A Memorable Man

by Joan Hohl

  “But you...you were...” Adam halted, every cell inside him cringing against giving voice to the fact, real or imagined, of her death.

  “Yes, I was dying,” she said with utter calm. “And I somehow knew the babe was already dead.” Her somber gaze caressed his tension-taut features. “You wept—your tears mingled with mine on my cheeks. And then, moments before my death, you made a solemn vow to me, in the name of your newly embraced deity, whom you proclaimed was the One True God.” Her fantastic eyes held his startled gaze.

  “My promise,” he whispered, unmindful of the tremor in his voice, and in his fingers curled around hers.

  “Yes, your promise.”

  “For God’s sake, Sunny, tell me,” he said in a harsh croak. “What was it?”

  “Invoking His name, you promised, swore to me that we would be together again and throughout eternity.”

  Six

  It was very late. The stillness of darkness held the night in thrall. Inside the dimly lit motel room, nervous tension kept Adam active, moving.

  It was nuts.

  The thought had resounded in his head ever since he had returned hours earlier to pace the room after driving an obviously exhausted Sunny to the apartment she shared with another female reenactor, located above a camera shop scant blocks from the restored area.

  The certainty of the craziness of Sunny’s tale of a bygone life, or lives as she’d have him believe, wiped away any hope he had harbored for a solid night’s slumber.

  It had to be craziness or else...

  Adam raked his long fingers through his hair, ruffling the already disheveled strands.

  If it wasn’t craziness, then... He grimaced against the doubting thought and the sour taste at the back of his throat. The concept was too farout to bear thinking about.

  But Sunny...with her hot mouth and her eager body and her near declaration of undying love—for him.

  Now, there was a concept not easily dismissed.

  Adam’s lips twisted in wry self-knowledge. He had felt an instantaneous attraction to her, which in itself was not all that unusual; he had felt an instant attraction to members of the opposite sex before.

  But never before had the attraction escalated so rapidly into a desire so strong, so intense it bordered on near desperation.

  He had to have her, possess her, be one with her. The extent of the need, the hunger he felt for her came damn close to frightening Adam; it was too akin to what he had heard about the cravings of addicts for a narcotic fix.

  What was it with Sunny, anyway? He asked himself, absently traversing the distance between the sitting-room window and the connecting bedroom. What was it about her, in particular, that struck a chord inside him?

  If he were of a fanciful nature, which Adam most decidedly was not, he might conclude their mutual attraction had been fated or preordained. Sunny had made her beliefs on that score crystal clear.

  But undying love, a shared love throughout eternity?

  Ridiculous.

  Shaking his head, Adam retraced his path to the sitting-room window.

  Reincarnation.

  Yeah. Right. An ongoing love for all time, all seasons, he mocked in silent disbelief. How had Sunny expressed it? All their seasons past.

  New Age gobbledygook, Adam told himself. If he had any sense, he’d run, not walk away from any further involvement with the flight-of-fancyprone Ms. Sunny Dase.

  That being the case, he ruminated, why had he sought and received her agreement to have dinner with him again tomorrow evening? No, this evening, Adam corrected himself, groaning as he glanced at his wristwatch.

  The answer to that one was easy. He didn’t want to run or walk away from further involvement with Sunny—strange as she might be. On the contrary, what he wanted, felt compelled to do, was deepen his involvement with her.

  Adam gave a derisive snort: in all truth, what he really wanted was to take her to bed.

  And Sunny was willing, exceedingly willing.

  So why shouldn’t he? Surely he could overlook her oddness, listen unjudgmentally to her promised retelling of their supposed next incarnation together, to reap the reward of being with her, in the position she herself claimed they had enjoyed a lot?

  Desire rekindled, sizzling through Adam. Conversely, at the same time, weariness dragged at his eyelids and his mind.

