Sonia pushed her way through the interior door to the house, determined to escape the incessant rain, and encountered a dark corridor. She had sat in the car for three hours on the way to Inverness from Edinburgh and now craved a cup of tea, strong and hearty. After a week of touring the chilly country, she had become addicted to this potent version, served everywhere in Scotland, which calmed both her hypothermic body and her hyperthermic sixth sense.
Ignoring the uninviting staircase greeting her, Sonia, the hair rising at the back of her neck, chose one of the doors to her right instead, scurrying through the dark dining room to the kitchen while Murray and the children brought in the rest of the luggage and provisions. Unlike the other rooms and hall, the kitchen seemed airy, modern and full of light. She put on the kettle, eyeing a box of Yorkshire tea in the corner.
The children were already charging up the stairs, fighting over their hypothetical bedrooms. Murray followed, entreating peace and wielding mild threats, none of which ever came to fruition. It wouldn’t matter much anyway. They always ended up in the same room at some point. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled, and Sonia filled two cups with tea bags and boiling water. She enjoyed being in a country that took time out for tea, where adults and children alike took a break in the midafternoon for a good “cuppa”. With the tea brewed, milk and sugar added, Sonia closed her eyes and took a sip, a habit that never wore out its welcome, and reminisced thirty years back to afternoon tea in Sri Lanka. Same tradition, opposite climates.
“I thought you might enjoy this,” Murray said, poking his head in the doorway. “Nothing like a fresh-baked sweet bun to go with your tea.” She had now recruited Murray to her daily ritual. He must have grabbed the treats at the quaint bakery in town, which they had been exploring prior to the downpour. Murray delighted in the small shops and stores in Europe, each with its specific purpose, so rare now back home.
Sonia turned and smiled, enjoying his pleasant, masculine face. She’d always had a weakness for strong jaw lines, a superficial indulgence she had never regretted. A few greys had snuck into his thick, dark waves, but the whole picture still quickened her heartbeat. Upstairs seemed peaceful. She pulled out a couple of mouthwatering sweet buns from the bag, eager to confirm their appearance with a taste. She had spent many afternoons like this with her mother, savoring the flavors, only they would buy their baked goods from the baker’s van, which traveled door to door in their district of Colombo. Sonia had only told Murray this memory once but was always touched when he remembered. She knew how he loved to think of her life as a little girl in Sri Lanka, how it had molded the woman she had become after her family had emigrated when she was seven.
“It’s not too far from here, the spot they found him,” Murray said, without looking up from his cup.
“We should stop by and pay our respects,” Sonia offered. “The rain’s stopped, and we have plenty of daylight.”
Thirteen years ago, before Sonia and Murray had become engaged, she had met his friend Caleb. Smart, witty but initially superficial, Caleb embodied the type of person from whom Sonia shied away. If not superficial, then distant. People like him were hard to gauge, often difficult to trust, not because they were devious, but because they gave their loyalty to a special few. He was an old friend, really a family friend, but not a close one, not one with whom Murray kept regular contact.
One day last year, Caleb’s sister, Sara, had emailed Murray, revealing the authorities had uncovered Caleb’s body in the Scottish Highlands. Relatively wealthy at the time of his death, Caleb had enjoyed numerous golf excursions to Scotland, traveling from New York to Edinburgh several times a year. Evidently, he also enjoyed the whisky tasting, famous in the Highlands and the latest trend among the city’s who’s who. One wet, especially dreary evening, Caleb had been walking back to his hotel from a pub in Inverness along the banks of the River Ness, which runs through the entire town. He appeared to have slipped, rolling down the embankment towards the river. Yet, the final cause of death stemmed not from a fall or alcohol, but from myocarditis, a heart condition likely triggered from a viral infection contracted long ago. His heart had ceased to beat the moment before he had fallen.
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