Secret Garden by Cathryn Parry

back to the cottage. The rain had stopped, but there was still no hint of sun, just gray, overcast skies. This place was about as different from Central Texas as he could imagine.
    Under the overhang to the porch, he tossed his club and glove into the golf bag.
    “Colin?”
    Colin froze. He’d know that voice anywhere—Nana. Instinctively, a lump rose in his throat, and he turned to see her.
    “Oh, Colin.” Tears glistened in his grandmother’s eyes. She was thinner and sadder looking than he remembered. He’d come to Scotland still harboring anger, but somehow, seeing her in person, that seemed to disappear.
    Jessie’s arms shook as she reached for him. He pulled her close and gave her a hug. She wore an apron that smelled like black pudding. He hadn’t eaten black pudding—the Scots name for blood sausage—in ages; it had always been a favorite of his when he’d visited in the summers, because the boy in him had loved that it was made with real blood.
    She stood back and held him at arms’ length. “I’m so proud of you.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I watch you on the telly. But you look bigger and taller in person. So handsome.”
    Colin couldn’t help smiling. “You’re looking good, too, Nana.” He winked at her and lifted up her chin. He didn’t want her to be so sad.
    A light seemed to come on inside her, and her face appeared less tired. “Come in, dear.” She opened the door and led him into her cottage.
    He followed her and took his canvas bag with him. The clubs would be fine under the overhang.
    The front room was as he remembered it, but the contents had completely changed. The stuffed furniture was new. The TV was a silver flat screen, and though relatively small, it dominated the space. The old childhood pictures of him and his parents weren’t on the wall anymore. A large landscape oil painting hung in their place.
    He tilted his head, trying to figure out why the scene in the painting felt so familiar. “Is that the clearing where Rhiannon and I built a fort?” He’d climbed those oak trees and hauled old loose boards into the limbs. He and Rhiannon used to sit and swing their feet there.
    “Aye, that’s Rhiannon’s work.”
    “She’s a painter?” he asked, surprised.
    “She’s known the world over,” his grandmother said with obvious pride, and pointed to Rhiannon’s small signature on the bottom right. “She paints scenes from the estate. Wealthy collectors buy them, but this was a gift to me and Jamie.”
    The painting was seriously professional work—to Colin, it looked museum quality. “I had no idea,” he murmured, though maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised.
    Rhiannon had always been creative, and she’d even sketched people with her pencils. Like him, she hadn’t been disciplined then—he remembered them more as running free like wild, unsupervised children. The memory made him smile again.
    His grandmother gestured for him to follow her. “Come into the kitchen and tell me about everything you’ve been doing.”
    Colin nodded. Now would be a good time to tell her how he’d seen Rhiannon in the clearing—and that he’d pissed off Jamie by talking about her. Also that he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with his father’s funeral on Sunday. Not at all.
    But as he watched his grandmother shakily reaching into a cabinet, it struck Colin that she didn’t seem well. He’d thought her ancient years ago, but now he realized that she’d actually been so much younger and healthier than she was now. She moved slowly, setting up a French press, her way of making coffee.
    “Do you see Rhiannon often?” he asked instead, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.
    “Well...” Jessie drew the word out in the manner that Scots sometimes did, so that it sounded like wheel . “She takes her walks early in the morning. I used to meet her with a wee cuppie, but I’ve been feeling tired of late.”
    She did look tired. Maybe that was why