“Just a second,” she cried, opening the locks as quickly as her fumbling fingers would allow. She flung the door open and faced her friend, who stood there holding a foil covered casserole dish in both hands.
“My God, sweetie. What’s wrong?” Sandy was shocked at Colleen’s appearance. Without waiting for an invitation in, Sandy pushed past her and came inside, kicking the door closed behind her. “What the hell is going on? What happened?”
Colleen looked at her reflection in the mirror with eyes red rimmed and haunted, noticing for the first time that she had on her own clothes. She wondered briefly how long she had been gone. “I need for you to answer a question for me and it’s really important. Do you remember meeting my boyfriend?” she asked, her voice quavering. “His name is Faolan.”
“Um…no, sweetie. If you had a boyfriend, you sure didn’t mention him to me,” Sandy said cautiously. “Maybe you better sit down. Can I get you something?”
Yes, I’d like my heart back, please. The big Scottish guy has it. “No,” Colleen interrupted as the tears started flowing again. She nodded at the pan. “Lasagna?” she choked out.
“Yeah,” Sandy said, tilting her head. “How’d you know? I made extra, thought you’d like some.”
“Lucky guess,” Colleen sighed, sinking down onto the couch. She took a deep, shuddering breath to collect herself and swiped at her eyes again.
Sandy left to put the dish in the refrigerator and came back out a minute later. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you like, I can hang out for a while. If you want to talk or anything, I’m all ears,” she said with a cautious smile.
Colleen shook her head. “Thanks anyway. I just…want to be alone right now.” She rose and moved to the door, holding it open for Sandy to leave.
Sandy took the hint, but was in obvious conflict about leaving Colleen alone. “If you change your mind, just let me know,” Sandy assured her, “I’m just a few feet away.”
With a nod, Colleen closed the door and one by one fastened the five locks that kept out the rest of the world. She walked back to the couch and sank down to the floor. Folding her arms across the coffee table, she lowered her head and sobbed.
* * * *
When she awoke to the phone ringing, it was daylight and the way her body ached told her she had been in that position for longer than just a few hours. She snatched up her phone to look at the date and time and realized with horror she was late for work.
“Hello?” she croaked, her throat dry and cracked.
“Colleen? Is everything all right, dear? You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” Mrs. Weston asked, concern lacing the older woman’s voice. “I’ve never known you to be late without at least calling first.”
“I’m…sick,” Colleen lied. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call; I must have fallen asleep. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
“Not if you’re sick, you won’t,” her manager assured her. “It’s not supposed to be very busy today, so why don’t you just stay in bed and rest. I’m sure we’ll be fine. Do you think you’ll be well by tomorrow?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be…fine,” she said, pressing end. Numb with pain, Colleen wandered into the kitchen to find everything as she left it. TV dinners stacked neatly in the freezer, full container of milk in the fridge. In the pantry she saw the jar of peanut butter and broke down again when she lifted it and found it full. Unable to muster any appetite at all, she headed for the bathroom and turned on the water for a shower.
Pulling off her clothes piece by piece, she sniffed her arms and shoulders, desperate to smell Faolan on her skin to reassure her she wasn’t going crazy. The long, hot shower didn’t help either, with memories of washing each other–and other things–buzzing around in her brain like mournful bees.
She dried off and picked up the hairbrush, knowing she would not find strands of long, ebony hair. Automatically brushing her hair and teeth, she crawled into bed. “I dreamt it. The whole thing was just a stupid dream,” she said with a heavy sob. She turned the other pillow sideways and fell asleep crying softly with her arms wrapped tightly around it.
The following morning she rose and got ready for work, moving woodenly through her regular routine. At work she pasted a smile upon her face, but still ended up crying in the bathroom whenever she saw something that reminded her of Faolan, which was often. Her heart broke anew at each memory of his smile, his laugh, and she ached in places she never remembered having ached before.
Near the end of the week Marc gave her a call at home. “Hey, I found some of your papers in my safe…” he began.