  Oh, what the hell, he mused, not bothering to stifle a wide yawn. Sunny was exciting, if slightly strange, more exciting than any woman he had met to date. He’d go with the flow, he decided, see what developed. If nothing else, she was entertaining, and he was looking forward to seeing her again, their evening together.

  Get some sleep, Romeo, he advised himself, trudging into the bedroom and flinging himself fully dressed onto the bed. Knowing he wouldn’t be up to anything later, physically or mentally, if he didn’t get some rest, he shut his eyes, certain slumber would elude him.

  Adam was dead to the world within minutes.

  The eyes were piercing.

  A captive of the portrait executed so compellingly by the artist, Adam stared into the lifelike direct gaze of the dark eyes of Patrick Henry. Of all the paintings adorning the walls of the large room inside the capitol building in the restored area, Adam had been inexorably drawn to the riveting eyes of the patriot’s likeness.

  The soft, drawling voice of the reenactor recounting the historical events that had taken place in the original capitol prior to the Revolutionary War penetrated Adam’s consciousness, drawing him from his mesmerized state.

  The portrait was incredible. Adam had the sensation he could almost hear the orator’s impassioned voice arguing, imploring, demanding freedom or death.

  Of course, Adam knew Henry’s famous cry had rung out in Richmond, not in Williamsburg or even Philadelphia, as many believed. Nevertheless, the firebrand’s words resounded inside Adam’s mind and heart as he trailed the group he had joined for the guided tour through the capitol building.

  Outside, another large group milled around the entrance, eagerly awaiting admittance into the building.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the capitol. If you would be so kind as to follow me...?”

  A smile tugged at Adam’s lips as he strolled away; these reenactors were exceptionally good. The restoration of Colonial Williamsburg had to have been a phenomenal project But the results certainly proved worth the effort. Everything appeared real and current. One could not help but feel as though one had literally stepped back in time.

  A feeling of well-being settled inside Adam as he sauntered down Duke of Gloucester Street. Though his pace was leisurely, his eyes were busy admiring the simple beauty of the Christmas decorations, all constructed from nature’s bounty of greens and fruits and nuts, adorning most of the buildings.

  While admiring the decorations, the thought occurred to Adam that although the Christmas season had very definite appeal, he couldn’t help feeling Independence Day might be even more meaningful to him, resonate with his deeply felt, if seldom voiced patriotism, pride in his beloved country.

  But by whim or twist of fate, since he happened to be there at the moment, he intended to enjoy the visit. Perhaps he’d come back again sometime, at another season, to celebrate the Fourth of July holiday.

  Although the day was overcast, and some ten degrees cooler than the previous afternoon, the sidewalks were crowded, the shops and other buildings open to the public enjoying a steady stream of sightseers.

  It was Adam’s first full day in the restored area, and he intended to make the most of it, even though he had had a late start.

  He had overslept, not surprisingly since he hadn’t dropped off to sleep until near dawn. But the dreamless slumber had refreshed him and he had awakened with an unaccustomed eagerness to explore what was in effect every American’s heritage, one of the fountainheads of the concept of independence and liberty.

  After a quick shower, Adam made do with a sparse breakfast of juice, coffee and toast.
He was looking forward to having lunch in one of the inns in the restored area, and didn’t want to blunt his appetite.

  Strolling along, he followed a small group of tourists into the tiny apothecary shop. Minutes later, Adam retreated, shuddering in response to the listing of archaic curatives on the shelves, being explained by the bespectacled reenactor stationed behind the counter.

  Two houses down from the apothecary, he followed another larger group for a guided tour of the Raleigh Tavern, marveling along with everyone else at the cramped quarters the overnight guests—amongst whom were included George Washington and Thomas Jefferson—had endured.

  Envisioning the roomy suite he’d engaged at the motel, and comparing it to the crude conditions of the large sleeping rooms at the tavern, which had housed not one but numerous guests on any given night, Adam reflected that though the historical period had its charm, he’d take the amenities of twentieth-century America hands down.

