“Oh Ross, do you think Dahlia and Pirate will get along when we get back and you move your things in to my ... I mean, our house?”
“If they don’t, you and I will have to split up.” Pirate is the one-eyed cat I found in the dumpster behind the science building four years ago. He was probably ten then and frankly I’m concerned about how he’s going to adjust to new surroundings, never mind the dog. I wink at her, but she’s not laughing. “I’m kidding. We’ll figure it out. So will they. Anyway, this is going to be the most romantic, adventurous honeymoon ever. All your hygienists are seething with envy at this very moment. In a few hours, we’ll be landing in Glasgow. I’ve got it all planned out. By tomorrow afternoon, we’ll be on our way through the Highlands. Then, a short ferry ride around the Orkneys. A jaunt or two to some historic sites. I’ve even booked us a stay in a castle along the coast later.”
“Yes, I saw your itinerary. It sounds a little ... exhausting.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Was it necessary to plan it down to the quarter hour, Ross? I mean really, a little spontaneity wouldn’t hurt.”
“Neither does a little organization. We only have so many days and I want to make the most of them. Remember all those hours I spent on the genealogy site? Well, I’ve run into some dead ends and I’m hoping this trip fills in some gaps.”
My internet contacts had put me in touch with a man named Reverend Murray, who is in charge of the archives in a little village outside of Berwick. I’d traced my roots all the way back to the fourteenth century and a less prominent branch of the house of Sinclair. Given the history of the time, I thought I might learn some interesting facts about my ancestors that I could one day tell our kids about. We still aren’t in agreement about the number of kids we’ll have — Claire wants two, I want three or four. But we can tackle that detail later. I might change my mind after the first one.
“Look, let’s just have fun,” I say. “Take it all in. If you feel worn out at any point, let me know and we’ll slow down, alter our plans, okay?”
“Now that’s why I love you, Ross Lyndon Sinclair. You know when to give in.”
She’s more forgiving of me than I deserve sometimes. “You couldn’t not love me.”
“You’re right.” Faking a stern look, she points at me. “And remember I said that. I don’t plan on repeating it often in the future.” She reaches across the armrest and laces her fingers inside mine, then lays her head on my shoulder, sighing. “Isn’t it funny how we were parted and then found each other again later, totally by accident? Almost like we were meant to be together.”
I squeeze her hand and turn my face toward her, my lips brushing her hairline. “Yeah, what are the odds?”
After we finish eating and the flight attendants collect our trash, the speakers crackle and the captain’s voice emanates from all around us: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re now beginning our descent towards Glasgow. Today’s forecast is a warm twenty-seven degrees Celsius here on this sunny July day. Or for those of you from the west side of the pond, shorts and sandals weather. You know the routine: trays up, power down your electronic devices, and strap yourselves in.”
Claire bristles with excitement like a five-year old seeing Main Street in Disney World for the first time. “It’s really happening, isn’t it? We’re almost there.”
“Yeah, babe. Almost there. The beginning of the rest of our ‘forever’.”
3
HERE & NOW
Glasgow, Scotland — 2013
By the time we land in Glasgow, it’s late morning and we’re both charged with adrenalin. The jet lag will hit us later. Like all the other impatient travelers, we rush to the baggage carousel only to stand around for twenty minutes watching the conveyor belt spit out somebody else’s black bags. Finally, the neon green shoestrings I’d wound around our luggage handles signals that our wait is over. Claire grabs her pull-along and I collect the other three — two of them hers. No matter which way I arrange them, I’m weighed down unevenly on one side. I scan for a cart, but they’re all taken.
Somehow, we straggle to the curb, me working up a sweat and her clipping along at a brisk pace. Claire hails a taxi, and I heave the bags in the car with a grunt of relief. Apparently, when I suggested that she pack light, I neglected to define what that meant.
“Holiday Inn Express, Riverside,” I tell the driver.
He peers at me through the rearview mirror, his bushy black eyebrows rising up to meet the brim if his tweed cap. “You must be American.”
