by Molly Ringle
“So I bet Nina’s going to miss you when you go home,” I said, desperately shoving the conversation forward.
“Actually...” She leaned back in the booth, planting her fingers against the edge of the table. “I’m staying.”
“What?” I said.
“How long?” asked Laurence.
“Mr. MacIntyre, who owns the pub, can get me another six months. We’ll see after that.”
We must have looked as stunned as we felt, because after a few seconds Amber smirked. “Dudes, this isn’t Siberia. I like it here. It’s even prettier when it’s ghost-free. And think of summer.” She spun her teacup in its saucer. “Sunlight practically twenty hours a day. Oh, and Nina says daffodils grow all the way up the slope to the castle in spring, thousands of them. I’ve got to see that.”
“What about your mom?” I asked, though my more selfish mind wailed, What about me? Us? Your best friends?
“She can come visit. I’ll pay for half her plane ticket. It’s cheaper than her having to buy me food all year.”
Laurence twisted his mouth into his grumpy look. “Jeez, woman. Already lost Shannon to the UK, and now I’ve got to lose you, too?”
She glanced at me, then back at him. “I’m thinking you’ll survive.”
We said our goodbyes outside the pub. She had to work tonight, and our train tomorrow morning left too early for her tastes. We’d only be staying in Edinburgh overnight in a hotel (we’d had enough of the old hostel) then moving on to England to hang with Shannon before going home.
Our flight back to Oregon departed in six days. That was it, six days. One week from now, I’d be standing on American pavement again. My stomach was a turmoil of joy and grief every time I dwelled on it.
“Take pictures of those daffodils for me,” I said past the rising tears in my throat, as I squeezed the air out of Amber with my farewell hug.
“I will.” She turned and hugged Laurence.
“Don’t be a stranger, babe,” he told her. “I mean it.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
Laurence and I walked to our hotel through the whisky-scented breeze. My mind arranged the melancholy puzzle pieces into a tragic whole. Amber had been able to put up with me before I left for Inverness, when I was still alone and aching over Laurence’s desertion. She could see past my treachery then and view me as essentially a friend. But facing Laurence and me together, as a besotted couple, had obviously been too bitter a brew to drink. She must have guessed how it would feel even before we returned, and made her decision then to stay here--away from us. Maybe we weren’t the only cause for her choice, but we must have played a part.
My lips tensed with the desire to cry. “It’ll never be the same again, with her.”
Laurence’s arm twined around my shoulders. “It would have changed anyway, with college and everything.”
“But I thought we’d have a few more months. And I feel like it’s my fault. Our fault.”
“That was the price.” He tugged me into a one-armed hug. “But it’s natural to be sad about it for a while. I am, too.”
* * *
Shelly and Gil had recorded with a band all night, and staggered down to Waverley Station first thing in the morning to see us off. They looked raccoon-eyed and ragged, but were clearly stoked by caffeine and musical adventures. Since our train didn’t leave for another half hour, the four of us shared a bench on the platform and chatted over egg sandwiches and coffee.
“Gil, I almost forgot,” I said, sitting up and reaching into a coat pocket. “I meant to give you this at Christmas. Laurence sharpened it in the meantime.”
Gil parted the layers of tissue paper, and grinned at the skean-dhu. “Ey, me dad’s got a pin with that same seal! Supposedly we’re the poor relations of somebody very grand in the Leslie clan.”
“Good. Glad I got the right one.”
“I’ve actually got to wear a kilt next month, for my cousin’s wedding. I’ll be able to wear this formally.” He held up the knife and watched it glint in the early sun.
“Spear hors d’ouevres with it,” Laurence suggested.
“Threaten drunken in-laws who want to dance with you,” Shelly added.
The loudspeaker voice announced that our train was now boarding. The four of us rose from the bench.
I turned to Shelly while Gil and Laurence shook hands, chuckling over something or other.
Shelly drew me in against that big squishy bosom for a hug. She smelled like stale coffee and fresh electronics, the scent of the recording studio. “So glad I got to meet you. Glad Gil got to, more like, since you sent him back to me!”
I grinned. “Nothing could’ve stopped him. That’s where he wanted to be.”
Then she turned to Laurence to embrace him too, standing on tiptoe for the task.
Gil pivoted and unleashed a smile upon me. We tangled ourselves up in a hug, hands sinking into the contours of each other’s backs for the last time in God knew how long. Beneath his studio scent lay the fragrance of his hair and clothes, the scent I had once inhaled so avidly. I breathed it now with poignancy, thinking it a fitting scent for my last moments in Edinburgh.
“Thank you for a lovely time,” he said.
“Thank you for the same.”
He pulled back, hands slipping into his pockets, and added casually, “Keep me in mind if you’re ever married and bored and looking for some fun on the side.”
A snicker exploded from me. I glanced at Shelly and Laurence, who were still talking and hadn’t heard him. I smiled at Gil. “Don’t tempt me.”
He lifted a finger and brushed it along my cheek--a simple motion that hurtled me back in time to the night I had tackled him in wet grass beneath a September moon. “Too late,” he said with a smile, and stepped back.
