by Carey Corp
CHAPTER 2
Mackenna
If Sondheim is to be believed, and I see no reason why he shouldn’t be, size matters — at least when telling lies. Letting Duncan believe I was Weston’s girlfriend seemed harmless enough for the moment . . . or at least better than the alternative — confessing that I was still crazy in love with the boy from the bridge and getting shot down because he hated my guts. As soon as I found the right time, I would tell him the truth.
With unsteady fingers, I fumbled to unlock my studio apartment. When the bolt finally cooperated, I opened the door with a flourish, followed immediately by a sense of panic. Little molehills of clothes were strewn about the floor, exactly where I’d shed them before collapsing into bed. I hurried inside, scooping up jeans, undies, and bras while making a joke about it being the maid’s day off, then flipped on the desk lamp. Low lighting seemed better than the overhead considering the state of my humble abode.
Duncan stepped into the room, set his duffel by the door, and surveyed the area the way a lieutenant inspects his new quarters. I knew from my extended stay in his kingdom that he kept his chambers tidy. My style tended to be clutter bordering on chaos. Dirty clothes erupted from the hamper in the corner. Makeup and hair stuff littered my desk/dressing/dining room table. Dishes were stacked in the shallow sink next to the tiny fridge and second-hand microwave that perpetually smelled of burritos. Next to the kitchenette, there was a small bathroom that I’d thankfully cleaned the previous morning. At the opposite end of the room, an unmade full-size bed, dresser, and free-standing wardrobe took up the majority of the space.
It took Duncan all of about five seconds to take the grand tour. “This is your home?” His flat tone gave me no clue how he felt. Or if he even cared at all.
I glanced around the room feeling slightly defensive about my dwelling of the past ten months. It wasn’t paradise, but it was — Who was I kidding? Even by Eliza Doolittle standards it wasn’t loverly or anything that could be fixed with an enormous chair. It was merely where I crashed. Not home. I didn’t even have a TV. Not that I’d gone medieval or anything, but there’d been an ill-timed resurgence of fairy tales on television, both scripted and reality shows. You couldn’t channel surf these days without bumping into a freakin’ prince.
An old tissue stained with red lipstick lay in a crumpled ball on the floor next to the wastebasket. I snatched it up and threw it away. “I’m not here very much.”
Duncan paused to inspect the small shelf above the desk/dressing/dining room table. That particular spot housed my new obsession, little replicas and postcards of Scottish castles. Although I still enjoyed my theater memorabilia — posters and playbills of Wicked, Into the Woods, RENT, and other faves — my shelf of Scotland made me feel most alive. When I looked at it, I felt the misty breeze with its faint hint of heather, transporting the melody of bagpipes from across the ocean.
I watched uneasily as Duncan picked up a replica that looked suspiciously like Castle MacCrae. It wasn’t an exact match, but close enough. Before he could read too much into it, I offered, “That makes me think of Vee. I can hardly believe she’s a queen.”
Then, desperate to change the subject, I said, “Seriously, Duncan. Lord MacCrae, Third Earl of Lanarkshire — what was that about?”
He shrugged, his dark eyes lacking the wry spark I associated with him. “I didn’t lie. Veronica cautioned me about using the title of prince, so I used one of the other ones.”
“You’re a prince and an earl?”
“Among other things.”
And I was the girl who’d discarded him like one of my lipstick-blotted tissues. Hopefully returning to Doon would give me the opportunity to make up for that mistake. If I could prove to him how sorry I was, maybe he would forgive me. And then . . . I wouldn’t allow myself to dream about what came after — at least not yet. “Are you hungry?”
He shook his head and set the miniature castle back in its spot. “Nay.”
Under other circumstances, I’d have dragged him halfway across town for the best — make that second-best — pizza on the planet. Over dinner I would’ve asked a million questions about his journey over the bridge, what he thought of the modern world, and helped him decide what to do and see while he was here. But it was late. I was exhausted and secretly thankful that there was no reason to prolong the awkward evening.