It’s a statement, not a question. I’m not sure whether or not I should be offended. Before I’ve even leaned back in my seat, the driver punches the accelerator and the car jerks forward.
By the time we step out of the taxi, my breakfast is one brake-slam away from decorating the vinyl upholstery of the backseat. The taxi peels away, leaving a trail of exhaust in its wake. I grab a lamppost to steady myself. Claire grips my arm so tight I wince. “Ow!”
“Do you think he was trying to kill us?” She lets go of my arm and extends the handle on her pull-along.
My glasses have so many fingerprints on them from trying to keep them from sliding off my face whenever he took those wild turns that I fold them up and slip them in my pocket. As long as I don’t have to read any road signs or fine print, I’ll be okay until I have time to clean them. “I think he figured that a couple of tight-fisted Americans weren’t going to tip him much anyway, so he might as well set a land speed record and get back to the terminal for more passengers.”
“We’re taking the train from now on, right?”
“Right.”
After checking in and taking a quick shower, we head out to look for lunch. With Claire’s arm hooked around mine, we wander down Argyle Street. We cross a few busy streets and turn too many corners to count. Claire calls out the landmarks to help her remember the way back, while I clutch a photocopied map and trace our path with a pen so we won’t end up completely lost. All the while I keep thinking there’s probably an app for getting around Glasgow. For now, it’s fun going wherever our feet lead us.
By 2:00, I’m starting to feel my blood sugar level drop. We stagger around a corner and are confronted by a congested street lined with narrow shops and international take-away.
“There!” She points at a doorway with a little sign swinging over the street that says: ‘Jeet, Good Indian Cuisine.’
“Just ‘good’?” I quip. “Why not hold out for ‘great’ or ‘excellent’?”
“Do you want to eat or not?”
She spins on her size five ballet flats. I grab her hand before she can disappear into the press of Glaswegians and hang on for the mad dash.
We duck through the doorway and nearly plow into the back of a wide-shouldered man in stained coveralls reeking of engine oil. He wheels around, and I snatch Claire’s arm to hold her back, expecting a scowl and a terse reminder to heed his personal space.
Instead, he flashes a gap-toothed smile at us. “You should blow in at a proper mealtime. Line goes out the door and around the corner.”
“So we’ve come to the right place?” Claire stands on tiptoe to get a clearer view of the menu posted on the wall. The man in coveralls shoves a beefy arm between the patrons ahead of him and pulls a smaller printed version of the menu from beside the cash register.
“‘Ere y’go.” He thrusts the rectangle of paper at Claire. “Bit spicy for me, but the wife likes it.”
Unfortunately, there are only four stools and one small counter in the place and those are filled with what look like college students. I need to sit down and soon, before I fall over. My stomach rumbles every time someone drifts past with a paper bag filled with takeaway. I can smell the spices through the containers. After we get our food, we take our little paper boxes and a couple of Cokes and make our way to George Square. It’s evidently a gathering place for indolent students, young mothers pushing prams and business people needing a break from their cubicles, although half of them are texting away
on their smartphones.
“Look at those two, would you?” I poke Claire in her ticklish spot, at the base of her lower back.
She flinches, then smacks me on the arm so hard it stings. “What? Who?”
Canting my head to the left, I smirk at the teenagers making out on the park bench: the girl with pink hair sitting on the boy’s lap, her tight-fitting miniskirt inching up as she scoots herself up over his groin. They’re all over each other, hands roaming, tongues rammed down each others’ throats.
“Where are the cops, anyway?”
“Oh come on, Ross. Are you that big a prude? Just a couple of teenagers doing what comes naturally.” Stopping in front of me, she gives my butt a suggestive squeeze. “They’ll probably be doing the same thing later on that we’ll be doing.”
“They can’t be more than sixteen.”
“Yeah, well, I was sixteen when —”
“Claire, don’t.” I stop her before she can spill the details. I don’t want to be reminded that I wasn’t her first, even though she was mine. In fact, she’s the only woman I’ve ever been with.
