Utopian Dreams Writing Challenge #WEPFF *FCA*

Denise and Yolanda over at the "Write, Edit, Publish" blog are hosting a writing challenge with the theme of Utopian Dreams.  Please click the button above to see the full details and a list of participants!

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MY ENTRY

It had been an awful year.

My husband of 37 years had passed some six months ago.  I hadn’t really wanted all the memories of the old homestead but had agreed to keep it in the family, providing our children and their families help keep it up.

So, six months go by and it was either bit someone’s head off for puttering around the ‘sad, old widow woman’ (OLD!) or get away from it all for a while.

So it was that I had touched down in Scotland.  I did not consider myself to be on Scottish soil, however, as my feet had only touched metal, concrete and paving so far.  Yes, I’m a purist that way.

Several hours, and many miles later, I pulled into a little unpaved lot at my B&B lodging in Deen-on-the-Sea.  It was a true village, with nary a traffic light in sight.  I opened the car door, breathing a sigh of relief that I had remembered to drive on the right - er, correct, meaning the left side, of the narrow roads.

I closed my eyes and savored the moment, the feel of Scottish dirt under my feet.  It was almost a religious experience.  I don’t know where I got this powerful yearning for Scotland, but it was there.

As I approached the front door, a sturdy woman of maybe 10 years my senior opened the door wide and greeted me with a smile, “Ye must be Maggie Kennedy from America!  Welcome to Deen-on-the-Sea!  Come in, come in!”  “That I am, Mrs. MacTavish…,” I started.  Mrs. MacT interrupted, “Och, Jean is good enough, Maggie!  We don’t stand on much ceremony here!”

Jean took my soft case and placed it behind the desk before motioning me to follow.  “There’s enough time to put your things up later.  Come and have a cuppa.”  She lead me through a door by the desk and we entered the picture of a small village tea room.  “First one’s included in your welcome package.”

When the bells at the door tinkled, I realized that there was also a street entrance.  The tea woman called out a greeting to the newcomer, “Hey there,  Annie, how be ye and yer Bertie?”  “Tolerable well, thanks, Sally, and I see we have a visitor,” Annie responded, looking from Sal to me.

“Yes, she’s booked into the rooms for a couple’a weeks from the Colonies,” Jean added.

I smiled at the British term for the United States.  I stood, extended my hand first to Annie, then Sal, “Maggie Kennedy from Lexington, Kentucky.”

Annie stood by my small table and I motioned that she was welcome to join me.  She smiled, sat and said, “I thank ye and welcome to our seaside village.  Have ye ever been to that Derby race they have there?”  “Oh yes,” I answered, “My husband and I used to go every year since we were married.”

I took a sip of probably the best tea I’ve ever tasted and swallowed, taking a slow breath before I continued, “This was the first year in 38 that I did not attend.  I didn’t have the heart.”  Jean explained, “Maggie is a recent widow.”

Annie tut-tutted and patted my hand, “Don’t ye worry, Mrs.  I’m sure he’s up in heaven right now, happy to see you chatting with new friends.”

In the next moment, the bells above the front door jingled once again. Was it by pure chance, fore-ordination or careful planning by some dear-hearted village yentas, but in walked a man who could well be on the cover of a Highlands romance book for women of a certain age. I loved my husband with all my heart, and could never see loving another in quite the same way. But I couldn't have called myself alive if I didn't admit my heart started to thump a little faster upon seeing him.

Who would have thought my own healing place would be in a small village in Northern Scotland?

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Word Count:  664