Scotland For Christmas Part 20

He was really lucky to have her on his side. He reached for his phone to call her. Ever since the night of Eddie's party, they'd adopted a ritual in which one or the other of them called at night before they went to sleep.

Lately, their ritual had expanded to include mornings, as well. The excuse was that Isabel burned the midnight oil and then had trouble waking up when she was supposed to. She had a habit of sleeping through alarms, she said, which worried her that she would miss something important.

All this talk, of course, had put scenes into his head, imagining what she looked like sleeping at night. What did Isabel wear to bed, if anything? Did she tie up all that long hair, or did she leave it loose, fanning over her pillow?

Bad stuff to consider. A too-tempting place to go.

Yet it was about the only comfort and outlet he had lately.

If he were to explain to Isabel about his day-about the psychologist and Daniel and his mother-she would understand. But he couldn't tell her about it because to explain those specifics about his past would drive her away. He needed access to John Sage too much to risk that.

Still, he wanted to talk with her anyway. Even if she couldn't know everything about his day, he still wanted to hear her voice. Still wanted to talk with her about other things.

He could keep two parts of his life separate. In a sense, he'd been doing it his whole life.

Jacob was in the midst of scrolling through his phone for her number when the phone vibrated in his hand. "Isabel" read the caller ID on the screen.

He felt the smile tug on his lips as he connected the call. "What's going on?" he asked her.

"What do you think of Thanksgiving?" she asked.

Ah, it's too complicated for me, was his first reaction.

But he didn't say that aloud. He toyed with his Thai food a second before giving up on it. He sprawled back on the couch instead, feet crossed on the cus.h.i.+ons at the other end. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, cla.s.ses get out early on Wednesday, and everyone is going home for the long weekend. People are excited about traveling." She paused. "We don't have Thanksgiving in my country, so I'm curious. What is Thanksgiving, actually? Last year, I was new to New York and busy, so I just avoided it. But this year, I'm aware that I'm leaving soon, so I'm interested."

"It's, ah, well, you could look it up on the internet."

"Yes, but then I wouldn't get your point of view on it, would I, Mr. Ross?" she said playfully.

He smiled, then laid his arm under his head and stared at the ceiling. He didn't know why, but he grabbed his old guitar, too, and cradled it on his chest. "Tell me what you know, first."

"I know about the Pilgrims and Plymouth Rock and the Mayflower s.h.i.+p," she said. "It sailed from England, remember? I'm mainly curious about how you celebrate the holiday nowadays. What do you do on Thanksgiving Day?"

"It's a family holiday," he said quietly. "People, ah, go home...to people that they care about...and share a homemade meal."

He plucked on the bottom E string, tuning his guitar. "Unless you're away, that is. Last year, I was out of town for work-we were in Denver for a guard detail. We stood duty and watched our protectee eat at a restaurant."

He laughed softly at the remembrance. "The guy wasn't North American-I can't say exactly who he was, but he didn't get the concept of turkey and mashed potato and stuffing and cranberry sauce. He ordered steak instead, but...the point of the holiday isn't the food."

Jacob paused. He was in a talkative mood, which wasn't typical for him, but something that Isabel brought out. That, and he was probably overly frustrated at not being able to talk with his mom. "Are you still there?"

"Yes. I like listening to you talk."

"What are you doing?" he asked her.

"I'm taking a break from editing my thesis paper. My laptop is on the desk, my door is closed and I'm looking out the window at a pigeon on my windowsill. I named him Morris. He keeps me company."

Jacob smiled. He got lonely on the road, too. He really wished he could tell her about what had happened today with his mom and the birth certificate he needed.

"Now that I think of it," Isabel said, "at certain restaurants in Edinburgh, they do advertise elaborate Thanksgiving menus in late November." She paused. "Does anything else happen on Thanksgiving Day besides eating?"

"Well, yeah, there's football. My siblings go to their high school game-it's traditionally a day of school rivalries. We also have the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in the morning. And Black Friday, the big preChristmas shopping day, is the day after Thanksgiving."

