Al’s Blind Date: The Al Series, Book Six Read Free Page B

had a bristling mustache.
    â€œI bet he’s from Scotland,” Al said. “I absolutely love bagpipes. They sound so sad and desolate and they make me feel as if Laurence Olivier is chasing me across the moors, hollering, ‘Cathy! Cathy!’ at me.”
    â€œLaurence who?” I said.
    â€œLaurence Olivier. Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff.”
    â€œOh, that Laurence Olivier,” I said, remembering. “Who’s Cathy?”
    â€œMerle Oberon, turd.”
    â€œOh,” I said again, smiling at the memory. “Trouble with that scenario is, kiddo, you don’t look much like old Merle.”
    â€œYou really know how to hurt a guy,” Al grumbled.
    The man in kilts must’ve seen us staring at him. As he drew near, he smiled and gave us a little salute.
    â€œAre you from Scotland?” Al asked him. She can be pretty bold when it behooves her, I thought.
    â€œThat I am, lassie,” he said. “Do you know Scotland, then?”
    â€œNot really,” Al said, blushing a little. “But I’ve read tons of books about it. I would love to go there someday. Some of my ancestors are Scottish. I’d like to see the moors and the heather. And I think I’d like to try some haggis.”
    â€œAh, yes, haggis,” the man said. “Oh, you make me miss it right this moment. I’m from Glasgow myself. I’m here in your great city for a few days and already I’m homesick and longing for a taste of it.”
    â€œWhat’s haggis?” I said.
    â€œIt’s the Scottish national dish, lass,” he said to me. “It’s the sheep’s intestines boiled in its stomach along with a bit of oatmeal.”
    â€œI thought you’d never ask,” Al said to me, grinning. I felt my stomach heave. I rejected the whole idea of haggis. Such a thing couldn’t be true.
    â€œI absolutely love the bagpipes,” Al said, breathless.
    In answer, the man blew us a few notes on his pipes. People stopped to listen. It was indeed a sad and lonely sound.
    â€œNow that’s a bonnie sound, isn’t it?” the man said. “You’ll not find a bonnier one if you travel the world over. You must come to Glasgow someday.”
    â€œOh, I plan to,” Al said. “When I save up enough money. I hear it’s very beautiful and the people are really hospitable.”
    Any minute now, I thought, they’ll start exchanging telephone numbers.
    â€œThat it is,” the man agreed, and he saluted us again and walked away jauntily, skirts swinging as he shouldered his pipes.
    â€œHe has nice legs,” I said, admiring him from afar. “Maybe we should’ve asked him if he was married. Maybe he’s lonely. We could’ve fixed him up a blind date for Ms. Bolton.”
    â€œYou’re out of your gourd,” Al said. “You can’t ask a total stranger if he’s married or if he’d like a blind date with your teacher. Suppose he’s a serial killer or something. Just because he plays the bagpipes and has nice legs doesn’t mean his heart is pure.”
    I had to admit she had a point.
    â€œMaybe we should’ve warned him about Rockefeller Center,” I said. “In those kilts he might be in tough shape.” Rockefeller Center Plaza is a regular wind tunnel. Lots of folks have lost their wigs and umbrellas, and it can be dangerous once that wind gets under your skirt.
    â€œIt’s got so I can’t let you out of the house alone,” Al said, glaring at me. “You’re becoming very bold, know that?”
    â€œLook who’s talking,” I said. “You’re the one who picked him up, not me. I wonder if his underpants are plaid too, to match his kilt. I’d sure like to find out.”
    Al shook her head and tch-tch ed at me. “You have to admit he was pretty cute,” she said. “A true Scottish gentleman. I dig that lassie routine, but I’m