“I was going to say I had urges, Ross. That’s all. I wasn’t going to elaborate on it. Certainly not name names.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I just want you to myself. I always have.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I scuff my shoes over the concrete. Then I let my gaze sweep over her body in a much more grown-up, suggestive way. “I want to be next to you, kiss you all over, touch you in places no one but me knows of, make love to you all night long, first thing in the morning, halfway through the afternoon, in your dentist’s chair, behind my lectern. I’d rather do you than eat, drink, or sleep.”
Crossing her arms, she cocks her head at me. “Is that the only reason you married me?”
“No, I married you because I can’t think of being with anyone else, ever. I married you because you’re my reason for being. I married you because when I saw you again, after all those years, I knew what true love was. And I knew what ‘forever’ meant.”
Her stance softens. Playfully, she presses a fingertip against my sternum. “How can I stay mad at you when you talk to me like that?”
Our lips meet in a kiss as she raises herself on tiptoes. I draw her against me and she tilts her hips, pressing them against mine.
“I can’t wait until we’re alone,” she whispers, her tongue flicking over my teeth playfully. “And I don’t care who sees us right now or what they think.”
I moan at the promise, my kisses growing more passionate.
Suddenly, a big claw slams squarely into my back, crushing the air out of me. Claire and I topple to the ground. A long, slobbery tongue scrapes against my cheek, leaving a trail of slime.
“Sorry, sorry!” A middle-aged woman wearing a red jogging suit jerks at the leash to rein her leggy mutt in. Reluctantly, the playful Great Dane lopes away beside her, nudging her sideways with its oversized muzzle.
Had I not realized how ridiculous I looked, sprawled out there on the cement with dog drool dripping down the side of my face, I might be mad at Claire for laughing so hard. Instinctively, I check for my glasses. They’re still there, although slightly askew. I finger the frames to make sure they’re not bent.
The two teenagers are gawking at us, now. Claire is still laughing. I scowl at her, but notice she’s holding up the plastic bag with our lunch inside it.
“Look, I saved it.” She wipes at my face with a stiff paper napkin, then helps me to my feet. “There’s a good spot over there.”
We squat at the base of Sir Walter Scott’s imposingly tall statue and are immediately surrounded by a mob of pigeons, cooing and strutting in a tightening circle.
“Here? Are you sure? I don’t like how they’re looking at us, Claire.”
“Who?” She scoops a pile of rice into each of our meals and digs in. It always amazes me how she can wolf down more calories than I can, even though I’m a good fifty pounds more. The woman has the metabolism of a hummingbird on diet pills.
I point with my plastic spoon and whisper, “Them.”
She stops in mid-chew, swallows. “Birds? Oh my God. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Just look at them.” I wave my spoon back and forth, thinking they’ll take it as the threat I intend it to be. Instead, four more glossy-feathered gangsters land nearby and the level of cooing rises to a din that drowns out the Maroon 5 song from the iPod of the chick nearest us who’s sporting three nose rings and a neon blue Mohawk. “It’s like they’re conspiring. Waiting for the right moment to —”
A sticky lump of rice mixed with saag paneer smacks me in the temple, slides down my cheek and drips onto my shirt collar. Claire grins wickedly, one hand gripping the handle of her spoon and the fingers of the other one cranking the business end back with a fresh load of ammunition. “There’s more where that came from if you don’t stuff that overactive, paranoid imagination of yours.”
I crane my neck toward her to give her a peck on the cheek, signaling my submission. Just as my lips brush her face, the flap of wings startles us and we gasp in unison. A pigeon dives in and gobbles up the rice.
“See,” I say. “Told you they had a plan, didn’t I?”
Leaning our foreheads together, we laugh until our stomachs ache and our eyes swim with tears. If anyone is watching us, wondering if we’re deliriously drunk or just plain mad, we don’t give a rat’s fanny.
