Mr. Darcy unfurled his tail and spread it like a fan over her dog-eared copy of The Vanquished Viking, her favorite romance novel. She’d read it five or six times, but never tired of the story and the heroic characters. She’d loved romances since girlhood, but she was embarrassed to admit it to her colleagues at the Asgard College library. They only read ‘real literature.’
She got up from her bench and wandered over to the sofa to scratch Mr. Darcy’s ears. Picking up the book, she admired the bare-chested male model, who stared back at her with a sexy half-smile. The paperback cover was badly creased and one corner had been torn off, but the image was largely intact. She’d studied the drop-dead gorgeous Viking with the long blond hair and whopping muscles a million times, but he still made her heart go pitter-patter.
“That’s the kind of man I want, Darce. An alpha warrior who’ll sweep me off my feet and make me quiver with desire.” She snorted. “Unfortunately, that’s about as likely as a Minnesota Vikings’ Super Bowl victory.” She set down the book and scratched Mr. Darcy’s ears. “Gotta go, sweetie. See you later.”
She’d better get a move on. She wasn’t looking forward to the lecture by Dr. James Weston, one of Myles’s physicist heroes, but they’d made a bargain: she’d attend the boring talk if he went with her to the annual Spring Fling Art Show next weekend in downtown Asgard.
She trotted up the stairs to the kitchen. The room was filled with the mouth-watering, beefy aroma of the New England dinner bubbling away in the crock pot on the counter. She’d fixed one of her father’s favorites, hoping it would stimulate his long-lost appetite.
She cocked an ear. The Doobie Brothers' Long Train Runnin' drifted from the living room, signaling her father’s location. She smiled, glad he was playing his old vinyl LP’s again. The classic rock music took him back to happier times. She wandered into the front room.
“Hi, honey,” he said from behind two towers of stereo albums stacked on the coffee table. “I can’t believe Myles talked you into going to a physics lecture.”
“Yeah, I know, but he’s promised to go to the art show with me next weekend.”
“Well, don’t stay out too late.” He pointed at the TV, which was on, but mute. “Channel 7 is predicting bad storms later. Maybe even tornados.”
She stood in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her waist, feeling chilly. “Thanks for the warning. I didn’t plan to be gone long anyway.”
“Tell me something.” He patted the seat next to him. “I don’t mean to pry, but how serious are you two?”
How she missed her mother. Talking to her dad about her love life was weird and embarrassing, especially since she usually picked guys who didn’t meet his approval. The one exception had been Myles, a first-year physics instructor, about whom she had decidedly unromantic feelings.
Parking herself next to her father, she took his hand in hers. “Myles is a nice guy and everything, but we’re just friends.”
Her platonic relationship with Myles had been safe and convenient. A way to hide from guys like Sven Nydahl, the Norwegian heartbreaker, her first and only lover. But it was time to cut Myles loose. It wasn’t fair to him, and she had other things to deal with right now.
Her father's brow creased. “Oh? I ’m sorry to hear that. I thought you two got along very well.”
“I guess we do,” she pushed a clump of hair behind her ear, “but he’s not my boyfriend. Actually, I’ve been working up the nerve to tell him he should start seeing someone else.”
Her father’s frown increased. “Really? That’s too bad.”
“I don’t want to hurt him, but it’s time we both moved on.”
“Do you want to see someone else?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, and frankly potential dates aren’t exactly beating down my door.”
He squeezed her hand. “You’ll find another young man. You’re a very pretty girl, Esme. Maybe you just need to spruce up a bit,” he pointed to her shapeless green sweater, “and stop hiding yourself. Maybe trade in those glasses for contacts and cut your hair.”
“Thanks for the advice, but I’m fine with this.” She smoothed her free hand over her sweater. “I don’t like to draw attention to myself.” Unfortunately, her height did that for her. At five feet nine inches, she stood out from most other women like a wayward corn stalk in a field of soy beans.
