On The Wrong Foot

Edie’s grandmother used to tell anyone who would listen that her family was cursed with bad luck. Edie was pretty sure the only true misfortune in her bloodline was the longstanding tradition of all the women being named Edwina. As she grew older though she started to wonder if crazy grandma Eddy might have been onto something.

It started out with small stuff that could have been written off as character flaws, like her inability to keep a potted plant alive… or a goldfish (Edie still shuddered to think about Goldys I-III).

From there it became slightly more serious. Her cars, for instance, were magnets for engine trouble, loose stones, errant shopping carts and uninsured drivers. So much so that she’d given up on trying to maintain them.

And this was to say nothing of her love life. Largely because there was no love life to comment on. No one ever fit quite right. Then she’d inexplicably lost her scholarship within months of graduating college. This blow took Edie’s dream of being a writer and all the wind from her sails. It didn’t matter that a diploma wasn't necessary to write, Edie took it as a sign from the cosmos that her stories weren’t meant to be told.

That’s how she found herself standing behind the register of a quaint cottage turned bookshop in the Scottish Highlands, staring at a mantle clock that never told the right time. Edie imagined before she arrived the timepiece had been bulletproof. It was like her luck had become so bad it was now contagious. Evidenced by the fact that not only was the bookshop now failing, but the heater was probably broken too. Her fresh start in a new country wasn’t exactly panning out.

Edie wiggled her booted toes to stave off the creeping chill. As soon as everyone left she was going to light a fire in the stone fireplace, something she’d been reluctant to do for obvious reasons. Now she reasoned that if the whole place went up in smoke, at least the owner would get the insurance money. Maybe Mr. McDonnell could retire to a nice tropical island.

A rush of freezing air swirled towards her as three patrons entered. Two were older ladies she knew by name, bundled in long coats and hand knit scarves, but the third she couldn’t see properly. He’d loomed behind them like a shadow, before vanishing behind the shelves in a blur, leaving only an impression of dark clothes.

“Do you have plans for the new year then lassy?” One of the ladies asked, placing a new cat themed murder mystery down on the counter, effectively distracting Edie.

“Afraid not, Mrs. Scott. It’ll just be me and… well myself,” Edie frowned as she rang up the book.

“Well here’s hoping you start yer year on the right foot, dearie, with a tall, dark stranger, some coal, shortbread, salt and whisky,” Mrs. Brooks joined her friend at the counter, setting down a different murder mystery, this one with a hedgehog theme, judging from the cover.

“That’s an oddly specific blessing,” Edie noted.

“Have you not heard the legend of the first footer and Hogmanay?”

“Hogmanay yes, but nothing about feet,” Edie frowned at the drawer on the ancient register which was stuck again. She brought her elbow down on it like Mr. McDonnell had shown her before leaving to visit family for the holidays, hitting her funny bone in the process, sending a spark of pain all the way to her fingertips.

“Oooh legend says, the first person to cross yer threshold after midnight will determine yer luck over the next year,” Mrs. Brooks leaned in conspiratorially, all rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes. “And the luckiest first footer is said to be a tall, dark man, bearing coal for yer fire, salt for yer health, shortbread for yer belly and whisky for good cheer.”

“If that’s true, I’ve been exclusively welcoming in short pale men bearing lite beer and stale crackers,” Edie quipped sardonically and the ladies chuckled.

“Such a way with words this one,” Mrs. Scott chortled, gathering up her new book.

“Excuse me, but this is an urgent matter! There’s been a burglary, has anyone seen anything unusual?” Hamish, Chief Inspector for their tiny, remote Highland town blustered in.

Mrs. Brooks and Mrs. Scott both looked equal parts scandalized and intrigued by this news.

“Nothing out of the ordinary over here Hamish, for better or worse,” Edie told him.

“Whose been burgled?” Mrs. Brooks asked eagerly, always one for gossip.

“Now you know I canna tell you that. This is an ongoing investigation now,” Hamish puffed himself up, folding his arms and looking important.

If Edie were a betting woman, which of course she wasn’t, she’d say this town hadn’t experienced a single crime before she arrived. This curse must be getting worse if I’m able to affect an entire town, she thought miserably.

Edie frowned down at the old register as Hamish said something about making sure to lock up all her doors tonight. She wasn’t really listening. The thing about being unlucky is she could enlist Alan Ritchson, Jason Statham and the Rock to all stand guard tonight and if that burglar wanted in, they’d find a way.

Edie waved goodbye as Mrs. Brooks and Mrs. Scott continued to pepper Hamish with questions. She followed them to the door, closing it after them then glared down at the deadbolt. Edie was half tempted to lock it just to see what creative way fate would require the ne'er-do-well to use to get inside.

Maybe it would be better if she just moved to the middle of nowhere, that way she couldn’t inflict her bad luck on anyone else. Edie collapsed back on the worn sofa in front of the fireplace and glanced up at the mantle clock. It seemed to be stuck at midnight now. Mrs. Brooks’ story about the first footer floated in her mind as she opened her latest historical romance.

