Page 58 of The Tartan Thesis

“Oh, aye, Beau,” Freya says. “Torin has told me all about how good you are at… exercising.” A laugh bursts out of me.

Torin looks between the two of us, horrified, before turning to his luggage. “I knew I shouldn’t have introduced you two,” he says, resigned to his fate, handing us boxes and bags without making eye contact. Freya gives me a conspiratorial wink, and we head toward the house.

“Mum?” Torin calls as we step inside, a Christmas tree twinkling by a stone fireplace.

“In the kitchen!” comes a reply from the back of the house.

We follow the smell of something delicious down the hall and find Torin’s mother in a long galley kitchen, standing at a gas stove, stirring a pot. Her face lights up when she sees us. She has dark red hair like her children, and the soft creases around her eyes and mouth when she smiles look like they were earned from a lifetime of laughter.

Striding over, she pulls Torin into a hug, holding him close and rocking back and forth. “My baby boy. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

Torin’s face turns red again, but he rubs her back and mumbles, “Missed you, too, Mum.”

“And this must be Beau,” she says, releasing Torin and embracing me. “We’re so glad you could join us.”

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Ramsay,” I say as she pulls back. “I’m sorry to intrude on such late notice.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself,” she says, swatting my apology away with a kitchen towel. “It’s not an intrusion. It’s nice to have so many folks in the house.”

Freya, now stirring for her mother, says, “And it doesn’t hurt that you’re handsome.”

“Freya!” Torin hisses.

Mrs. Ramsay blushes but doesn’t turn to her daughter. “Ignore her. She’s always trying to get a rise out of us.”

“I’m keeping you young,” Freya says with a shrug.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Ramsay. I think Freya and I will get along just fine,” I say, earning me another wink.

“You say that now…” she says before adding, “and please call me Margaret.”

Torin and I carry our bags upstairs. The landing smells faintly of pine and laundry soap, and framed family photos line the walls—school portraits, teenaged Freya playing soccer, a younger Torin standing beside a fishing boat, squinting into the sun.

“You’ll be in here,” Torin says, setting his bag down and pushing open a door on the left.

The room is simple but cozy—a thick quilt on the bed, a small dresser beneath the window, and a view of the hills rolling away behind the house.

“The bathroom’s here,” he adds, pointing to the door next to it. “And that one’s mine.” He nods to the door on the right.

“Is that Freya’s room?” I ask, pointing to the room on the other side of the landing.

“Aye,” Torin says. “She has her own bathroom. Thankfully.”

“Why thankfully?” I ask. “Does she take forever to get ready?”

“No,” Torin replies. “She’s just messy.”

“Well, it does take me a good while to get ready,” I tell him.

“You? No.” It’s the most sarcastic I’ve ever heard him. Which is saying something.

“Hey, it takes effort to look like this!” He snorts and disappears into his room.

I duck into mine and unpack quickly, setting my duffel on the small dresser and hanging a couple of things in the wardrobe. I go to the window and look out over the glen, mist hanging low over the hills, and for a moment I just stand there, taking it in, my chest swelling with gratitude for the chance to be here.

Then I hear Torin’s door open. “You ready?” he asks.

We head down the creaky wooden staircase, the sound of Freya and Margaret’s chatter drifting up from the kitchen.