“Hello?”
“Hi, Aine. This is Kelly. Are you at work?”
Kelly supervised one of my crews during the week. She and I were friends and often met for lunch or went out on Saturday nights if I wasn’t working. I hadn’t spent much time with her lately as I’d worked almost every weekend for the last five weeks.
“Hi, Kelly. No, I took this weekend off. I just woke up. What are you doing up so early?”
“There is a blasted work gang right outside my window. They started their jackhammer at seven this morning! Can you believe it? I was calling you to find out who these jokers are and put in a complaint.”
“Ummm. You know, Kelly, we don’t handle every job that goes on in London. How do you know they aren’t digging for a new sewer line?”
“Oh, Aine. I knew you’d find out and get a call in. I just wanted one more hour’s sleep. Oh well. Since we’re both up, do you want to meet for lunch?”
“No, I’ve some things I need to get done today. Thanks. Say, are you going out tonight?”
“Is it Saturday? Darned right! It’s been too many Saturday nights without you. I thought you’d a new bloke and were afraid to introduce him to me, afraid I’d steal his heart with my new short skirt!”
“Oh, now I’ve got to come to see how short this one is. I’ll join you tonight. Cheers.”
I sighed as I pushed end.
A new boyfriend. That would be nice. Does this mean I’m lonely? No, I don’t think so. I’ve dated several times since my divorce, but I didn’t have a steady. I couldn’t connect or feel comfortable with anyone. I might have been scared because of my experience with my ex, Brad, but I hoped not. Late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, I rationalized that I was waiting for the perfect man, a life partner. I thought I had him once, but blew it. Then we met again last summer. I didn’t know if I would ever get another chance at fulfillment, but if I was going to get one, this was it. However, I had some work to do if I was to have any chance at all.
I crossed the room to wash my face. I loved my flat: small, efficient, and -most important – within walking distance to my office on Upper Brook Street. It was located over a bookstore, and if I took a deep breath I smelled the dust, glue, ink, and paper from the new and well-read used books from downstairs rise between the cracks of the centuries-old floorboards.
I was happy. At least I kept telling myself I was.
I toasted a bagel and ruminated about my job. After lots of soul searching, I’d taken a job with Michael Goldsmith Corporation, MGC, as a field archaeology supervisor. It was hard to admit I was working for a big company.
While in college, obtaining my degree in archaeology, we debated about the big corporations that were going to take over our work someday. I promised myself that I’d never work for one. I guess some promises couldn’t be kept. Something had to pay for food and rent.
I worked hard to gain the position I had with MGC, and headed the Cultural Resource Management division for London. This archaeological field was new and I was inventing a lot of it as I went along. MGC was a consulting company that worked with construction companies and conducted pre-construction discovery research for all local permits.
If an ancient site was found during construction, our job was to survey and research the site before the continuing construction or rebuilding. We made sure history was preserved in a timely manner so the construction companies involved didn’t go bankrupt.
I used the newest toys, the Geographical Information System, and ground-penetrating radar. I cataloged finds, marked them for preservation, dug them up and sent them off to a museum. I wrote the reports. It paid my bills and I was working as an archaeologist. What more could I want?
Well, a productive dig on my Scottish Highland hill would be perfect and I’d been planning this adventure for several months.
A cup of tea, a bagel slathered in butter and marmalade, and day planner in hand, I slumped into my oversized chair and stared at the poster I’d taped over my desk, an enlarged picture of the hill I wanted to work on. Family photos were boxed up to free a wall for this picture. Its presence kept me focused on my future goal and filled my little home with hope.
I opened my planner to my to-do list. The GIS didn’t have the hill listed as a pre-known site. I received the farm owner’s permission to conduct research on the hill and applied for the necessary permits. I even had a small amount of money, just enough to start. I’d begged a loan from my aunt. She always believed in me, even when I made senseless decisions – like marrying Brad.
Now, after months of preparing, I was ready to get a team together; a cheap team, preferably a free team. I planned to call Marc Hunt, a Professor of Archaeology specializing in Pre-and First-Century Celts at the University of Birmingham. His grad students needed fieldwork. I prayed he would say yes. This could be my second chance.
We had a history. In college, we’d fallen in love with the Celts and each other. The way we planned it, archaeology would never be the same after we graduated. We were going earn our doctorates and astonish everyone with our research. I thought I would be working next to him for the rest of my life.
It ended when Brad Teller stepped into my life.
Marc and I’d been dating for several years. One summer, the university offered him a chance to work a site in Cambodia. I was a year behind him and was scheduled to take classes that summer. I couldn’t believe he said yes. I was hurt he wouldn’t stay with me and find a job here in London. After a fight the night he left, I avoided his calls the rest of that week. I was thick-headed and I paid for it.
Brad showed up at a party one night. He was attractive and I decided Marc wasn’t going to have all the fun. Who knows what he was doing in Cambodia? Brad and I danced one dance and then he never let me out of his sight. I thought he was romantic. It was what I thought I wanted from Marc. Looking back, I couldn’t understand how I let myself be fooled by him. It was as if the dark Welshman cast a spell on me. I didn’t feel towards him the way I felt towards Marc. I loved Marc. I never loved Brad.