Colleen sat curled up on the couch and wrapped in a heavy afghan, staring sightlessly into the dark TV screen. “Bring them to my office,” she snapped.
“Ooh, someone’s a little testy,” Marc quipped. “Boyfriend trouble?”
Colleen froze. “Something like that,” she said, her voice hopeful. “You don’t by any chance remember meeting him, do you?”
“How could I have met him? He doesn’t exist,” Marc said with a short bark of laughter. “Really, Colleen. We both know you don’t–”
“Fuck off, Marc,” she said, pressing end. As good as saying that felt, it lifted her spirits only slightly. The feeling was short lived as another wave of depression threatened to drown her in the overwhelming quiet.
On Friday after work, Colleen drove to the formal wear store that she had taken Faolan to–dreamt she had taken, she corrected herself–and after a bit of searching found the green evening gown. She couldn’t bring herself to try it on again; the dress was zipped inside in a hanging bag and she stuffed it in the guest closet as soon as she got home.
* * * *
The days turned into weeks. Each day, Colleen forced herself from the bed to maintain a normal façade. When she awoke on a rainy Saturday morning, she took a good look around. “Christ, it’s filthy in here,” she said, setting to work with vacuum and cleaners. The vigorous activity was making her feel better, she realized, so she threw herself into it with gusto. She dusted, sneezing from the accumulation and even unpacked a box or two in the guest room.
By dark, she finished both bathrooms and had moved into her bedroom. Humming under her breath, she dusted the dresser first then stood on top of the bed to get the ceiling fan. Tiny dust particles filled the air as she passed the nylon duster over the blades. When something squirming and brown flew off the fan base she shrieked, dropping the duster to the floor.
“Damn palmetto bugs,” she snapped, making a mental note to call the building supervisor to spray. She hopped down off the bed and reached for the fallen duster. Her gaze caught on something sparkling on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. She dropped to her knees to pick it up, and her breath caught in her throat.
The amulet lay on the floor where it had fallen when Faolan knocked it from her hand. “No, I dreamt that,” she insisted to the silence. “It wasn’t real. None of it was real.” Still, it wasn’t going to hurt anything to try… She stood up, holding the amulet in both hands.
Colleen ran her fingers over the strange markings and watched for movement in the center stone, but there was none. She tried to remember her exact words. “I wish for my perfect man,” she recited as the tears began to fall. “One that will love me for me, who will be faithful, and funny, and strong and…” Her voice began to break, “…I want my Faolan back. Please. Thank you.”
She stood waiting, holding her breath. When there was no blinding white light or the sound of a breaking table, she fell back on the bed clasping the necklace to her chest, no longer able to deny the truth, even to herself. “He’s gone. He’s nothing but dust by now,” she sobbed, realizing the man she loved more than life itself had been dead and buried for over seven hundred years.
* * * *
Another two weeks went by. Colleen lost weight and the circles under her eyes were a testimony to many sleepless nights. As run down as she was, it came as no surprise that she caught the bug being passed around the muse
um staff. When her coughing and sneezing didn’t get better after two days, Mrs. Weston sent her home with a stern admonition to stop by the walk in clinic. “We’ve got the awards banquet coming up in a couple of weeks. You don’t want to be sick for that,” she reminded her.
With a reluctant nod, Colleen left and drove straight to the clinic, hoping they could squeeze her in without an appointment. She had read most of the dog-eared old magazines in the waiting room by the time they called her name. The perky nurse was almost annoying with her cheerful demeanor. “So what are you here for today?” the young woman chirped.
“It’s a virus going around work,” Colleen complained, snatching up a tissue to blow her runny nose. “I want to get whatever antibiotics I need so I can go home and sleep it off.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” the nurse smiled as she took her blood pressure, temperature and pulse. She pulled out a small plastic cup, wrote Colleen’s name on it with a sharpie pen and handed it to her. “Fill that up, please, and set it on the counter when you’re done. Then go right down the hall to Exam Room Two, second door on the right. I’ll put your file on the door.”
