” she wasn’t a bit surprised.
His lopsided smile said, Aw, yeah. Something dirty happened up there and I was a part of it.
She loved that look.
“I do,” she said, inching closer. “I also remember the first time.”
This was where they’d met, after all. She and Aimee had walked to this park their second day ever in Gleann. She’d been eight, Aimee nine. Leith had been playing here with another boy who’d moved away shortly thereafter. The four of them had quickly fallen into that easy, you’re-my-best-playground-friend thing. Except that the next time she and Leith had met, they’d resumed that companionship while Aimee couldn’t have cared less.
He leaned against the slide. “You do? Because you’re not acting like it.”
So this was it. They were finally going to talk about the past. She was surprised he was the one to bring it up, too, because he’d been so aloof. But last night had shifted something between them, cracked some walls, broke apart some dams.
She stepped into the wood chips surrounding the play structure. “I’m the one not acting like it?”
His head snapped back with an incredulous expression. “You walked up that driveway like your last summer here didn’t exist. You ignored everything that happened between us at the fairgrounds.”
It took her a few seconds to swallow, because the truth felt like a giant horse pill coated in sawdust. “I could say the exact same thing about you, you know.”
He threw out his arms. “I live here. Stood on the side of the road as you drove off, exhaust in my face. Of course I remember. I remember everything. Every. Little. Detail.”
“Okay.” She licked her lips and flicked her gaze to the awning over the slide tower. “You want to know what happened up there? What I remember? It was the first time you put your hand up my shirt. The first time any guy did. There were fireworks, too. Somewhere across the lake, someone was lighting off bottle rockets. And since it was before the first night we actually had sex, it was the greatest night of my life.”
He inhaled. Exhaled. Did them both again. He looked supremely satisfied . . . and also terribly frustrated. So was she.
She kicked at some wood chips, rearranged them with her toe. “I didn’t plan for this, you know. Seeing you again.” Feeling things. “I wasn’t . . . looking for anything.”
For a second he looked amused, then she realized it was sarcasm. “Oh no?”
“No.”
“That’s bullshit, Jen.” But he smiled as he said it, shook his head at the ground, pieces of golden-brown hair falling over his forehead. “Somewhere deep down you knew I’d still be here. Somewhere deep down you hoped for it.”