The fog that followed Stephen from his tour of Glasgow to the docks of Androssan, had slowly dissipated during his slightly rocky, fifty-five minute ferry boat ride to the Isles of Arran.

Indeed, he got off the ferry to the slanting rays of a sun close to setting. After that, he took the fifteen minute walk to the nearby Alltan Bed & Breakfast, where he had made a reservation. At one point, he stopped for a few moments and took a deep sigh … he was returning to the very place he'd stayed at thirty-two years ago with his wife on their second honeymoon. He shrugged off the moment, and, now alone, continued to the B&B where he had signed in for a couple of days.

Stephen unpacked his suitcase, took a quick shower, and decided to have some dinner.

It took him only a short time to find a friendly restaurant nearby. He polished off a hearty meal and allowed himself an extra glass of wine to top it off. He left the restaurant, took a stroll around the neighborhood to “get out the kinks” so to speak, and headed back to the B&B for a solid night’s sleep.

The next morning, after a breakfast that put him in high spirits, he set off on a walking tour of the Isles of Arran. His first stop would be Brodrick Castle, but the irresistible aroma of freshly baked muffins coming from the Good Roof Bakery led him to make a detour. After making his purchase, he walked out of the bakery, muffin in hand, and into the rising fog …

He offered the young girl the muffin.

“Ohh, thank you,” she said, taking it, “but do let’s get on with our walking tour.”

“Anything you say, you’re the boss.”

She smiled, “Oh no, grandpa. You are.”

Stephen thought for a moment and then told her, “Well, today’s your day. So what you want and what you say, goes.”

She nodded, “Okay, off to the Brodrick castle.” Slipping her arm under his and leaning her flowing blonde hair against his shoulder, she added, “Maybe we’ll find some old bones there.”

“Hey, watch that old bones stuff,” he replied in mock protest. Stephen, long-time divorced and no prospects for any long-term relationship, was terribly conscious of his age. He marveled he'd had the good fortune to be the grandfather of this … he searched for an appropriate word … this “adorable” child. To him, she was the standard for all granddaughters — blonde, blue eyed, features that professional teen-age models envied. The word “adorable” suited her perfectly, particularly in her outfit of a royal blue blouse with a red rose sown across the back of it, fitted plaid shorts ending right above her knees, white knee length stockings, and white and blue sneakers. At 5’4” — picture perfect.

Stephen broke out in an indescribable smile that belongs only to contented grandfathers.

The twosome strolled silently for while until the girl turned to Stephen and announced, “First, we’re going to play some miniature golf.”

“Whoa, I thought you were anxious to get to the castle.”

“Of course I am, but maybe you don’t want to play, ‘cause you know I’ll win."

“Hah!” Stephen was not about to have his pride dented. “You’re on. Loser has to buy dinner at the fanciest restaurant in Paris, uh, fifteen years from this very day.”

Such a bet did not put off the girl one bit. She drew herself up to her full height and, in a mockingly haughty tone, stated that not only did she accept the offer, but also in fifteen years she would be full grown enough to bring a huge appetite to the dinner and he would have “to foot a really big bill”.

One more, “Hah,” from Stephen and they were on their way to play a championship, nine hole round of golf.

The end of eight holes produced a tie, but then the girl long-putted the ninth hole for a par three. This put Stephen, a miniature golf aficionado, in a bit of a dilemma. If he took four stokes and lost the match, the girl might think he threw the match to make her look good. On the other hand, she would be hurt if he did the ninth hole in two strokes … and that he could easily do.

After not too much thought, he came up with the solution to finish the match with the same par three as the girl. Right, a par three for him, and the well played championship match ended in mutual satisfaction for both players. The girl declared, “Great, really great. So now, fifteen years from this very date at the fanciest restaurant in all of Paris, we’ll go Dutch.”

