A Love for Rebecca by Mayte Uceda Read Free Book Online

“was the site of the last pitched battle on British soil. It was back in 1746.” He paused before adding: “It was a confrontation with calamitous results for us and our history.”
    “Wow!” Rebecca said.
    “We could go see it one day, if you want.”
    “Yes, please. I’d love to know more.”
    Lola changed the subject. “I read that Moray Firth is one of the best coastal areas in the United Kingdom for seal and dolphin watching.”
    A few minutes and several roundabouts later, a large sign confirmed her statement, announcing the Dolphin and Seal Visitor Centre. Berta was pleased to learn that sheep weren’t the only animals they’d be seeing.
    The wide estuary channel came into view. Thick fog and a soft veil of rain blurred the low ridges rising on the opposite bank. The scenery became monotonous; everything was green, with the exception of an occasional barley field.
    Soon enough, a large sign with a rounded top and a crest in the center greeted them: “Welcome to Beauly,” it announced in an arc that followed the shape of the sign. Below, there was something incomprehensible: “A’ Mhanachainn.”
    “What does that mean?” asked Berta.
    Rory pronounced the words, provoking comical looks from those hearing the foreign sounds.
    “It means ‘The Monastery.’ It’s a little farther ahead, in the center of town, but it’s only ruins. You’ll get a chance to see it. Some people find it a very spiritual place.”
    “Well, the only one here with a spiritual side is Rebecca,” joked Lola.
    “Hey!” Berta said. “Speak for yourself.”
    “OK,” Lola said, “but she’s the only one who does anything about it.”
    They drove through town on the main road, where the architecture was similar to what they’d been seeing. Then they turned off to the left, leaving the main street behind. Here there were individual houses with little gardens. On a street named Riverside Drive, Rory stopped the car.
    “We’re here,” he said, nodding his head toward a cottage they could spot behind a thicket of trees and bushes.
    Lola wiped the fog off her window, as did Berta and Rebecca in the backseat. The cottage looked like all the others: stone construction with a peaked, coffered roof. It had a cute little front garden surrounded by a low wall topped with a brown painted railing.
    “It looks nice,” Berta said, trying to see around two large trees that blocked the view.
    Rory pointed to the house next door, which was almost identical but a little larger. “Mrs. Munro lives there. She’ll be waiting for us.”
    They stayed in the car and waited a few minutes for the rain to let up, then dashed the short distance to the bigger cottage. Mrs. Munro welcomed them cheerfully. Her kind face was round and smooth, free of wrinkles despite the fact she was probably past seventy.
    “Welcome,” she greeted them in Spanish before switching to English. “Come in, get out of the rain.”
    Mrs. Munro appeared to study her renters as Rory made the introductions and they all took a seat in the parlor.
    “So  . . . from Barcelona,” the older woman said as she settled into an armchair upholstered in pink flowers and green leaves.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Lola responded.
    “May I offer you some tea? I’ve made a fresh pot.”
    The girls weren’t big tea drinkers, unless it was iced tea, but they didn’t turn her down, either to be polite or, in Rebecca’s case, because she was cold.
    “I see from your lovely tans that you’re from someplace warm,” Mrs. Munro said as she got teacups from an old wooden sideboard. The girls listened attentively to her unfamiliar accent. In addition to the unique Scottish cadence, they had to acclimate to the woman’s sharp, almost shrill, voice. “A lot of folks around here go to the Canary Islands for their holidays, but they don’t return home with that color, no indeed. They come back so red they later shed their skin like snakes and end up just as white as before they