“You look so much like your beautiful mother,” he replied. “If you did a little make-over, you’d have plenty of dates. In fact, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Mitgang’s new lab director. He’s...”
“You’re very sweet,” she said, stepping on his words, “but I don’t want to see anyone else right now. It would just complicate things.” She clasped her father’s hand to her cheek. “Right now, I’ve got you to take care of.”
“Esme,” he said in his fatherly-advice voice, “you spent almost a year taking care of Grandma before she died, and now you’re my nurse. You need to do something that makes you happy. Going out with Bill Seybert might be just the thing.”
Another egghead academic isn't what I need. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?”
Maybe it was time to tell him what really did make her happy.
“I’ve been selling my rugs downtown at the Blue Heron Gallery,” she blurted out. “The owner, Lisa, really likes my work and...” She hesitated, unsure if she should go all the way. “And she thinks I could do well selling my stuff at other galleries and art fairs, too. She says I’m good enough to make some real money.”
She doubted he would agree. Supportive in so many ways, her father had always made light of her weaving, telling her she was too smart to waste her time making crafts. He wanted her to go back to school, get her master’s, then her doctorate, and climb the golden ladder to librarian heaven – the University of Minnesota.
“That’s nice, honey. It’s a fun little hobby, but you don’t want to spread yourself too thin.”
“No, I guess not.” There was little point in arguing the matter. He wasn’t likely to change his mind.
He took back his hand and patted her on the knee. “I’m glad you enjoy working with your hands. I’m sure it’s relaxing, and that’s something you need right now. But I’d rather you spent your free time working toward another degree.”
She pressed her nails into her palm and studied the cover of an Eagles’ album on the coffee table, her gaze fixed on the handsome, long-haired bass player. Of course a Master’s would be great. It would get her a raise. But honestly, she’d die of boredom before she ever finished.
“I don’t know, Daddy. Maybe next year.”
“Life is short, honey. Don’t waste your time. Make the most of it.” He began again to organize his LP’s. “I’d still like to see you settled with someone, though. I don’t want you to be alone if I die.”
Her gut twisted with the dull pain she’d been experiencing since his diagnosis. Why was life so unfair? She’d already lost her mother and all her grandparents. Did she have to lose her father, too?
“Don’t say that, Daddy.” She threw her arms around his neck. “We’re going to fight this thing. You’re not going to die.”
He held her close. “You have to face reality. The chemo may not work for me.”
She pulled away, her eyes brimming with tears. “It has to work. I can’t lose you.”
“Esme, we must be realistic...”
“No. You still have so much to do. Your research and your plans to go to Québec...”
“I may not have enough time.” He sagged back into the cushions.
“Don’t say that. You’re only sixty, and you’re so close to proving your theory.” The tight knot in her throat made it hard to speak. “You’re going to get well and go to Québec next summer. It’s so important. Finding the Viking settlement would silence those old fossils who say you’re crazy. You’ll have the last laugh, just watch. You’ll be in the history books.”
“Even if the chemo works, I doubt I’ll be in any shape to travel, much less hike around Montmagny, hunting for artifacts.” His face drooped with fatigue and defeat. “We’ve got to face it, Esme. My career may be over.”
“No, Daddy!” She buried her face in his shoulder and clung to him. “You’re going to get well, and you’re going to go to Québec.”
The chiming of the doorbell jolted her upright. “Oh, gosh, that’s Myles.” Jumping up, she plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes. She didn’t want Myles to see her tears. Her emotions were her own business.
Pasting on a smile she didn’t feel, she walked to the front door, ready for an evening as exciting as watching paint dry.
*****
The house was quiet as Esme closed the front door behind her. She leaned against it, happy to be home. Myles had tried to talk her into going to the lake, but she’d refused, saying she had to get back to her father. There was no way she’d spend another minute listening to him pontificate about quantum tunneling. Or worse, wrestling with him in the front seat of his car.