  Adam was tempted to follow the group, and the delicious aromas tickling his nose, into the Raleigh Tavern bakeshop, but prudence and the consideration of unnecessary calories prevailed.

  Forging ahead, he went on to the silversmith’s shop. There, Adam succumbed to temptation, selecting beautifully handcrafted Christmas gifts—tie bars for his brothers, delicate earrings for his sister.

  The next shop housed the milliner. Deciding to give the headgear a pass, Adam stopped at the corner intersecting Duke of Gloucester with Botetourt Street, to consult his map of the restored area.

  According to the map, he was walking south on the north side of Duke of Gloucester. Located in the next block was the shop of one M. Dubois, grocer, the printing office and the colonial post office. In the block after that was the Prentis Store. And in the following block was the larger edifice of Chowning’s Tavern.

  Adam’s stomach growled. One of his acquaintances had sung the praises of the cold potato-leek soup and hearty sandwiches served at Chowning’s.

  Hungry, yet interested in seeing the printing office and the post office, Adam hesitated. A chill drop of rain striking his cheek decided the issue; he strode across the street, heading directly for the tavern.

  The potato-leek soup and baked Virginia ham and Swiss cheese sandwich exceeded Adam’s expectations. The full-bodied burgundy he sipped between bites enhanced the flavors. While savoring every morsel and sip, Adam studied his map.

  There was so much to see spread out over the area. Opting to be systematic, he decided to take in the sights available on the north side of Duke of Gloucester Street, which included Bruton Parish Church and the Governor’s Palace—Adam was particularly looking forward to the palace.

  His appetite appeased, Adam exited the tavern and came to a dead stop on the covered porch. It was raining, not just a gentle drizzle but a steady downpour. And the air temperature appeared to have dropped at least ten degrees.

  Observing the tourists scurrying along the street and sidewalks, he pondered his options. Rain didn’t bother him. On the other hand, his excellent lunch had left him feeling mellow and lethargic.

  He glanced at his watch, surprised to note he had lingered over an hour at lunch. It was twofifteen. He was to pick up Sunny at five forty-five in order to get to the King’s Arms Tavern for their six o’clock reservation.

  And the rain continued to pelt the tourists rushing along in search of shelter.

  A dollar against a plug nickel the rain was cold, Adam thought, observing the hunched shoulders and turned-up collars on most of the people hurrying past.

  The idea of standing, wet and cold and shivering, inside any of the exhibits decided the issue for Adam.

  Shrugging, he reasoned an afternoon nap would better prepare him for whatever Sunny had in store for him after dinner. Consulting the map once again, he figured his route back to the hotel. By walking one block south on Queen to Francis Street, then heading east, he’d connect with York Street, leading to Route 60 and the motel.

  Folding the map, he flipped up the collar on his jacket, hunched his shoulders and dashed into the rain, joining the steady flow of pedestrian traffic.

  Adam was loping along, his long strides eating up the sidewalk on Francis Street, when a sign on a shop front caught his notice, stopping him in his tracks.

  Gunsmith?

  Adam frowned. “Wrong,” he murmured, unaware he spoke aloud. “That’s not where it was then.”

  A shiver unrelated to the cold rain trickled down his spine. How had he known the shop was in the wrong location? He still hadn’t read any of the written material provided at the visitors’ center. And he had been concentrating his study of the map on the exhibits located on the north side of Duke of Gloucester Street; the gunsmith’s shop, at least this gunsmith shop, was situated to the south of Duke of Gloucester.

  Yet, not one doubt assailed Adam; he knew the location was incorrect...for whatever reason of the layout planners.

  Standing stock-still in the pouring rain, the surface chill as nothing compared to the cold sensation inside, Adam stared at the building, while his inner eye saw another shop, the original shop, located north of Duke of Gloucester.

  How? How could he know, be so certain? Adam asked himself, tearing his riveted gaze away and continuing on along the street, if at a much slower pace. How, unless...