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Oregon
We’d been home for three weeks. It was soothing to be back where I fit in, among familiar landmarks, road signs, and plant species. I kept reminding myself to enjoy that luxury in the time I had left before I had to voyage off to the scary new land of college--wherever that would be. And I only had one of my three best friends around to cherish that time with me, but at least it was the one I loved beyond sanity.
Wild Rose life sucked me back in, habitual enough that if it weren’t for a few major differences, I could believe the last six months never happened. But those differences, hoo boy, let’s count them:
Not going to school, or doing much of anything with my time, for the rest of March and start of April.
Spending my days gardening my family’s neglected plots, and my evenings with Laurence, who was doing part-time work for his dad again.
Not seeing Amber, Shannon, or Tony--though the latter I could, easily enough, if I wanted to. He must have known I was home, but I needed to give him time before strolling into the high school halls and addressing a cheery greeting to him.
Hanging out sometimes with my little sister Gina, who lately decided it was way cooler to get driven around town by me than by our parents.
Living in agonized suspense over what the mail might contain.
That last point intensified as the April weather swept in, alternately battering my tulips with rain and then toasting them with sun breaks. Oregon State University and the University of Oregon both accepted me. Then the packet came announcing that Lewis and Clark also hoped I’d come study at their venerated halls. No scholarship offer, so that would be more costly than my parents preferred, I figured.
But they claimed not to mind. In fact, my parents, Laurence, Dr. Hawthorn, and even Gina were so proud of me for getting into all three Oregon schools that they took me out to dinner at Wild Rose’s one and only semi-elegant restaurant: a renovated farmhouse next to the river.
However, my attention and delight could not stay fixed upon my herbed salmon and chocolate mousse. Berkeley. What about Berkeley? I’d asked Mom and Dad not to tell anyone I had applied there. I wanted it to be a surprise, didn’t want to jinx it, etc.<
br />
I didn’t have long to wait.
One afternoon I sat down at my computer and found an email from the University of California, Berkeley. Not a mailed packet, just an electronic message.
Dear applicant,
We thank you for your interest in UC Berkeley. However, given the large number of worthy applicants, we regret to inform you...
Yeah. You can guess the rest.
I should have expected this. I did expect it. But I was also idiot enough to hold onto hope. Ever the illogical philosopher, I figured I’d paid my debt for my nefarious deeds, in my damaged relations with Tony and Amber, the ten days of separation from Laurence, and every other piece of awkwardness and pain that ensued. Surely the Collegiate Powers That Be would grant me a reprieve and let me stay with Laurence?
Evidently not.
My vision going gray and my hands numb as if I’ve just been dealt a death sentence, I automatically clicked the “Print” button, peeled the print-out from the tray, and stood.
Though it was drizzling, I stumbled outside with no coat, and walked toward Laurence’s house. It lay five minutes away by car or bicycle, ten if you walked, and somewhere in between, I now discovered, if you ran. My legs broke into a jog as I rounded the first corner, under our leaning street sign that said Juniper Place. By the time I hit the mingled grass and gravel of the Hawthorns’ driveway, I was sprinting and gasping.
Laurence answered my frenetic knocking. His eyes expanded. “What? What’s wrong?”
I tumbled across the threshold and thrust the sheet of paper at him. The rain hadn’t smeared the ink--my parents had recently upgraded me to a laser-jet printer...for college. Esteemed, worthy college.
Laurence read the page. His gaze flew in confusion from its content to the header and back again. “You applied to Berkeley?”
“I was going to surprise you. Be with you.” My breath, still coming fast, shattered on a sob. I sank weeping onto the ottoman in the front room.
“Oh, Eva.” Laurence dropped to his knees and hugged me. “It’s not the end.”
“But now we have t-to be apart the whole fall term. The only places I got in were in Oregon! January is the earliest I’ll be able to go to California!”
“Which I thought was the plan all along,” he said soothingly. “Listen, it was incredibly sweet of you to try, but it’ll still be okay. We’ll do what we’ve been talking about. You can find a community college or another school near Berkeley--there are only like a thousand--and arrange a transfer there for the winter.”
“But--three months apart! I hardly survived ten days!” Between my tears, drool, and the rain, I was leaving quite the array of spots on his green T-shirt.
He stroked my damp hair, apparently not objecting to it. “We’ll survive. Hey.” He lifted my chin to make me look at him, and kissed me. “This time I’ll answer your emails.”
Epilogue
Oct. 2, 2008
Hey Shannon!
Sorry it’s been so long since my last email. I blame midterms, my roommate’s hideous loud music (seriously, did she miss the “disco is dead” memo?), all the college transfer hassles, and too much instant messaging with Laurence. I’m getting eyestrain from all the chatting we do. When my eyes finally sustain permanent damage, I hope I can find glasses as cute as yours.
At least in January Laurence and I won’t need so much online chatting, since we’ll be a mere two blocks apart instead of 563 miles. Yes, I looked it up.
So is it getting dark and rainy over there? It’s hard to believe a year ago I was hooking up with Gil. He emails me sometimes, by the way. Guess he and Shelly are still being nauseously affectionate, and meeting unfair amounts of music celebrities.
