The Sweetest Hours

“I am not eating that,” Lily said flatly.

“Me, neither,” came a chorus of voices.

Kristin blinked silently. He couldn’t be sure, but her eyes looked moist.

Malcolm edged the platter with the haggis on it toward his plate. His stomach was clenching and threatened to revolt. But he forced himself to do it. Maybe it was penance...but he said it.

“I’ll be the first to taste the haggis.”

All eyes were upon him. No one moved. He picked up the carving knife. He might have been the only one who even knew there was a ceremony to go along with the slicing, plus another poem to be read—“Address to a Haggis,” by Rabbie Burns himself—but the verses were long, with many stanzas, and Stephanie was likely abandoning the readings due to lack of interest.

The more the tradition was being given up, the lower Kristin seemed to droop. Malcolm wanted that sadness in her to go away, even if just for tonight. He loved it when she smiled. He needed it. Worse, only he foresaw the sadness that he would soon bring to everyone around this table. It was the only way to explain what he was doing.

He sliced into the haggis, through the thin skin of intestine, releasing the mass of sheep’s innards mixed with other assorted flotsam and jetsam—bits and pieces of spices and chopped vegetables—onto his plate. Somehow, he resisted the urge to plug his nose and instead, he picked up his fork....

Stephanie hurried to his side. “I’m told it needs a wee dram of whisky on the top.” Without asking his permission, she opened a bottle and drizzled some whisky generously on, as if adding Vermont maple syrup to her pancakes.

Bless her. Diving in before it got cold or he lost his nerve, he shoveled some of the dark, steaming specks of sheep onto his fork. If Kristin could dance a Highland Fling before an unsupportive audience, then he could take one bite of Scotland’s national dish.

Tentatively, he tasted it. Everyone stared at him. “It’s...not bad.” Actually, it wasn’t. “It tastes like chicken,” he pronounced. “Whisky-flavored chicken.”

The father—Rich—held out his hamburger plate. “I’d like some whisky with mine, please.”

“Is that haggis?” Stephanie demanded. “Because only the haggis gets the whisky.”

Immediately, one of the other brothers pulled the haggis platter toward him.

The haggis got passed around—a teaspoon of ground meat plopped onto each plate, along with a drizzle from the bottle.

And afterward, Stephanie piled on some tatties and neeps. The tatties were mixed with liberal amounts of butter, and the neeps had brown sugar and maple syrup added. Maybe she’d figured it couldn’t hurt.

“All right.” One of the brothers stood at last, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “That was great, Steph, thanks for inviting us. But Dad and I need to get going.”

“Wait!” Stephanie said. “We haven’t sung ‘Auld Lang Syne’ or read a Burns poem yet.”

“Sorry, sis. We just don’t have time.”

Just then, Malcolm’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the incoming text message. It was his driver, waiting for him. Malcolm looked at Kristin. She knew what the text was for.

“Actually, Steph, it’s okay,” Kristin said brightly. “It was a great dinner. Thank you for organizing it and for inviting us.”

And with a light smile on her face that he knew was fake, she pushed her chair back. “Besides, George has to leave, too. His ride is here.”

She turned to him. “Thank you for coming. We appreciate it. I hope you liked the dinner.”

He felt even worse now. Pocketing the phone, he stood. “I, er, would like to read a Burns poem as my thanks to you all, and I’d like to have everyone’s indulgence while I do so.”

Kristin stared at him.

He smiled at her mother. She was the one person besides Kristin who seemed predisposed to like him, so he played that for all he could. “I don’t know if I told you, Evelyn, but I went to prep school with a fearsome English professor, one who drilled poetry into our heads, and he made us stand and recite verses until we knew them by rote.”

Evelyn nodded. “I had teachers like that, as well. They don’t exist anymore.”

“No,” Malcolm agreed, “they probably don’t.”

A brother was putting on his coat, and Malcolm turned to shoot a look at him. “Please, sit down. This will only take twenty seconds.”

The brother sat.

“Thank you, George,” Kristin said softly. “What will the poem be?”

If he were alone with her, he knew exactly what line he would recite to her: The sweetest hours, that ever I spend. Because his short time with her had been sweet, and he was sorry it had to end.

But, they were not alone; he was sitting with her family. And, their hours together could not continue into the future.

So, he turned to her niece and smiled at the wee one. “This verse is called ‘To a Mouse.’ It’s by Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns, and I will recite it in your honor.” He took a breath:

“The best laid schemes of mice and men

Go often awry,

And leave us nothing but grief and pain,

For promised joy.”

And then he looked directly into Kristin’s eyes:

“Still you are blessed, compared with me,

The present only touches you.

But oh! I backward cast my eye,

On prospects dreary.

And forward, though I cannot see,

I guess and fear.”

She stared at him. He swallowed, and knew he had to repeat it once more. This time, as it should be read.

“That was the English version,” Malcolm explained. “And this is the proper recitation:

“But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men