  Unless he had been there before.

  The unthinkable thought spurred him into action; Adam took off like a sprinter, running all the way back to the motel. He came to an abrupt halt at the entranceway, drew several deep breaths, then, controlling the urge to hurry, he strolled through the lobby to the elevators.

  He was visibly shivering by the time he shut the door to the suite behind him.

  Telling himself he was shivering because he was soaked and cold, and of a certainty not because of the misplaced location of the damned gunshop, Adam began stripping off his wet garments as he made for the bedroom and the connecting bath.

  With his clothes tossed in a soggy heap on the floor, he stepped into the steamy shower. While the hot water pounded the top of his head, quick, questioning thoughts beat against the inside of his aching skull.

  How had he known about the gun shop?

  Come to that, why was he positive he was right?

  Was he right?

  But if he was right, could Sunny’s claim be true?

  Were such concepts as reincarnation and love everlasting possible?

  Or was he going loony tunes, losing touch with reality?

  Seven

  It was still raining, harder than before. The inclement weather hadn’t kept the diners from the tavern.

  The King’s Arms had an air of elegance, an ambience of the gentility of an earlier age.

  Adam barely noticed. Distracted, not only by the incident of the gunsmith’s shop that afternoon but also by the effect of Sunny’s appearance on his senses, he noted the refined eighteenth-century decor, heard the polite, almost flowery speech of the costumed waiters and waitresses—serving maids?—and yet registered very little of it.

  Sunny, attired in a flowing soft wool plaid skirt, starched white cotton shirt and tartan vest, had stolen Adam’s breath and scrambled his gray matter from the moment she answered his knock on her apartment door.

  Seated opposite her at a small table set in a corner of what he presumed to be the main dining room of the tavern, he was blind to his surroundings, his attention riveted on the picture of enticing femininity she presented to the world in general and Adam in particular.

  The contrast was so very startling from the way she had looked when he had driven her home the previous night. Then, she had looked shattered, as if emotionally ravaged by the reliving or at least the retelling of her supposed memories. Her glorious eyes had been dull, lifeless, the delicate soft skin beneath appearing bruised, her face pate and drawn.

  Now, Sunny’s appearance reflected her name. Her cheeks glowed with the becoming flush of vibrant life, her eyes sparkled with animation.

  Unlike the night befo
re, she had not let her glorious gold-streaked brown mane flow unbound and free. She had pulled it away from her face, not into a careless topknot but smoothed back and folded into a classic French twist

  Adam’s fingers literally itched to pluck the pins from the twist, freeing the mass to allow his fingers free reign to stroke and comb through the silken strands.

  A sizzling arrow of desire seared him. Clenching his muscles in reaction to the inner flame, he drew a deep breath and told himself to get a grip.

  Granted, Sunny was a beautiful woman but... Adam’s gaze tangled in the forest-glade depths of her eyes; his breath lodged in his aching throat.

  There was no doubt about it: she was utterly captivating, so much so that Adam forgot the odd sense of déjà vu he had experienced that afternoon, and that he had planned to question her about the location, current and previous, of the gunsmith’s shop. He forgot her reputed flights of fancy. He forgot the odd feelings he’d had while she had been spinning her tale the night before. He forgot everything.

  “The soup.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Adam blinked himself from his reverie; although his gaze had been centered upon the movement of her soft, luscious mouth, he had not comprehended a word she had uttered.

  Sunny smiled, that maddening, all-knowing smile. “I said, you should try the specialties of the house, most particularly the soup.”

  “Soup?” Frowning, he made a dedicated effort to pull his scattered thoughts together.

  She nodded. “The peanut soup.” She grinned at the skeptical look he gave her. “Really, it’s delicious.”

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured, perusing the menu. “Do you have any other recommendations?”

  “The game pie,” she said at once. “And, oh yes, you can’t pass up the Sally Lunn.”

  “Who or what is a Sally Lunn?”