A short while later, Colleen sat on the paper covered table in the undersea life themed examining room. She swung her feet back and forth absently, grimacing up at the brightly colored Styrofoam fish hanging from the ceiling. She wondered briefly what a doctor’s office would have been like in the Middle Ages and decided it likely would have been pretty barbaric. She shuddered, wishing she had brought a sweater to counter the sudden chills.
With a soft knock, the doctor pushed open the door, pulling her file from the rack. In his late thirties, he had tousled brown hair and dark eyes Colleen would have found very attractive two months earlier. “Miss O’Brien,” he said, offering his hand. “What brings you in today?”
“Hi, Dr. Carter. It’s nothing serious. I’ve caught the virus going around work, sniffles, sneezing, that sort of thing.” She sighed. “I’ve been kinda run down lately. I haven’t been sleeping very well, and I generally feel like crap, but I’ve been under a…lot of stress.”
The doctor read over her chart then began the basic exam. When he finally sat down at the desk and began scribbling on his pad, Colleen looked at him hopefully. “Are you giving me antibiotics?” she asked.
“You don’t need them,” Dr. Carter smiled, handing her a prescription.
Colleen peered down at the scrawling and her eyebrows rose. “You’re writing me a prescription for vitamins? I can get these over the counter.”
He nodded. “We need to get you started on them and those are better than the ones you buy over the counter.” Still smiling, he glanced down at his notes. “I’m giving you a referral for an OB-GYN. Dr. Rosenthal is very good, he’s on your insurance plan. We’ll fax the paperwork over for you. I imagine he’ll want to see you as soon as possible. You’re a little underweight.”
Colleen’s chest tightened to the point that she couldn’t draw a breath. “And why is that?” she squeaked.
If it were possible, the doctor’s smile got even bigger. “Because you’re pregnant.”
11
When Colleen opened her eyes again, she gazed dully up at the plastic fish dangling from the ceiling. It took her a moment to realize where she was, lying flat on her back on the examining table. Dr. Carter leaned over her and checked her pupils, his face concerned. “I’m going to take an educated guess and say you didn’t know,” he said. She struggled to sit up, but he pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Lie still until your color returns to normal,” he ordered. “Are you normally prone to fainting spells?”
“I didn’t use to be, but lately, yes,” Colleen admitted with a blush.
“You’ll need to be very careful if you feel yourself getting lightheaded,” the doctor admonished. “When was your last menstrual cycle?”
Colleen did a quick mental count. “It’s been over two months ago,” she said, her eyes burning as tears began welling up again.
Dr. Carter didn’t miss the look on her face before she turned away. “Is this not a happy occasion?” he asked gently. “Will the father be helping you?”
“No, it’s very happy,” Colleen assured him with a sad smile, “but the father is…was…he’s dead.” The sudden image of a smiling black haired baby being held in Faolan’s strong arms was too much to bear. She eased off the table, biting her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “If you’re finished, I’d like to go home and rest now.” The doctor nodded and when he held the door open for her, she bolted from the office before he could say another word.
That night after forcing down two frozen entrees, Colleen took the largest vitamin she had ever seen, much less swallowed. Afterward she lay awake for hours, staring out the bedroom window into the dark and starless sky. It had never occurred to either of them that once Aiobnait lifted his curse he became mortal again. And I’m having his baby.
She rolled onto her side and splayed her fingers over her abdomen. Now all the signs she had been purposefully ignoring made sense–her general feeling of restlessness, her constant fatigue and the telltale sign of her breasts going from Ho-Hum to Hallelujah almost overnight. Faolan would have definitely liked that part of it, she was certain.