She threw her jacket on the hall chair and tiptoed upstairs. Peering into her father’s darkened bedroom, she smiled. He and Mr. Darcy were sound asleep, snoring softly and curled up together like contented littermates. A rumble of thunder broke the comfortable silence, and she mentally crossed her fingers that the coming storm wouldn’t wake them.
She headed down the stairs just as another, louder, clap of thunder boomed. Sleep would have to wait. Having seen the aftermath of several Minnesota tornados, she’d keep vigil until the bad weather had completely blown over. She was edgy and keyed up anyway, plagued by a low-level anxiety that often kept her awake long into the night. Her father’s cancer was turning her into an emotional and physical wreck.
What would she do if she lost him? She could stay in Asgard and continue to work at the college library, but could she spend the rest of her life doing something she wasn't passionate about? She pictured herself twenty years into the future, an elderly recluse surrounded by books and cats. I don’t think so.
Or would she have the guts to follow her dream and become an artist? She’d inherit the house, which her father had paid off years ago, and her inheritance would give her enough money to live on while she established herself. She could do it. If she was careful. If her father died. Her stomach heaved at the thought.
Aargh! She needed to relax. Maybe a little wine would help. She headed back downstairs.
Entering the kitchen, she was pleased to see the crock pot sitting on the counter, empty and clean. She opened the refrigerator and noticed a small, clear plastic container with the remaining stew. He’d eaten well. “Way to go, Daddy,” she said under her breath.
She pulled out a half-empty bottle of German Riesling and plucked a clean wine glass from the dish strainer on the sink. With the bottle tucked under her arm, she opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the cracked concrete of the patio. Though terrified of tornados, she was strangely fascinated by thunderstorms. The thunder and lightning, loud and wild, was like something out of a Wagnerian opera. Primitive and elemental, the crash and boom thrilled her to her core. She gazed skyward. From the eerie glow in the night sky and the growl of thunder nearby, this one promised to be a doozy.
She sat down on the ornate, wrought iron love seat near the rose bushes and poured herself a big glass of the semi-sweet white wine. The night was humid and close for late-April, a portent of the sticky summer weather just around the corner.
She settled back into the cushions her mom had made and took a long sip of the pale liquid. Gazing up at the first wave of storm clouds, trying to clear her mind, she was surprised when a mental image of Sven Nydahl popped into her brain.
She might have a pretty sparse track record with men, having slept with only one guy in her twenty-five years, but her fling with Sven Nydahl made her feel like a veteran in the war of the sexes.
Tall, blond, and with eyes the color of a cold-water fjord, the visiting Norwegian journalist was as handsome as the Viking warriors in her romance novels. Within a week of his arrival on campus, he’d ignited the white hot flames of her passion and, for the first and only time in her life, she’d fallen hard.
They’d spent the entire fall semester screwing each other’s brains out in his tiny room at the college’s Foreign Press Institute. It was incredible! Exhilarating! But then it ended. Or rather, she ended it.
The scheming bastard had lied to her the whole time, assuring her he was divorced and ready to settle down again. When he talked about extending his visa to stay for another semester, she’d begun to fantasize about becoming the second Mrs. Sven Nydahl. Then she’d accidentally discovered that someone already had the job. You were such a fool, Esme.
She looked up at the approaching storm. It swept in from the west like a dark, ferocious sea. Thunder rolled non-stop, the unremitting cracks and booms punctuated by fiery bolts of cascading lightning. A strong gust of wind scattered last year’s oak leaves all over the yard, while another bent the aging birch tree next to the garage into a graceful arc, like a ballet dancer taking a bow.
As a few cautionary rain drops plopped onto her hair and shoulders and into her wine glass, the skin on the back of her neck prickled and an odd sensation came over her. Not fear, exactly, but rather a feeling of expectation, as if something momentous was about to happen.
She rose just as a blinding crack of lightning struck the metal porch roof behind her. Thrown to the ground by the shock wave, she struggled for breath as the acrid odor of ozone filled her nostrils. She thought her head would explode from the build-up of pressure inside her skull, and her heart nearly stopped as searing pain ripped through her body like a serrated blade.