"Tell me about the food. What specifically do you eat?"

"In my family?" He could feel himself smiling again. He was getting hungry just thinking of the meal. He moved to tuning the A string. Pluck, pluck, pluck... "Well, the main course is turkey. On the side we have stuffing, cranberry sauce, sweet potato, mashed potato and squash. For dessert we do pies, all kinds of pies. Chocolate cream, pecan, apple. My mother, being..."

He almost said Scottish. Jacob cleared his throat, put the guitar aside and sat up.

Isabel didn't know that about him. He kept getting confused, forgetting that he hadn't told her certain things about himself. With Isabel, it was so easy to forget that he was keeping things from her...big things that she would hate him for if she found out.

"Do you bring presents to the dinner?" Isabel asked.

"What? No," he said with a laugh. Then he thought of his aunt. "Well, some people might bring a bottle of wine or a pie you made for the hostess. The kind of thing you'd bring to anyone's house for dinner."

"Interesting. Are you traveling this year, Jacob?"

"No." He'd checked when he'd returned to the office this afternoon, but he had no such luck. "I'll have to call my mother," he said aloud.

"What does she do for dinner?"

"My mom? It's a huge event-she really gets into it. Every dish is homemade, and it's all laid out beautifully. She invites the whole extended family-Daniel's siblings, parents, sometimes even cousins. She loves it."

"Interesting," Isabel said. "I've never experienced a real Thanksgiving like that...."

Oh, no. Had she been fis.h.i.+ng for an invitation? He couldn't have her there.

"Isabel..." He grabbed at the first excuse he thought of. "It's my mother's affair, and she likes to keep it small."

There was a silence. "Actually, Jacob, I already have an invitation for Thanksgiving dinner. You aren't the only person here I know."

He stood up. "Whose house are you going to?" he demanded, pacing his small studio apartment.

"Charles's."

"You're going to spend Thanksgiving with Che Guevara and his family?"

"You don't need to be rude, Jacob."

"Do you even know anything about him?" he asked.

"As much-or more-than I know about you."

"Don't go with him," Jacob insisted. "You should go with me."

"I should?" She let the question hang there, and Jacob felt like kicking himself.

"You're right," he said quickly. "It's a bad idea."

"Why? What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing." But the whole house of cards was set to come down if he wasn't careful.

For one thing, Isabel would hear his mother speak and know that she was Scottish, and that would be mistake number one, because he'd lied to Isabel about that back at the wedding. He'd had many openings to tell her that both his mom-and he-had been born in Scotland, and yet he hadn't told her. When she found out, it would be awkward, at best.

"What is the problem for you?" she asked.

"It's..." He grasped at the first thing he thought of. "My family can be, uh, difficult to understand sometimes. I wouldn't want to put you through that."

"Why not? You've met my family." She laughed. "How could your family be any more difficult to understand than mine?"

Jacob sucked in his breath. Fine, just say it. It's not the worst thing she could know.

"My mother is Scottish. I mean, she was born in Scotland. Really."

Isabel burst out laughing. "That's a good joke."

"It's true. She divorced my real... Well, it's hard. She doesn't talk about her youth or want to be reminded of those days at all. Sometimes I forget she wasn't born here."

Isabel was silent for a moment. "What part of Scotland is she from?"

"She..." He paused. "I don't know. Just...Scotland. Glasgow, maybe?"

"That's the biggest city in the country," Isabel said. "It covers a lot of area. Do you know where in Glasgow?"

He had no idea. "She's had American citizens.h.i.+p for years now. Her parents died when she was young, and I think she really struggled. She just...she doesn't talk about the past. Even now, she's not one for reminiscing. She doesn't even enjoy looking at old baby photos, or anything like that."

But how could Isabel possibly understand? Jacob had never known anyone so relentlessly positive. Isabel believed that she could fix and make a success out of anything, even a difficult past.

And especially Jacob, which was nearly impossible for him to believe.