Fifteen minutes later, too stuffed to move, we recline against the base of the statue, fingers woven together, comfortable in our silence. An old couple now shares the bench that had belonged to the teenagers, who scurried off with worried looks after the girl got a cell phone call — probably one of her parents asking her where the hell she’s been. The old man still has a full head of steel gray hair, but judging by the many lines in his face and the liver spotted skin, he has to be in his mid eighties. Beside his wife rests a polished ebony cane, the end carved into the figure of a swan so that the neck serves as the handle. She lays her head against his shoulder and puts her hand in his. They talk for a long time, laughing at one another’s jokes, each taking a sincere interest in what the other has to say. Whenever they fall silent, there is always a look of serene contentment on both their weathered faces.
“Sixty years from now,” I say wistfully, “I want that to be us, Claire.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they’re happy just being together. My parents ... they were never happy.”
“I don’t think that was your mom’s fault.”
“Me either. But I feel like I’ll live my whole life trying to make you happy, just because of all the fighting I saw growing up.”
“Ross, don’t worry. You don’t have to prove anything. You’re nothing like your dad.”
“I hope you’re right. I mean, I know you are. But that old couple there, they deserve to be together for a long, long time. As much as I miss my mom, maybe it was a tiny blessing that she died when she did. Looking back, I can’t understand why she didn’t just leave him. Maybe she could have had a few happy years, if she had.”
“Maybe she saw something in him no one else does? Maybe he used to be different?”
“Yeah, well, life is full of ‘maybes’. I can only work with the facts and the fact is he’s a jerk, to put it mildly.”
The old couple bends forward to go, but the woman struggles to stand. Her husband gets up, his back hunched, and gives her his forearm. When she’s steady, he helps her shift her weight to the cane, then moves to her side. It must take them ten minutes to move from their bench to the sidewalk and begin down the street.
“Promise me something, Ross.”
“Anything.”
“If, for some reason, we don’t both make it to that age, promise me you won’t mourn me forever. That you’ll find someone else to make you happy. I can’t stand the thought of you being alone.”
“That’s a
weird request to make on our honeymoon, don’t you think?”
“I just want you to be happy, that’s all. It’s important to me. Promise?”
“Sure, I promise. Same goes for you.” I give her a peck on the cheek. “Besides, you’re not allowed to die. Ever. I won’t allow it.”
“Hate to break it to you, honey, but people don’t live forever. Love, though ... Love never dies.”
Our fingers interlace. In that moment, I’m aware of nothing but the sound of her breathing, the heat from her hand and her thigh pressed against mine.
When you love someone with all your heart, the only thing that matters is being with them. You always think that love means forever, but the truth is you don’t really know.
Because in the blink of an eye, everything can change.
Western Highlands, Scotland — 2013
The rugged landscape of the Western Highlands races by, stone-capped peaks parting filamentous clouds of ivory. Red shaggy cattle wander in loose clumps through the valleys, while curly-horned sheep cling to higher ground. I rest my cheek against the glass of the train window, my view obscured by the smeared fingerprints of previous passengers. The constant ‘thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk’ of the wheels on the tracks jars my skull, so I slide down further in my seat and lean my head back. I pull out the printed pages I’ve been carrying with me and unfold them: copies of the Scottish side of my family tree. I can’t lay claim to any royal ancestry, but there are several prominent families on it: Gordon, Graham, Campbell, MacNeil, Sinclair ...
While I’m no more than an amateur genealogist — hundreds of ancestors just a few keystrokes away — the idea that some of my forebears played pivotal roles in history is a rush, however vicarious. The past first took on meaning for me when I started sorting through my belongings in preparation for moving in with Claire and pulled out the partial family tree my mom had given me before she died. It only went back to the mid 1700’s, but one long weekend later, I had made it four centuries further back. There were plenty of branches that ended abruptly, but naturally I’d taken the most interest in the Sinclairs. Trying to figure out that one piece of the puzzle made me realize I could spend years researching this and never have all the answers.
In the Time of Kings Page 2