No, no! I don’t want to die!
Aware of a soft sizzling sound, she saw sparks of fire dance on her skin like a million fireflies.
Then, she saw nothing at all.
CHAPTER 3
Swallowed up in silent, tomb-like blackness, Esme heard her thudding heart and knew she was still alive. Unable to see or hear anything, she should have been terrified. Instead she was strangely calm and eager to see what would happen next. Drifting along gently, like a cork bobbing down a lazy stream, she sensed there was a purpose to her journey. But what it was, she had no idea.
As if on cue, a pinprick of light appeared in the distance. She couldn't make it out at first, but as she hurtled toward it, she saw that it was a spinning whirlpool of luminescence, like a galaxy floating in the vastness of space. It was beautiful.
A tiny bolt of fear pricked her consciousness, but she tamped it down. No, she would not be afraid. The lightning had not killed her for a reason. Somehow she knew her destiny lay on the other side of the swirling eddy, and she would meet it head-on.
She sped toward the vortex with startling speed. Steeling herself, she plunged feet first into the churning mass and blasted through it...landing on her fanny in a mound of hay.
What the heck? Dazzled by the blinding sunlight, she shielded her eyes with her forearm and looked down. The pile of green, freshly-cut alfalfa was soft and fragrant. Inhaling the sweet, earthy aroma, she was reminded of the Minnesota countryside in summer.
Bewildered, but unhurt, her eyes gradually adjusted to the brightness, and she looked up to survey her surroundings. The long, narrow hayfield was bordered on three sides by a living fence of tall, dark green pines so dense, no light penetrated the canopy. On the fourth side, about a football field away, sat a small farmstead. Over the tree line to her left, a wall of jagged mountains thrust its snow-covered peaks, like so many pointed teeth, into a cloudless, bright blue sky.
That was strange. The closest snow-capped mountains were the Rockies, hundreds of miles west of Asgard. Could the tornado, or whatever it was, have carried her all the way to Colorado or Montana?
“Wow!” She got to her feet and dusted herself off. Still a little shaky, she turned slowly around, searching for signs of
people. “Where in the world am I?” She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and flipped it open. No service.
She'd head for the farm to see if she could use their phone. Her father would be worried sick when he discovered her missing.
The sing-song cadence of female voices drew her attention to the far end of the field. Three women, dressed in ankle-length skirts and colorful, long-sleeved tunics, strode toward her, looking like they just stepped out of a Norwegian folk tale. The costumes weren’t fancy enough for a festival or parade. Maybe they were historical re-enactors from one of those living museums. If so, they looked quite real. Surely they could tell her where she was.
As they came closer, however, she became less certain. Two of the women carried wicked-looking scythes over their shoulders, and all three wore scowls that told her they weren’t happy to see her.
“Hello,” she called out, “I’m wondering if you could help me.” She stretched to her full height and planted her feet, trying to look confident.
“Who are you?” the tallest woman shouted as they neared. “What clan are you from?” She spoke in what sounded like authentic Old Norse.
Esme swayed on her feet. She didn’t know Old Norse. How in the world could she understand what the woman said?
“I’m lost,” Esme answered, shocked at the foreign words coming out of her mouth. “I was carried off by a tornado and deposited here. Could you tell me where I am?”
Her world tilted, and she nearly fell over. She’d answered in the same alien language as the woman. She’d said the words in English, but they’d come out in Old Norse. That was impossible. Where had she landed? In the Twilight Zone?
The tall woman squinted and pointed her scythe handle at Esme. “I asked you what you are called and where you are from. Answer me, girl.”
Esme’s heart pounded as she tried to process what had just happened. She took a breath and squared her shoulders. “My name is Esme, and I’m from southern Minnesota.” Again, she’d spoken English, but it came out as Norse. Oh, lord, what’s happening to me?
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