“Since you came all this way to get me, don’t you think you should tell me what’s going on?”
“Later, once we’re on the road. Right now ye need to pack. Tomorrow, we’ll go directly from the theater to the airport.”
“Okay. Let me just text the box office and get them to hold a ticket for you.”
“There’s no need. I shall wait in your dressing room.”
He didn’t want to see me perform? My stomach sank. Even though I had no right to be offended, I could feel the disappointment stinging my eyes. Dissing my show hurt like he’d dumped a bucket of water on my spirit — my soul was melting. Wasn’t he the least bit curious about what I’d chosen to do with my life?
Grateful for something to do, I grabbed my oversized pink canvas bag and set it on the floor in front of my makeshift closet. As I sifted through the haphazard drawers, I was aware of Duncan crossing to his duffle, producing a book, and returning to my desk/dressing/dining room table, where he seated himself in my only chair.
I packed in silence, unable to concentrate on the task and, therefore, erring on the side of excess. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, what the weather would be like on the journey, or what I’d be facing — so the kitchen sink approach seemed best. In addition to jeans and tops, I threw in an umbrella, a heavy jacket, snow boots, some earrings for Vee, and a few protein bars.
Opening my underwear drawer, I surveyed the jumble of sensible striped cotton and impractical scraps of red and black lace. What to pack . . . practical or something that made me feel pretty? I glanced at Duncan, who appeared engrossed in whatever he was reading — some massive book with dragons on the cover. Although I couldn’t see his eyes, his expression was intense — the corners of his mouth turned down and pinched, his brow severe, not a laugh line in sight. He reminded me of a babysitter enduring a distasteful assignment.
Granny panties it was.
Shoving all my girly matching sets to the back of the drawer, I grabbed two handfuls of soft, mismatched underwear and dropped them into my bag. If Duncan was determined to treat me like an outcast, then I’d endure my exile in comfort.
Keeping with the soccer mom theme, I grabbed my most comfy sleep pants and a giant Company T-shirt and stepped into the bathroom. Now that packing was done, I could no longer avoid the final portion of the evening, sleeping arrangements. And what Duncan wore when he slept.
The one night we had spent together in Doon — rather, I should say, occupying the same space — he slept in his tunic and the Doonian equivalent of flannel pajama bottoms. But I suspected that if I hadn’t been there, the shirt would’ve come off. Thinking about Duncan in my bed, bare-chested and despising me, caused my vision to swim again.
Determined not to cry, I turned on the faucet. The nighttime ritual — washing my face, moisturizing, brushing my teeth — had a calming effect. After a couple of minutes, I felt ready to face Duncan again.
The last things I needed were over at my desk, so I reluctantly approached, waiting for him to acknowledge me. He didn’t. The way his body tensed told me that he was every bit as aware of me as I was of him, but he wouldn’t do me the courtesy of looking up. Fine. I could be curt too. “Can you please hand me my makeup bag? It’s the plaid one next to the lamp.”
Eyes never leaving the page, he grabbed the bag and handed it to me. As I reached for it, our fingers brushed. Electricity crackled up my arm to my startled chest. It was the first contact since he touched my arm in the dressing room. Like the previous instance, the connection was nearly unbearable, but the minute it was gone I grieved its absence.
I stood, make
up bag in hand, feeling oddly numb. “Do you need a toothbrush?”
“No, thank you.” He squeezed his hand into a fist and released like he was trying to work out a cramp as he nodded toward his duffle. “I’ve everything I need.”
Considering myself royally dismissed, I crossed to my makeshift suitcase and let the bag fall with a soft plop. Only then did I address the final act of the night. “Since you’re the guest, you can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the fl — ”
“Dinna be daft.” His interruption bordered on rude. “Sleep in your own bed.”
Being the chivalrous knight, I knew he’d never budge. With a stiff “Good night,” he clicked off the light at the desk, effectively ending the discussion.
