Kiss of the Highlander

“Cherry…Oh!” Beatrice’s round shoulders, swathed in pink wool and pearls, shook with laughter.

Gwen winced. “Oh, God, how embarrassing! I can’t believe I just said that. That’s just what I started calling him in my mind because I’m the oldest living…er—”

“Virgin,” Beatrice supplied helpfully, with another laugh.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Doesn’t a pretty young woman like you have a man back home?”

Gwen sighed. “In the past six months I’ve dated oodles of men….” She trailed off. After her prominent parents had been killed in a plane crash in March, returning from a conference in Hong Kong, she’d turned into a veritable dating machine. Her only relative, her grandfather on her father’s side, had Alzheimer’s and hadn’t recognized her in forever. Lately, Gwen felt like the last Mohican, wandering around, desperate for someplace to call home.

“And?” Beatrice prodded.

“And I’m not a virgin because I’m trying to be,” Gwen said grumpily. “I can’t find a man I want, and I’m beginning to think the problem is me. Maybe I expect too much. Maybe I’m holding out for something that doesn’t even exist.” She’d voiced her secret fear. Maybe grand passion was just a dream. With all the kissing she’d done in the past few months, she’d not once been overcome with desire. Her parents certainly hadn’t had any great passion between them. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen grand passion outside of a movie theater or a book.

“Oh, dearie, don’t think that!” Beatrice exclaimed. “You’re too young and lovely to give up hope. You never know when Mr. Right may walk in. Just look at me,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Over-the-hill, overweight, in a dwindling market of men, I’d resigned myself to being a widow. I’d been alone for years, then one sunny morning my Bertie waltzed into the little diner on Elm Street where the girls and I breakfast every Thursday, and I fell for him harder than the fat lady at the circus takes a tumble. Dreamy as a young girl again, fussing with my hair and”—she blushed—“I even bought a few things at Victoria’s Secret.” She lowered her voice and winked. “You know you’ve got hanky-panky on your mind when perfectly respectable white bras and panties suddenly won’t do anymore, and you find yourself buying pink ones, lilac ones, lime green and the like.”

Gwen cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably, wondering if her lilac bra showed through her white tank top. But Beatrice was oblivious, chatting away.

“And I’ll tell you, Bertie certainly wasn’t what I thought I wanted in a man. I’d always thought I liked simple, honest, hardworking men. I never thought I’d get involved with a dangerous man like my Bertie,” she confided. Her smile turned tender, dreamy. “He was with the CIA for thirty years before he retired. You should hear some of his stories. Thrilling, positively thrilling.”

Gwen gaped. “Bertie was CIA?” Rainbow Bertie?

“You can’t judge the contents of the package by the wrapper, dearie,” Beatrice said, patting her cheek. “And one more piece of advice: Don’t be in too much of a rush to give it away, Gwen. Find a man who is worthy. Find a man you want to talk with into the wee hours, a man you can argue with when necessary, and a man who makes you sizzle when he touches you.”

“Sizzle?” Gwen repeated doubtfully.

“Trust me. When it’s right, you’ll know,” Beatrice said, beaming. “You’ll feel it. You won’t be able to walk away from it.” Satisfied that she’d said her piece, Beatrice planted a pink-lipsticked kiss on Gwen’s cheek, then rose, smoothing her sweater over her hips, before disappearing into the gaily painted inn. Gwen watched her retreat in thoughtful silence.

Beatrice Hardy, age sixty-nine and a good fifty pounds overweight, walked with confidence. Glided with the grace of a woman half her size, swayed her ample bottom and serenely displayed her cleavage.

In fact, she walked like she was beautiful.

Worthy. Hmph!

At this point, Gwen Cassidy would settle for a man who didn’t require a stiff dose of Viagra.

Gwen paused to rest atop the small mountain of rocks she’d climbed. After discovering she couldn’t check into her room at the inn until after four o’clock, and firm in her resolve to not march into the nearest shop and buy a pack of that-word-she-wasn’t-saying-anymore, she’d grabbed her backpack and an apple and trotted off into the hills for an introspective hike. The hills above Loch Ness were dotted with outcroppings of stone, and the group of rocks upon which she stood extended for nearly half a mile, rising in breakneck hills and falling in jagged ravines. It had been a tough climb, but she’d relished the exercise after being cooped up in the stale air of the bus for so long.