She giggled for the first time in weeks, happy in the knowledge it wasn’t a dream. She smiled in the darkness and hugged herself, vowing their child would know what a wonderful, noble man their father had been. And wrapped in that warm thought, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * * *
The warm fuzzy feeling from the night before evaporated into the can’t-get-to-the-bathroom–fast-enough-to-start-throwing-up feeling the next morning. “Oh my God,” Colleen moaned before retching into the toilet for the third time, “how do women live through this?” She sat back and wiped her mouth. “Okay, maybe that was a little over the top. But seriously?” she directed the question at the ceiling, “I’m not going to be able to keep weight on if I can’t eat.” After brushing her teeth, she called in sick at work then settled down on the couch with a big cup of ginger tea, her favorite afghan and the remote.
She surfed through the channels, pausing only when something caught her interest. When she landed on the History Channel, the tears threatened again but before she could move on, the voice over announced the upcoming program. “Coming up next–join us in taking an in depth look at the great royal houses of Great Britain from the Dark Ages to the Renaissance. Explore the lives of the Stewarts, the Plantagenets, the…”
Stewarts? Colleen bolted upright so quickly she felt lightheaded. Fumbling for the remote, she turned up the volume then watched in rapt fascination as the history of the House of Stewart unfolded against the backdrop of Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh, Scotland.
At the next commercial break she jumped off the couch, waited for the room to stop spinning then ran to her bedroom. Grabbing her notebook computer, she set it on the coffee table and booted it up. She stared off while she waited, fighting off a wave of guilt that she never got around to showing Faolan the wonders of the internet. As soon as she was able, she opened her internet browser and typed into the search field. House of Stewart, Scotland.
She was rewarded with several genealogy sites listing the Stewart family. Faolan said he was born in 1216, and his son was named after his father Walter, she remembered, tapping her chin thoughtfully. She began following the ancestry back through the centuries. Without too much effort, she found Walter Stewart and his family tree, tracing her fingers along the list of names.
Walter Stewart, 3rd High Steward of Scotland was the son of Alan Stewart, 2nd Great Steward of Scotland. He married Beatrix of Angus, daughter of Gilchrist, 4th Earl of Angus.
“He said his mother’s name was Beatrix,” she murmured, continuing to read. “His mother was the daughter of an Earl.” Children–Euphemia Stewart b. 1203, unknown daughter Steward b. 1205, Margaret Stewart b. 1206, Elizabeth Stewart b. 1210, Alexander Stewart, 4th High Steward of Scotland b. 1214, John Stew
art b. 1216.
“Faolan,” she cried, tears springing to her eyes. She clicked on his hyperlinked name for more information:
John Stewart b.1216, the son of Walter Stewart, 3rd High Steward of Scotland and Beatrix of Angus, d.1249 at Damietta, slain in battle.
She typed in Damietta, finding a Wiki article on the ancient Egyptian city. A tear escaped and slid down her cheek. He died in the Crusades, just like he told his family he did before…She clicked back on her browser to read about his brother, Alexander. Sawney, she corrected herself.
Alexander Stewart became the 4th High Steward in 1241, and when he died without issue, the hereditary title passed to his adopted nephew, Walter.
“His nephew–Faolan’s son–my God,” Colleen whispered, resting her hand on her budding abdomen. “He never knew how well his son did.”
“…The House of Stewart held the monarchy in Scotland from Robert II in 1371 through…” Colleen turned the TV off and dropped the remote onto the coffee table with a loud clatter. She sat motionless, deep in thought for nearly an hour until she could stand it no longer. Grabbing her cell phone, she pressed one on speed dial and tapped her fingers impatiently while she waited for an answer.
Sandy picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey, chickadee, playing hooky from work today?”
“Not quite,” Colleen said. “I just wanted to let you know I’m going to be going out of town for a few days.”
“Okay,” Sandy asked cautiously. “Where’re you going?”
“Ireland,” she said. “I left something important there.”
Within twenty four hours, Colleen found herself in a window seat of an Aer Lingus Airbus bound for Shannon, Ireland, pouring over all the brochures the travel service had to offer. “Something to drink, miss?” the flight attendant asked in a lilting accent.
Rogue on the Rollaway Page 23