While I wondered what to do next, he got up and headed into the bathroom. Light blazed from the adjoining room, narrowing to a crack as the door closed between us. I could hear him going through his own nighttime ritual, and then . . . Sweet Baby Sondheim! The shower turned on. Duncan MacCrae, the boy I thought I’d never see again, was showering just a few feet away.
Climbing into bed, I began mentally rehearsing my repertoire of Broadway’s most depressing musical numbers. Anything that would distract from the wet, naked guy in the next room. Not that I was a prude, but the cruel universe seemed to be dangling what I couldn’t have on a cosmic string in front of me — which called for Parade, Blood Brothers, Side Show, and Next to Normal.
After seven morose ballads, the water stopped, and I turned to face the wall. A few minutes later I heard Duncan settle into my desk/dressing/dining room table chair. That he would sit in my chair and ruin my sleep while I lay a few feet away, aware and alone, held some sort of poetic irony.
I clamped my eyes shut, trying not to thrash about too much and give away my pretense at sleep. Sometime around midnight my phone buzzed. Snatching it off my nightstand, I scanned the text from Weston: I’m not home, so don’t bother stopping by.
As if I’d just show up in the middle of the night! In the whole time we’d known each other, I’d never been to his place. I couldn’t even say where it was. Another buzz.
Don’t worry about coming in for the matinee. Letting Jeanie have the final performance. She’s VERY persuasive! She says hi.
Ewww! I didn’t even want to think about Jeanie’s persuasive talents. I waited for the grief of losing the final performance, essentially being fired, to kick in . . . but all I felt was relief. No forced smiles as I greeted patrons and thanked staff, no awkward exchanges between the boy who owned my heart and the guy who thought he owned me, no more pretending to be someone I wasn’t. In that perverse way that life imitates art, my whole existence had become a performance, one I was glad to leave behind.
From the darkness, Duncan asked, “What is it, Mackenna?”
Although he hadn’t moved, I should’ve guessed he was wide awake. He probably wouldn’t sleep at all. But whether he was watching over me or just watching to ensure I didn’t run away again was anyone’s guess.
Despite being free of my performance obligations, I would never escape the shackles of betraying the sweetest, most gentle boy I’d ever met. Forcing brightness into my tone, I replied, “Good news. Wes got Jeanie to cover the final show. So I can go anytime you want.”
It was quiet for a beat, then in a voice that sounded a hundred miles away, he declared, “We leave at first light.”
Traveling with Duncan was surprisingly uneventful . . . until the flight. We used the same taxi service that had delivered him to the theater the previous day. At the airport, Duncan produced a wad of cash to pay the fare, including a generous tip. Then he’d charmed the lady at the ticket counter to book us on an earlier flight — which I totally attributed to his swoon-inducing Scottish accent. Although I was curious how he’d assimilated into his contemporary surroundings so thoroughly in just a few days, his unwillingness to engage in conversation and my lack of adequate caffeination caused me to hold my tongue.
Once we finally boarded the plane — after a quick trip to Starbucks and a shop that sold electronics — I was ready for some answers. Duncan waited for me to stow my bags in the overhead bin before offering me the window seat. As I struggled with my seatbelt, he folded himself into the aisle seat with his usual elegance. I watched him fasten his belt as if he’d flown a thousand times and marveled yet again at his ease in my world.
“How do you know to fly first class?”
He offered me a small smile, the first spontaneous one since our unexpected reunion, and said, “Veronica.”
Of course. She’d want nothing but the best for Duncan while traveling abroad. Before I had a chance to ask him to elaborate, he pulled out a small brown leather diary from his back pocket. “She made me a journal for the journey. It covers everything . . . garments, transportation, lodging, colloquialisms, even music.”
I settled into the luxurious cabin for our nine hour flight appreciating Vee’s style. I’d never gone anywhere in first class. Which led to my next question. “What about money?”