Tony and I are speaking again too, kind of. He’s doing well at Marylhurst, still stoked about becoming a priest. Needless to say, I am NOT going to use his newfound confessional powers to get the affair with Gil off my conscience. That might make me feel better, and who knows if God would care, but it would only hurt Tony. Some truths really don’t have to come out. I hope I’m right about that.
So what’s with Amber and this Scottish guy?? She only sent me one text about it: “Dating Scot guy named Colin, v hot.” That’s all she sends me on any topic--one message. When she finally met her dad again, it was “Made peace w/ Dad. He’s kinda cool in his way. Good taste in movies.” When I asked what else she was up to, she’s all, “Tarot cards. Nina teaching me. Neato stuff.” Okay, she wants to become a tarot reader after losing her psychic powers? Am I the only one who sees the irony?
Laurence still thinks she should see a shrink, by the way. He figures her “hallucinations” could come back anytime, and from there it’s a short step to schizophrenia, especially given the genetic history. I disagree; I don’t think she was ever schizoid, but I do think she’s got some serious powers of imagination. Or is there such a thing as ghosts, and some people really see them? Will science ever know? It’s a constant subject of debate for us.
In any case, I don’t think she’s forgiven Laurence and me yet. Things still don’t feel the same again. Is she any different with you? I hope so, since at least you’re in the same time zone.
I’m jealous of her for that. I miss you so much! Seeing you and Thomas at the Fourth of July was the best thing ever--despite the public guilt trip your parents dumped on you--but once a year won’t cut it. Maybe we can come visit during winter break, or you guys can come here for Thanksgiving? We have to figure out something, cousin dearie. I’ve always loved you to pieces, but I appreciate you even more now that I have to live with Miss Seventies Revival.
But for now, here’s the plan of my life. I transfer from OSU to Berkeley City College in winter. Then, after a couple years at the CC, I try for Berkeley or another UC school. It’s pretty common and there’s a program to help students do that. So, though it’s early, I’m already thinking about my entrance essay.
They always ask about an experience that changed your life, right? Thus, I’ll write about the UK trip. I’ll talk about how I missed home like crazy but also enjoyed learning new things, and I’ll use plants as the example, like seeing the Scottish Douglas firs that reminded me of Oregon. That’ll provide a segue for my idea of majoring in horticulture. Then I’ll also discuss how I learned things about my own screwed-up brain, and other people’s too; for instance, hallucinations, or maybe real experiences, both religious and secular. Then I’ll use that as a reason for wanting to minor in psychology. What do you think?
Or maybe something more exciting will happen in the next two years that changes my life even more, and will become my actual topic.
On second thought, I hope not. God and the ghoulies forbid!
Take care. Miss and love you,
Eva
THE END
Afterword by the author
I’ve only spent about three months in Edinburgh myself, and never saw or heard anything supernatural there, nor anywhere else. Like Eva, I apparently don’t have the knack for picking up those vibes. By reputation, however, the British Isles are the most haunted place in the world, and Edinburgh in particular is supposed to be especially infested.
Its history, what with the body-snatching medical students, the gruesome fates of those imprisoned in the Tolbooth, and the paved-over plague victims, is macabre enough. When you add in the frightening apparitions that people have reportedly seen over the centuries, it begins looking like a spookier place to spend Halloween than Transylvania.
Despite the alleged ghouls, it is a beautiful city with breathtaking architecture, lovely gardens, and pleasant citizens, and I hope I conveyed my admiration for it despite the sarcastic tone of my protagonists.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Alan J. Wilson, Des Brogan, and Frank McGrail for their book Ghostly Tales and Sinister Stories of Old Edinburgh, printed by Mainstream Publishing in 1991. Several of the ghosts mentioned in this novel, such as Bloody MacKenzie, are cited in that book as well as on many ghost-hunting webpages, and are suppo
sedly real.
Though I read the book (referenced above) that Mercat Tours provides, the account of the tour taken by Amber, Eva, and Tony is my own invention and I don’t claim that the guides really say any of those things. In reality they’re much better at it. Mary King’s Close and the other chambers beneath the Royal Mile do have an extensive history of hauntings, as any tour guide can tell you. Canongate Cemetery probably does not leave its tombs open for people to wander into, so don’t sneak in and try it.
The hostel does exist, and I changed only a few details, so I imagine travelers who have stayed there will recognize it by its description. St. Mary’s Cathedral is real too, but I didn’t attempt to verify whether or not it has red stained glass in the right configuration. Borthwick’s Tavern on the Royal Mile where Gil worked, along with his recording studio, are not supposed to be any establishments in particular. As far as I’m concerned they’re imaginary.
Now, go to Edinburgh and see the attractions yourself!
-M.R.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Molly Ringle has been writing fiction for over 20 years, and her stories always include love and humor, as well as the occasional touch of tragedy and/or the paranormal. Her book THE GHOST DOWNSTAIRS, a 2010 EPIC Award finalist for paranormal romance, was published in 2009 and a contemporary comedic romance, SUMMER TERM, was released in August 2010.
Molly lives in Seattle with her husband and kids, and worships fragrances and chocolate. Find out more about her at www.mollyringle.com.