Wouldn’t that be something, she mused. Edie allowed herself to ponder for just a moment that maybe fate had led her to Scotland for a better purpose, then hastily shut it down. No, when your life is a bundle of misfortune, that kind of magic doesn’t find you.

Somewhere in the shop, the distinct clatter of a stack of books thumping to the ground sounded. Edie’s eyes had closed at some point as she read, but they flew open now. She was startled but not surprised. Perhaps the burglar had shown themselves at last. What did surprise her was the fire burning in the hearth. Edie frowned at it then glanced around, expecting small sparks to suddenly take flight and raze the cottage to the ground, but no.

A scuffling of feet and a mumbled curse drew her attention and Edie slowly eased off the sofa. She grabbed the metal poker that leaned against the rock fireplace surround and held it out. The lights had been on when she apparently fell asleep, but now the only illumination came from the fire beside her. Edie squinted towards the sound, but saw only shadows. Outside the window, thick snow swirled against the glass, obscuring everything from view. She wondered what time it actually was.

Edie tiptoed forward, still holding out the poker like a sword in front of her with more confidence than she felt. The smell of salty skin hung out of place in the air, like someone had been running. Edie lunged forward with the poker and stabbed… the wall. Beside her a shadow yelped.

“Watch it! Ye nearly stabbed me!”

“That’s what I was going for you… you rapscallion!” Edie tried pulling the poker free, but it was stuck fast in the plaster.

A snort sounded from the shadows that turned into a full belly laugh as Edie glared.

“A what?” The stranger could barely get the words out he was laughing so hard.

Perhaps she’d read too many historical romances lately…

“You heard me,” Edie put her hands on her hips, doubling down.

“What’s next? A rogue? A scoundrel? A scallywag?” he reached out a hand, steadying himself against a bookshelf, still doubled over with laughter.

“I have a much more modern word in mind,” she snapped.

“Lord, thank ye lass, I needed a good laugh,” as he calmed, the man’s voice settled into a deeper register, his rolling Scottish accent becoming more apparent.

“Listen, you can take all 112 dollars in the register if you leave now. I assume that’s what you’re after, thief,” Edie told him, giving the poker another fruitless yank.

“There’ll be no need for that,” the man’s hand closed around hers. “And I’ll not be going anywhere until this storm clears, thank ye.”

“I didn’t say you were welcome,” Edie yanked her hand away.

“Aww but I’ve lit a fire and everything. Ye wouldn’t kick a stranger out in a blizzard surely,” he said, turning away from her.

“You didn’t happen to light that with coal, did you?” Edie stared after him.

The man snorted again in amusement, looking over his shoulder at her. “What kind of rapscallion carries around coal?”

Edie made an irritated noise as she pushed past him and threw herself back down on the sofa. The fire was nice… The man settled himself into a lounge chair next to her like he’d been doing it all his life. The flames lit up his all black attire with warm tones, softening it. Edie let her eyes travel from the tips of his black boots, all the way up to where the golden skin of his neck was exposed above a turtleneck sweater. He had a sharp jaw and hazel eyes that were kinder than she thought they should be. His hair was tucked beneath a black knit cap, the rim of which was bunched up like it was either too big for him… or it was actually a balaclava.

Edie should probably have been questioning him about the robbery he’d obviously just committed, but instead found herself asking, “What color is your hair?”

“Yer a wee bit odd,” the man cocked his head.

“Maybe I just want to have all my facts straight for when I report you to Hamish,” Edie crossed her arms.

The man laughed again and pulled the cap off, which did indeed unfold into a mask. Edie grumbled when auburn curls spilled across his forehead. What had she expected? The magical first footer from the story?

“Yer staring,” he observed.

“Just committing everything to memory.”

“Is there anything else around we can use to tend the fire? Some nutter drove the poker into the back wall,” he teased, bending down in front of the dwindling flames.

“Why don’t you care that I’m going to turn you in?”

“Because even Hamish knows ye can’t arrest someone for breaking into their own house,” the man grabbed a small broom and turned it in his hand, using the pointed end to poke at the wood.

“You what?”

When he was satisfied with the progress, he sat back in his chair, dusting off his hands. “I know things have gotten a wee bit out of hand in the States, but surely even they -”

“Why would you break into your own house? And why bother to dress like that?” Edie cut him off and he smirked.

“Dress like what? A knave?”

Edie fixed him with a glare until he eventually rolled his eyes, “Fine it’s not technically my house.”

“Ah ha!” Edie said triumphantly.

“Ah ha yerself, it’s my family’s estate, we just haven’t lived there for a long time.”

“Let’s say I believe you, what could have been worth all this hassle?”

The man reached into the cargo pocket of his pants, pulling out a bundle of fabric. Unwrapping it, he let a diamond necklace dangle from his long fingers. Edie’s mouth dropped open.