“Agreed,” and off to the castle they strode. The sun shone warmly upon them, and they glowed in each other’s company. Nearing the castle, Stephen spotted Bilsland’s Gift Shoppe and suggested they step inside and poke around a bit. As they entered the shop, the girl’s eyes opened wide, since she had never seen such a display of fascinating souvenirs. Her heart beat a trifle faster when her grandfather told her to pick out “anything your heart desires.”

The girl hesitated a moment before beginning an earnest search for what she would consider as a suitable souvenir. And poke around she did. She poked a bit here and poked a bit there. With a toss of her head, she dismissed those items she deemed unworthy. Stephen took all this in with a broad smile and a silent chuckle.

After a few minutes, she announced, “I want th— no, I would like this.” Turning to her grandfather, she asked, “Is this okay with you?”

“Of course, it is,” he replied, beaming approval of her choice … a yellow and blue, real silk scarf. The girl immediately tied it loosely around her neck, arranging the ends to fall casually across her shoulders. To say she was thoroughly delighted with the scarf would be somewhat of an understatement.

Over and over, the girl said, “Thank you, thank you. Thanks ever so much.” She hugged Stephen tightly with one final, “Thank you,” then tugged on his sleeve to suggest they should now head for the castle.

They made their way down an unpaved road that turned into dirt path leading to the Brodrick Castle, which seemed to rise out of a slope at the end of the path. Entering the castle grounds through an 1800’s style doorway in the Southwest Tower, they arrived at the castle gate, and decided to just wander around. After all, they did have Stephen’s handy and ever present guidebook.

Stephen and the girl passed through the main hall, which could only be described as magnificent, on the way to the first floor. Stephen reminded the girl what the British call the first floor is, to Americans, the second floor. Here they discovered a set of rooms. Each set contained private apartments, and each apartment had a drawing room with a four poster bed worthy of royalty and, yes, a boudoir.

Stephen stopped, sensing that the girl was something less than thrilled with the castle, so he asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“If you’ve had enough, me too.”

With that, they skipped the kitchen and scullery as well as the dungeon, since none of those rooms held any appeal for them. They passed through the door in the Northeast Tower that opened on the castle grounds to the famous Walled Gardens of Brodrick.

“Ohhh,” the girl marveled as they made their way through and around the exquisitely manicured lush lawns and bushes. It seemed at almost every step they were greeted with bursts of color from the endless display of flowers. Midway through the garden, an empty bench beckoned to them for a short rest. They accepted the invitation and sat quietly for a few moments. Stephen turned sideward to straddle the bench, while the girl turned with her feet on the bench and her knees bent. With a contented sigh, she leaned against Stephen’s back, then, reaching backwards with her left hand, she found Stephen’s right hand and held it. At that moment she closed her eyes.

A few moments of rest, a few moments of peace, and a few moments of shared closeness that comes, perhaps, only to a grandfather and his granddaughter. The noon sun was almost upon them when they rose and silently left the garden, hand in hand.

Not too far from the castle lay their destination — Brodrick Bay. There, on the bank looking over the Bay, stood the Goatfell Café. When the girl proclaimed she was hungry and the café looked like “a delightful place for lunch,” Stephen thoroughly agreed. During their lunch, they recounted the events of the morning in addition to thinking about what the afternoon would offer them.

“Hey. Wow, look at that,” the girl gleefully squealed.

“What? Where?” Stephen queried.

“Look. There. Over there. The seals at play. See them?”

“Wait. Wh— Yes, there,” Stephen laughed. “That’s a surprise.” He considered the scene, “I guess the seals are the lunchtime entertainment.”

The girl laughingly replied, “Perhaps they knew we were coming and put on a show just for us.”

“Of course. That’s it.”

The "show" ended at almost the same time they finished their lunch, so Stephen paid the check and they got up to continue their ‘twosome’ tour. In short order, Stephen located the lane to the Arran Heritage Museum, which became a bit of a windy trail leading up to the main entrance. Arran has a history dating back to the 1200’s and the museum displayed much of it.