“The treasuries of Doon are well stocked with gold and jewels. Your aunt Gracie referenced in her writing a firm of great discretion that she and your uncle Cameron engaged to keep their affairs. While they don’t know all the details of Doon, they knew enough to accept me as a distant relative of the Lockharts. They extended to me a line of credit, half the amount of what they expect my treasures will fetch at auction.”
“Which is . . .”
“Thirty million dollars.”
“Shut up! So you have fifteen million dollars?”
“Not on me.” His devilish grin indicated he understood and enjoyed his Daddy Warbucks status. “I do have a couple thousand for incidentals. They also gave me a plastic card that debits the account when used. Quite an ingenious concept, really.”
“And you know what to do with it?” He nodded earnestly, but I didn’t need him to elaborate. Obviously Vee would have included a section on credit cards, modern currency, and shopping. She was meticulous that way.
But even her freaky knack for details couldn’t account for some obstacles, like international travel. Passports took like thirty days and a boatload of documentation to issue. And I was pretty sure neither Aunt Grace nor my bestie had the first notion of how to get a fake I.D. “What about a passport?”
“Ah. That was most fortuitous. One of the Destined — ” He paused. His eyes widening and then dropping to his lap as he awkwardly cleared his throat. The Destined were those called to Doon when it appeared once every hundred years. Like me, they had a choice to accept their destiny or leave. Unlike me, almost all of them chose to stay. Regret balled in my chest as I motioned for him to get on with the story.
“One of the Destined, a lass named Analisa, is quite skilled in making paper copies. Although Doon didn’t have everything she required, she was able to make a mock-up that her associates in London used to produce the real thing.” He pulled his passport from his pocket and waved it at me.
For the love of Lerner and Loewe! He might as well have been shouting his illegal status through a megaphone. I batted his hand down, and that same electric zing of energy crackled through me. “Put that away! You let some girl who makes forgeries into Doon.”
Duncan shook his head. “It is not for us to decide who enters our kingdom. Our Protector leads those who are meant to be.”
“So you’re saying the Protector of Doon called a criminal to your land?”
“We had need of her skills, didn’t we?”
Whatever I’d been about to reply died on my tongue as the bubbly flight attendant appeared. Duncan smoothly slipped his fake document back into his pocket as he returned the attendant’s smile in greater measure. The middle-aged woman blinked like she was on the verge of sunstroke before continuing down the aisle. Not that I could blame her; Duncan looked the part of privileged, modern-day royalty, from his dark, tousled hair, to his moss green designer button-down and khakis, to his — Be still my showtune-lovin’ heart! He was sp
orting black-and-white high-tops.
Was that Vee’s doing? Did she remember that my inner Goth girl couldn’t resist a boy in Chucks? Curiosity burned through me as I pointed to Duncan’s new shoes. “Did Vee tell you to buy those?”
He shook his head. “Nay. She recommended something called a Nike, but I rather liked the look of these.”
That Duncan had chosen Converse high-tops out of every other shoe in the universe incited girly flutters that rippled all the way to my toes. I started to say more, but he’d already opened his book. Not ready for him to shut me out just yet, I switched to the one topic he couldn’t ignore.
“Does this count as the road?”
He let the book drop slightly so that he could stare at me with puzzlement and the slightest bit of suspicion. “This is an airplane, as ye well know.”
“Geez, I know where we are . . . but you said you’d tell me what was up with Vee once we were on the road. Which is now, right?”
Duncan’s lips thinned and his dark eyes turned distant, as if recalling some troubling memory. After what felt like an eternity he said, “The northern borders are under attack. We think . . .” He took a deep breath and refocused on me. “It’s almost impossible to discern — like there’s an invisible barrier. The view beyond seems hazy, similar to how the bright sun distorts the horizon. But it’s easy to miss.”
“Then how do you know for sure that something’s wrong?”
“At first we didn’t. One of the outlying farms reported a herd of cattle gone missing. Then half their sheep. Once we determined the livestock had been in a secured paddock and couldna wander off, my brother and I accompanied Veronica to make a personal inspection of the disappearance. It was there we first noticed the flowers.”