“You must think I’m a moron if you expect me to believe you broke into your own house to steal your own diamonds,” Edie sat forward and snatched her phone off the side table, but there were no bars.

The man waved his own phone around, “No service or power with the storm.”

“Just my luck…” she grumbled.

“Of all the bookshops in all the towns in all the world,” the man teased and Edie cut him a flat look.

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what lass?” the man cocked his head again, looking more like a puppy than a hardened criminal.

“My family is cursed with bad luck.”

The man burst out laughing again, but stopped when he caught sight of her face, “What? Yer serious?”

“Deadly serious and it’s getting worse.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Did yer ancestors make a hobby of spilling salt and cracking mirrors?” He leaned forward, hazel eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe someone reneged on a deal with a witch at a crossroads? Maybe it’s a blood feud like in the stories. Each new bairn born with a wee bit more bad luck.”

“Nothing like that, we're just very unlucky,” Edie drew back, feeling defensive.

“Wait, I see it now,” he said with a satisfied grin, “Ye were hoping I’d be the tall dark figure bearing coal and whatever else, is that it?”

“No…” Edie snapped, embarrassed.

“Well, Clover, I haven’t got whisky, but I’ve a wee bit of bourbon,” Edie scoffed at the ironic moniker as the stranger pulled out a flask.

“So you’re a bougie bandit?” she snarked, taking the offered flask.

Admittedly, she realized she wouldn’t have known the difference between bourbon and whisky as the alcohol seared her throat. She passed it back coughing and he took a deep swig.

“No, just a rake, remember?” he smacked his lips.

“So now what?”

“How about ye tell me what makes ye so unlucky?”

At first Edie balked, but she could feel the burn of his attention in her cheeks. His gaze was no longer teasing, just open and earnest, kind, but unwavering in his curiosity. With a final skeptical glance, she let everything tumble out. The goldfish, the innumerable plants, the extinguished dream, the cars, the failures, even crazy grandma Eddy. Every. Last. Thing.

“Then there’s you. If the legend is real, you’ve definitely started me off on the wrong foot so thanks for that.”

“Listen, Clover, I admit that all sounds a wee bit tragic, but ye know what?”

Edie bristled at the weight of her life being reduced to “a wee bit tragic.”

“Ye make yer own luck.”

“That’s crap advice.”

“Well here’s some more. University can’t teach ye to tell stories, Clover. They’re already inside, ye just need to let them out,” the man tapped his heart and sat back. “But maybe ye prefer hiding behind this unlucky business because yer afraid to put yerself out there.”

“How dare you?”

“How dare I? How very dare you madam?” he intoned a highbrow accent and Edie rolled her eyes.

The notion that she’d simply chosen to be unlucky fit about as well as an itchy wool sweater. Too many things had gone sideways for her. Was it possible she’d given up without noticing? Edie grimaced internally thinking of her cracked windshield.

“So I’m weak minded?” she snapped and he shook his head.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think yer like these old books, still full of value, just tattered from careless hands and time.”

Edie turned her attention back to the clock, still stuck at midnight, as she grappled with that thought. Some handsome stranger spouting platitudes wasn’t enough to shift her beliefs, but maybe she felt a fissure start. He wasn’t wrong, she was exhausted, not her body, but in her soul. Edie’s thoughts were derailed by crunching.

“Hey, Rogue, those aren’t free!”

He’d broken into a tin of Walkers Shortbread from a display by the door.

“Put it on my tab, Clover,” he teased, offering her another tin, which she’d finally accepted when her stomach let out an audible complaint.

They emptied their tins in companionable silence, watching flames lick at charred logs while snow battered the windows. Edie didn’t remember closing her eyes, but a crash jolted her awake. Light streamed through the windows as she blinked away sleep, confused by the unfamiliar sweater that slid from her shoulders when she startled upright.

A tall man with snow flakes clinging to his dark hair stood on the threshold.

“Alright lass?” he asked and Edie blinked hard, sure she was still dreaming.

In one arm he held a sack of coal, behind him on the ground sat another of rock salt, the kind for melting ice. Edie shook her head as he walked past the chair where the Rogue had sat. She peered around, but there was no hint of him aside from a few crumbs and the sweater that’d been draped over her like a blanket.

The new stranger set a grocery bag down and set to work, building the fire back up.

“Power’s going to be out for a while, but this should keep yer fire burning. There’s a wee bit of whisky and shortbread too if yer hungry.”

Edie stared at him, baffled. Did this mean her bad luck was over? It seemed ridiculous and much too simple. Edie’s eyes drifted back to the worn chair, something solidifying inside her.

“No thanks, I believe I’ll make my own luck,” Edie told the newcomer who looked at her like she might have taken a knock to the head.

Edie pulled the huge sweater over her head and walked right past him, stepping outside. The snow revealed two sets of prints - one crisp and new leading to her doorstep, the other already softening with the breeze. It felt impossible, not only that they were still there, but that she knew who those other bootprints belonged to. She began to follow them and for the first time in years, Edie took it as a good sign.