Six weeks later, we were married in a civil ceremony. His lovemaking was clumsy and unfulfilling and he started abusing me soon after our honeymoon. I never called or spoke with Marc again while Brad and I were married. I gave Marc no explanation. I didn’t have one for myself. We left England and worked all over the world, never thinking about coming back to Great Britain. It seemed that Brad was running from something.
My friends sent me rebuking letters, telling me not to stay with Brad. My best friend Susie wrote long missives begging me to come home. She told me how hurt Marc was and that if I came soon he and I might be able to repair our relationship. Thinking about going home made my heart ache, but for some God-forsaken reason, I was trapped. Trapped as if I were Brad’s slave.
I stopped answering Susie. Her letters stopped coming, and I was glad. They made me think about my life. I didn’t want to think about it then.
I did menial work for Brad, transcribed notes, and ran errands. Every time I tried to make a suggestion toward his research or create a place for myself, he told me I was stupid and told me to stop interrupting his work process. I cried myself to sleep night after night. At the end, when he touched me my skin crawled. I couldn’t stand the way he smelled.
Brad tore my self-confidence to pieces. I believed I would never be able to work on my own.
We were in Africa when a letter came from George Wyemouth, my mentor. He wrote that his wife had died. Shocked, I realized I would never get to see Sophie again. His beautiful Sophie, the love of his life. To her chagrin, he often told the story of stealing her from another man’s arms. He had to assuage her family with proof of his love for her before they could marry in peace. He often said he would have fought a bear for her if necessary.
Now, George needed me. His letter was disjointed and difficult to read. Here was a man whose socks were folded in order of their color in his drawer, and he couldn’t write a simple letter. I had no choice – my hear
t pulled me to go to him.
When Brad found out, we argued for hours. Our shouting match emptied out into the hall of the apartment building. When the neighbors’ doors started to open and people stared, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back inside. I resisted and he hit me. His closed fist crashed against my chest and his open palm connected with my cheek. Up until then, for a long, awful fifteen years, he verbally abused me, but this was the first time I was afraid for my life. I left the apartment and stayed in a hotel. The bruise on my face wasn’t bad, I could cover it with makeup, but the bruise over my heart grew and was painful for days.
One thought fastened itself into my brain: I’d paid my penance. I didn’t need to stay with him anymore. I wouldn’t have a physical rescuer, but George’s letter opened my soul, and the light poured back in. I phoned home, my aunt wired money for a plane ticket and I left Africa. I left Brad.
I came back to London, filed for a divorce, and helped George through his grief. We walked, talked, and mended our hearts together. In my heart, I felt certain that I repaid George, my mentor, my adopted uncle, a long-owed debt.
I went to a party at a friend’s home. The hostess invited a hypno-therapist, Rhonnie Craig. Her explanation of the process was fascinating and I couldn’t resist, so I made an appointment to see her.
“We’ll work together on this,” Rhonnie said. “I’m going to take you to a place and find the power inside yourself that’ll allow you to have good relationships. You may have a history with strong men in this or past lives, but we don’t have to travel through each one to help you now. I want to draw on the good relationships you have with men in this life, your father, brother and any others you may have or have had, to make you aware of your strengths.”
We drew on my family and the love I had for Marc. I cried and then remembered what had attracted me to Marc so long ago. I learned I could love again. I would love someone who would love me and let me be me, not hold me down.
After my sessions with Rhonnie, I felt like I had been freed. She helped me vanquish my guilt over my decision of marrying and then leaving Brad. The sessions gave me a new perspective on my life. I could see a productive future of my own now. Rhonnie became a very good friend.
When I went to work for MGC, Marc and I would run into each other at conferences. We said hello, but nothing more. Every time I saw him, my heart fluttered but I told myself it was because I was jealous of his position as a Ph.D., teaching and doing research, not anything personal.
Last summer I decided to try some fieldwork again. Marc just happened to have a project that I was interested in. The University of Birmingham funded Marc and through a friend I heard he was working a Bronze Age tomb near Fort William. I had time accrued so I took three weeks. I must’ve had a brain freeze when I made the decision to just show up one day.
There I was, perched in front of him, his team working up the hill. His deep blue eyes filled with questions as he contemplated me. Concentration lines further furrowed his brow. His lips, framed by his full, burnt umber beard, formed a tight line. His hand ran through his collar length rust hair, pulling it back. I was shocked when I saw gray at his temples. In my mind, he was timeless. We weren’t supposed to age. But here was proof of the flight of our lives.
“Aine MacRae. What are you doing here?”
“I heard you were working here and had a few days off. I would love to work. A volunteer job, anything, just so I can get my hands back into the Celt world I love. I see Romans all day long in London and need a change.”
He became even more wary. “I don’t know, Aine.” His mouth screwed up, and his jaws clenched. He hesitated and said, “I could use another pair of hands, but I don’t want trouble. Where’s Brad?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t spoken with him for years. We didn’t separate on the best of terms, as I’m sure you heard. I’d love to help here for a couple of days. I’ll do anything you need, even go for tea.”