ISABEL WAS FLOORED. Jacob's mother was Scottish? How could he not have mentioned this while they were at her cousin's wedding?

Something was off about this revelation he'd just made. Her uncle's warning came to mind.

She had to visit his family; it was imperative in order to better understand him.

Charles wouldn't mind if she declined his invitation-he'd invited the whole study group, not just her, so it was more an act of goodwill and generosity than anything else. Jacob was her immediate concern. If he failed her fitness test, then how could she take him home with her?

"I've scared you off," he said quietly. "Haven't I?"

She sighed, crossing her feet as she lay on her bed, gazing at the picture he'd sketched of her. That image eased so many difficult feelings.... "Jacob," she said gently, "why did you never say anything to me, especially given all the time you spent with my family?"

"I know it seems strange," he admitted. "But truthfully, my mother prefers I not talk about that part of her history. When I...when I had to go through my initial background check with the Secret Service, some of this stuff had to be dug up. My mother was...she was really upset and adamant about not discussing her life back then. To her mind, she's American through and through. Every now and then, though, her old accent comes out, and...it's like yours. Musical. That's how I thought of it when I was a kid."

"So...when I meet her I suppose it's best I not discuss Scotland?" Isabel said, turning to hug her pillow.

"Yes, please."

Isabel chewed on her lip.

"You think this is too intense, don't you?" he asked.

She loved Jacob's intensity. It was one of the things she liked best about him. "No. Keep your intensity. I'll handle it well with her, Jacob. Don't worry about me."

She could hear him exhale in relief on the other end of the line. "I'll pick you up at noon. Hopefully, you won't run away screaming when you meet them."

CHAPTER TEN.

ISABEL KNEW THE moment she saw Jacob standing at the lift on Thursday morning that something had changed inside her.

She pressed her hand to her stomach. He was here in her empty residence hall with all his burning intensity focused on her.

He looked nothing like the officious and slightly irritating Secret Service agent who'd come to pick her up weeks ago.

Now he was dressed in street clothes-jeans, a collared s.h.i.+rt that was open just enough to see a bit of his chest and a light jacket. Plus, he'd worn her Black Watch scarf.

Her heart began to thud. She turned the key to lock her apartment door and then dropped it into her pocket. She slung her handbag over her shoulder and then freed her hair from inside her jacket.

His gaze burned at her, with all the pa.s.sionate energy he carried with him. Over the phone, where she couldn't see him, he'd been so easy to talk with. Now, in person...she was just so aware of him.

Her cheeks warm, she walked to him. In one hand, she gripped the small hostess gift she'd picked up for his mother. The other she lightly placed on his arm.

He smelled like windy New York autumn and fallen November leaves. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek because, well, that was what she did with her friends at home. But at her touch he froze, and she froze, too, filled with awareness of him.

And yet, she couldn't step back.

The lift came, its creaky doors opening with a rattle, breaking their spell. Jacob guided her inside with a hand on her lower back. He stood slightly behind her, as was his practice, but this time he left his hand where it was. She wasn't used to being touched like this, and it felt...s.e.xual. She seemed to hum with the need to be closer to him.

She twisted her neck and gazed up at Jacob, and found that his eyes were burning into her. She licked her lips and leaned back against him.

It was wrong. She had an a.s.signment for the day: check on his background. Was he okay for her to take him home? Could she trust him with her family's business? But she couldn't stop herself, and neither could he. She felt his solid warmth behind her and the steady movement of his breath.

His hand moved from the small of her back to her side and then up against her belly. Her coat was open and beneath it, she wore a thin jersey-knit s.h.i.+rt. As his palm rested on her stomach, she closed her eyes and nearly groaned with the sensation.

His low, deep voice murmured into her ear. "I'm addicted to you. Your voice is the first thing I want to hear in the morning and the last thing at night."

"I feel the same way." She turned to him, and they were pressed together, body to body. He was taller than her, so she stood on her toes. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rubbed against his chest.