Sienna
We’re packed, flight booked and at the airport in record time.
All he’s said about his father is that he was buried yesterday. After that, he took a call which I assume was a secretary telling him she’d confirmed our flights and told me I had twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes to shower and pack and leave for Scotland.
And somehow, here I am, wet hair in a clip on top of my head, wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and the only sweater I have.
Giovanni went into my tote to get my passport earlier, which makes me wonder how he knew it was in there at all, but I don’t ask him. He’s too distracted. Shocked maybe by the news.
He’s wearing jeans and a thin, charcoal, V-neck sweater with a sport coat. It’s probably the most casual I’ve seen him.
“Flight leaves in fifteen minutes. They’re holding it for you,” Axel says as soon as we pull up along the curb at the airport.
Giovanni is out and walking to my side with a leather duffel slung over his shoulder. There’s a long line at the counter, but we bypass economy and head to the first-class check in counter.
Giovanni hands over our passports and tells the woman his name. She’s obviously expecting us.
She looks at him a moment too long before doing her job and we’re soon escorted through security and to our gate where we’re the last to board.
Giovanni puts his duffel and my tote in the overhead and gives me the window seat.
It’s such a whirlwind that I’m still buckling my seatbelt when he orders a whiskey.
Not fifteen minutes later, our flight is taking off for London where we’ll have a short layover before catching a connection to Inverness.
“Get some sleep, Sienna. It’s going to be a long trip.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He swallows the whiskey, signals the attendant for more. “I’m fine.”
He’s not fine. He’s nowhere close to fine. But I remain silent as he orders glass after glass of whiskey before finally closing his eyes and laying his head back. He’s not sleeping though. His forehead is furrowed, and I know he’s deep in thought.
“Sleep,” he says, as if he can see me staring at him.
I do. Or try to at least. By the time we arrive in Inverness, I’m exhausted. I probably got about two hours of sleep on the various flights, and am only staying awake now because of the coffee I managed to drink in London. I’m not sure how Giovanni’s standing as he loads the duffel into the trunk of our rented SUV.
He walks me to the wrong side of the car, and it takes me a moment to realize the steering wheel is on the other side here. They drive on the opposite side of the road.
We’ve barely spoken during the long trip, but once he situates himself in the driver’s seat and starts the car, I put a hand on his forearm.
“Should you drive?” I ask. Every time I opened my eyes, it seemed he had a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand.
He looks over at me. “I’m fine.”
“I just don’t know if it’s-”
“I can hold my liquor,” he snaps, and I quiet as he expertly pulls out of the tight parking spot, seeming completely at home with this opposite way of driving, shifting gears easily with his left hand, the SUV taking us smoothly onto the road.
It’s almost another three hours of driving until we near our destination. The sun and the rain intermingle, each giving way to the other as we near the western coast. There are fewer and fewer cars on the hilly roads as we seem to drive farther and farther from civilization.
And the nearer we get to our destination, the heavier Giovanni’s mood grows, the quieter he becomes.
I look out the window, take in the beauty of this wild land.
Las Vegas has a dry climate. Here, the hills are the greenest I’ve ever seen and they seem to go on for miles.
“We’re in the Highlands,” he says, as if reading my mind.
“It’s beautiful.”
He makes a gruff sound of acknowledgement. “We’re almost there.”
“Where is there?”
“The Adams home. This is the nearest village. Mallaig.”
I sit up when I see the sign marking the boundary of the village.
I’ve never been out of the country. I haven’t seen most of the US and never anything like this quaint village along the coast with its stone houses and small bakery and butcher. A tea shop with pretty cakes displayed in the windows.
But we’re through it before I realize and I swear the weather in the direction we’re driving is darker, the unpaved road narrower.