“Well, I guess we could use some help categorizing and labeling. At least you’re familiar with the era.”
“Great! Exactly what I wanted, a working vacation.”
It was strange standing there in front of Marc. I couldn’t describe the feelings that were racing through me. I had a hard time catching my breath. Marc had gone on without me. He’d married Darlene, a tall, blonde American biologist who said she loved him for his Scottish accent. I remember my stomach lurched and filled with finality when I heard about his marriage. I silently wished him luck. I was miserable.
They both taught at the University of Birmingham until she died, three years ago. You would think, with all the money spent on research, that there would be a cure for breast cancer by now. Maybe that was where I should have been spending my time – with the living, the people who needed help now, not in the dirt with the long dead. But there I was.
I looked up at the entrance to the tomb dug into the side of the hill. Behind us stood a tent that covered the workstations where we sifted, sorted, and cataloged the cave contents. I loved being here at this time of year; the blue harebells bloomed among the sparkling granite boulders. There was a path worn in the grass from the tent to the slippery shale trail leading up to the tomb’s entrance.
“May I go in and look?”
“Yeah, come on. It’s one of the best-preserved tombs in this area. I think it’ll date to about the beginning of the first century from the looks of some of the artifacts. We’ve found several burial offerings. Wait ‘til you see! An artisan made the bronze swords. It’s the swords and the shield that makes me think it’s a chieftain’s tomb. Most of the burials in this area were cremations. It’s a real find to get a full skeleton.”
We slid and slipped up to the entrance. Marc leaned in and asked everyone to take a tea break. Two young men and a young woman crawled out in single file and stood up.
“Thanks, Dr. Hunt. Gosh, it’s cold in there. I need to get my sweater,” said the young woman.
Marc introduced me to his students Tim, Matt, and Lauri.
“This is such an exciting project,” Lauri said.
She was so young! “So you like to be stuck back in an unstable cave? Well, I can say that if you can work there, you can work anywhere. You’ll do well in this business,” I told this, smiling, brown-eyed wrinkle free, straight-toothed, and innocent face.
She donned a huge smile and bounced into the tent after her friends.
“God, Marc. She – they’re just kids,” I said, shaking my head.
“Yeah, the older we get, the younger they are,” he replied. He turned to me after following them into the tent with his eyes, shook his head and said, “All so idealistic. They have a few more years with me and then off to find jobs on their own. Good luck to them.”
“My company is always looking for good people. If you are referring them, I might be able to pull a few strings,” I said.
“I’ll remember that when the time comes.”
Marc and I got to our knees and crawled in, avoiding the electric cable. The darkness spilled away from a large lamp set up at the end of the cave, lighting the walls and their scooped out cavities. The clay was cool beneath my hands. The air was dry and carried a familiar odor. It reminded me of the Parisian catacombs I toured as a child, where bones were piled to the ceilings. The catacombs smelled like the butcher shop I used to follow my mother into on Skye.
Someone had carved the tomb out of a small cave. It ran back about four meters and was about two meters high. With Marc leading and carrying a large flashlight in one hand, we came to the first carved out ledge. There were the bronze shield and swords that a chieftain would carry into battle while riding his chariot. I could see the outline of his bow, but it had deteriorated. Marc was right; the work that I could see on the hilts of the swords was wonderful, intricate yet strong. This was further proof of the artistic bent of the earliest Scots.
Further on there were a few small ledges with some unrecognizable items I assumed to be clothing and other burial offerings.
We continued to the last and largest ledge, the resting place of the skeleton. Marc stopped at its feet. I sat and looked at the skull and upper body.
“Oh, Marc. This is remarkable.” I leaned closer to look at his neck vertebra, as his head seemed to be positioned at an odd angle. A shiver ran down my back. “Oh, wow! He was decapitated!”
“Nice, Aine. You haven’t lost your touch. I noticed it right away, but my students didn’t see it until I pointed it out. It will be good to have you around, even for a short time.”
Everything was going well; I enjoyed every day. In my heart, I knew this was where I should be. It all seemed familiar, the valley and the boulders on the hill. My arm hair prickled every morning when I looked up at the tomb.
One morning, the fog was deep and heavy. I should’ve known there would be trouble on a day like this. It was too Emily Brontë-like. Perfect for drama. I think Brad knew I was there and wanted to cause trouble. He’d lost his funding for all his foreign work and had to come back to England. I heard he was doing follow-up conservation reports for different historical societies, none of his own research. I had also heard his next assignment was on the Isle of Lewis.
Brad never respected Marc and had been jealous of him. When their paths crossed, as they did in this business, there was always a careful dance around each other to avoid talking. This time, however, Brad interrupted their dance. I was unaware he was there until he crossed the path and grabbed hold of my arm.
“What makes you think you can do this kind of work?” Brad said, his face in mine. “Working for a huge corporation doesn’t teach you how to do exacting research like this. Who let you in here?”
The Fox Page 3