Concerned whether the girl would really enjoy the museum, Stephen pulled out his trusty guidebook and quoted an article from it. The girl seemed genuinely excited about poking around the old cottages, the seventy year-old classroom, and the gardens with the outdoor exhibits. Stephen breathed an “okay” and arranged to take their own ‘limited’ tour. In one of the cottages, the girl giggled when she bounced on the lumpy bed in the bedroom and lounged on the rocking chair of the "The Parlor of the Cottage." She and Stephen played their roles well in the 1930’s classroom … he as the dignified teacher and she as the diligent, yet giggly, student.

By the time they were coming to the end of this museum tour, Stephen noted it was almost mid-afternoon time for a break or perhaps “a spot of tea”. The girl smiled in approval of this suggestion. Chance may have played a part here, but right in front of them stood the Café Rosaburn — just the right place for that “spot of tea”.

“It may not be the British idea of high tea, said Stephen, “but I am sure this’ll do just fine.”

“A lovely pot of tea,” according to the waitress; freshly made scones, and Scottish folk songs, as background music wafting gently through the stereo system, fit the scene "just fine", as Stephen said it would. He and the girl lingered over one more pot of tea, making comfortable small talk, as they had all day, enjoying each other’s company. The lengthening shadows from the sun, which meant the day would soon come to an end, sent a message to this twosome they should start back to home base. Hurry they did not, for they wanted to squeeze every second possible from the day.

"All too soon, all too soon," thought Stephen, when they arrived at the Good Food Bakery Shop, where this “tour of Arran” had made its start. As they approached the bakery, Stephen, realized they were becoming wrapped in the fog he'd left behind hours ago.

“Where the devil did this fog come from?” he asked himself. Just then, the girl touched his face ever so lightly, looked directly into his eyes, and held his hand.

She gave Stephen a hug and said, “Thank you so much. This is exactly the kind of day I would want to have for a birthday.”

Stephen was shocked. “Wh— what? I don’t understand,” He stammered. “What … what do you mean…”

The girl cocked her head as she stepped backwards, slowly releasing Stephen’s hand. So very softly, she said, ”I’m Nathalia.” The fog folded in on her. “I’m the granddaughter that might have been.” And she disappeared into the fog …

Stephen shook his head as coming out of a daydream. “Might have been,” echoed in his head, “might have been.” Thoughtfully, he finished munching on his muffin. He raised his hand as if to wave off that daydream. He kept telling himself, he did not need any “might-have-been” in his life. He was a success — CEO of a big corporation with millions and millions of dollars. “Rich, that’s what I am. Rich. Gloriously rich. Now, that’s success.” He stopped as he saw passersby staring at this muttering person. The warm, loving Stephen of the “might-have-been’ did not resemble the cold, unfeeling Stephen of real life.

Thirty two years ago, on their second honeymoon, Stephen’s wife was trying to salvage a marriage. She wanted to have children, raise a family, and participate in all the affairs families participate in. Stephen told her that if she wanted children she could hire nannies to look after them since he was too busy making money to deal with children. She wanted him to stop working every day, rather, to celebrate the holidays and to go to church with her, and later do all that as a family. He scorned her pleas with, “Making money is the only path to success.”

Shortly after the second honeymoon, Stephen’s wife divorced him. While he continued to maintain that “power and money make success,” he could not halt the intrusion of the “might-have-beens” or the nagging thoughts that love, respect, and compassion are also signs of success, or the unsettling idea that perhaps there is someone, something to guide us if we would only allow it.

Stephen glanced skyward to see the sun struggling through the fog to signal the start of the day and decided it was time for his walking tour of Arran. Perhaps the Brodrick Castle would be good place to begin. Taking the Northern route, he thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and embarked on the tour.

Suddenly, he stopped. “Strange,” he thought, for his hand felt something smooth and sleek. Carefully, he pulled it out of his pocket. And there it was … right in his hand … a blue and yellow, real silk scarf.

For the first time ever, Stephen felt that maybe, just maybe, there might be more to life, more to being a success than making money … that maybe there might have been …