The Sweetest Hours. Cathryn Parry
liberal amounts of butter, and the neeps had brown sugar and maple syrup added. Maybe she’d figured it couldn’t hurt.
“All right.” One of the brothers stood at last, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “That was great, Steph, thanks for inviting us. But Dad and I need to get going.”
“Wait!” Stephanie said. “We haven’t sung ‘Auld Lang Syne’ or read a Burns poem yet.”
“Sorry, sis. We just don’t have time.”
Just then, Malcolm’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the incoming text message. It was his driver, waiting for him. Malcolm looked at Kristin. She knew what the text was for.
“Actually, Steph, it’s okay,” Kristin said brightly. “It was a great dinner. Thank you for organizing it and for inviting us.”
And with a light smile on her face that he knew was fake, she pushed her chair back. “Besides, George has to leave, too. His ride is here.”
She turned to him. “Thank you for coming. We appreciate it. I hope you liked the dinner.”
He felt even worse now. Pocketing the phone, he stood. “I, er, would like to read a Burns poem as my thanks to you all, and I’d like to have everyone’s indulgence while I do so.”
Kristin stared at him.
He smiled at her mother. She was the one person besides Kristin who seemed predisposed to like him, so he played that for all he could. “I don’t know if I told you, Evelyn, but I went to prep school with a fearsome English professor, one who drilled poetry into our heads, and he made us stand and recite verses until we knew them by rote.”
Evelyn nodded. “I had teachers like that, as well. They don’t exist anymore.”
“No,” Malcolm agreed, “they probably don’t.”
A brother was putting on his coat, and Malcolm turned to shoot a look at him. “Please, sit down. This will only take twenty seconds.”
The brother sat.
“Thank you, George,” Kristin said softly. “What will the poem be?”
If he were alone with her, he knew exactly what line he would recite to her: The sweetest hours, that ever I spend. Because his short time with her had been sweet, and he was sorry it had to end.
But, they were not alone; he was sitting with her family. And, their hours together could not continue into the future.
So, he turned to her niece and smiled at the wee one. “This verse is called ‘To a Mouse.’ It’s by Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns, and I will recite it in your honor.” He took a breath:
“The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy.”
And then he looked directly into Kristin’s eyes:
“Still you are blessed, compared with me,
The present only touches you.
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary.
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear.”
She stared at him. He swallowed, and knew he had to repeat it once more. This time, as it should be read.
“That was the English version,” Malcolm explained. “And this is the proper recitation:
“But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
“Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear.”
The table erupted in applause.
“That was my best Sir Sean Connery imitation,” he said lamely.
Kristin beamed at him, a quiet, shared look.
“Will you be back?” her mother asked him. “You’re certainly invited to our home, anytime you’d like.”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m here for just the day.”
“A one-day contract?” Kristin inquired.
He nodded, finding himself unable to speak. A heavy sadness had descended over him. The night had been sweet. The sweetest hours. He was immensely sorry he could never see her again.
* * *
SHE’D KNOWN ALL along that George was leaving.
Kristin put on her snow boots and followed him outside to the porch. A black car was waiting for him, idling at the end of the driveway.
He stood still, staring at the car with his hands in his pockets and his coat open, seemingly unconcerned about the wintry weather that enveloped them.
She sensed sadness coming from him, but it wasn’t her problem, not any of her business. He was off to some other faraway place, the black car on the corner set to whisk him away.
She felt relieved that nothing had happened with George to risk her already shaky standing at Aura. But still, part of her wished she didn’t have to lose his companionship just yet.
He’d been good to her at dinner tonight, standing up for her. He’d even played along, though she knew he hadn’t wanted to—encouraging the others into tasting the haggis and reciting the Burns poem.
She’d seen what he’d done for her, and she’d appreciated him for it. With each secret glance he’d given her during the dinner, each reactive dimple in his cheek toward her, she’d felt herself drawing closer to him.
She blew into her hands, so cold in the dark night. She couldn’t see George’s face clearly in the dim light from the porch bulb, only the outline of his tall, broad form, the flat plane of his sexy, razor-stubbled cheek—a cheek that she could too easily get used to gazing upon.
How could she say goodbye to him? Instead, she fumbled for something to say. Something trivial—anything to prolong the moment.
“I hope that everything went okay today,” she said, “and that you got all you need from us.”
He turned, his expression illuminated, and smiled at her, descending two steps lower than her on the stairs. He was at exactly her height now, his eyes level to hers.
“I did,” he said, staring at her, his gaze not breaking. “Thanks to you, of course.”
Biting her lip, she looked down. “I’m sorry about some of the comments in there.”
“There’s no need to apologize.” His voice was gentle. “I understand families.”
“Yes, you do.” He’d been so good with them, even Lily. She lifted her head, her eyes searching his again.
His hand touched hers, warm from the dinner table inside. His fingers brushed her knuckles, just once. Kristin was glad she hadn’t put on mittens. She liked the feel of his skin against hers.
“Kristin,” he said in a low voice.
She waited, barely