She dashed up the creaky steps to her own loft where she kept a smattering of old boxes, some frayed, some damp from the testy, harsh sea air. There was just enough light coming through the tiny window tucked into the thatch at the back of the cottage. Gillian slid one box she’d marked 1932 to the stream of light. She peeled the top open then rummaged through a few articles of clothing she thought would be considered heirlooms one day: her wide-legged trousers from that summer and a pretty muff she’d used in the cool evenings when she’d returned to the British Isles.
At the bottom of the box, she spied a Waterford dish she’d inherited from her mother wrapped in a blue velveteen cloth. A mini gasp reached her throat knowing she’d found it. She gingerly lifted it out then wiped the silver lid. Gillian remembered that she had tucked it away in this dish and box for all time after writing a spritely poem in her notebook about Christian. Though she had used it for some time, the constant reminder became too much. Eventually, keeping it at bay and forcing herself to forget its whereabouts was the only solution.
Though the poem was lovely, it made her long for a man she’d never see again. Moreover, this keepsake was an even greater reminder, greater than the words that filled the notebook’s pages. “Indeed,” she muttered to herself. But he was here… now… in her garden. She had to see it again, the one constant reminder that good fortune and luck or fate or whatever the heavens wanted to call it could be rendered again, if only for a moment on this sunny day on this tiny island.
She lifted the silver lid and there it was. It wasn’t worth a single penny, but it was more valuable than anything Gillian had ever known. She shot a glance out the window and noticed that Christian had wandered to the back of the cottage that overlooked the moody sea, waves smacking madly against the bluff, rocks tumbling into the water. Gillian tucked the keepsake into her pocket and whisked down the narrow staircase past a small mirror framed in shells. A speedy inspection with the lick of her finger to flatten some unruly strands of hair. She decided quite frankly that he would have to accept her precisely the way she was.
He was gorgeous even now, more astonishing than her failing memory allowed. She glanced in the mirror again for one final check, but in its reflection, she noticed something leaning against Christian’s lorry. Curious, she went to her kitchen window for a better look. Her hands pressed hard on its sill as though they’d been instantly glued down. She felt a gasp seize her when she saw what it was.
She hastened to the rear door then stood at the threshold for a moment to calm herself, door open wide. Gillian had learned long ago to shield her emotions when faced with another’s plight, to see only the ways that would make her useful, ways that would turn an unfair and dare she say horrid reality into something beautiful and meaningful. She held her head poised and confident, although she was sure her legs would buckle underneath at any moment. How could it be? Was it really him? She snatched a breath in disbelief, feeling a wave of shivers flood her skin.
Gillian reached into her pocket and felt soothed by the trinket or lucky charm, as he would have called it. And it was just that, a lucky charm. It had filled even her worst moments with pieces of joy, sometimes in the oddest of circumstance. Gillian had learned over the years to see things in a different way, to see through the obvious. Perhaps everything had been in preparation for this moment, to test her resilience, her belief that a greater good could prevail.
Or was the trinket meant to be a constant reminder of a decision she should have regretted but didn’t, a conflict inside her for all eternity? She had comforted herself in the thought that Christian, being in Canada, was far-removed from the immediate dangers of the war. She gazed at him now, feeling her eyes begin to well with tears, controlled. It was what she had learned to do. Her lucky charm; it was one they both had needed. Although now, she couldn’t be certain why she needed it more by her side. She only knew that she did.
Maybe it had been irrational to dart off like that, but nothing made sense these days, so why should her behavior be any different? Her eyes remained glued to Christian, his back to her as he faced the sea, the lush green at his feet. He looked different somehow, stood in a way that felt odd. She turned her head ’round seeing the lorry in the drive and knew why. Her brow pinched together wondering what had happened, wondering why he chose now to come to her. It was him… Christian Hunter… the only man she’d ever loved. And that same thought, the one she couldn’t dismiss the day she met him in the summer of 1932, spiraled through her veins like a German buzz bomb out of control—she would love him for the rest of her days.
“Christian.” His name sounded sweetly behind him, calm now. Just one turn, and he would know. Her eyes would say it all. There was no going back.
“Gilly,” he said as his eyes left the sea and fell on hers. There she stood, just a touch away. She looked the same, only more beautiful with age. He could see that even hard times hadn’t robbed her of smiling, for the lines at the sides of her mouth were beginning to deepen, adding to her character. In her prime, he thought. Her hair rested on her shoulders, still with its natural wave. He would never be able to remember what she was wearing. He saw only her.
He’d expected a short gasp or sudden dip of her eyes, but he wasn’t even sure she noticed. How? How could she not see he was different? Before he could say another word, her eyes never leaving his, she slid her arms around his waist, slowly, earnestly, then rested her head in the cradle of his neck. He could feel her breath against his skin. It was warm and made him forget the distance that had been between them for so long. He relaxed and wrapped his arms around her.
Not a word was spoken between them. Neither had any idea how long it lasted. This was a moment Christian would remember. That much he knew. As he ran his hands over her hair, feeling coarser than he remembered, Gilly suddenly pulled away.
“How marvelous to see you! I can hardly believe it’s you,” she said now with an air of formality. “You could have tipped me over with a guinea pig’s whiskers—honestly!” her brow now arched high as though he shouldn’t believe her.
“I’d say I scared you off more than anything,” he said flitting his eyes toward the cottage. She turned, following them as she calmly explained herself.
“Yes, well,” her eyes full of tales but her lips sincere. She offered no excuses. “It’s true I’ve been known to scurry off like that. Must be something in the feet.” There… there was the mini gasp he’d expected as she bit her lower lip perhaps annoyed with herself for mentioning such a forbidden word as “feet.” A smile erased her blunder. She relaxed and looped her arm in his. “Come, I have something to show you. It’s why I whisked myself away so impetuously.” She led Christian, who was already amused by her expressions. They never did fail to entertain. He’d never known anyone who spoke that way.
With the sea at their back and the skies turning ugly, Gilly led Christian to her small patio outlined with tall lavender, out in full bloom. Its scent hung in the air, even overpowering the tang of the salty sea. Clay pots in various sizes were home to at least a dozen green tomatoes, not ready for picking. Thyme and chives and parsley and God-knows-what filled the others and hinted that this was a home for the long haul.
“Do have a seat, won’t you?” Rather than putting up a fight with her courtesies, he decided this must have been Gilly’s way of dealing with the shock. She was probably rendered numb through her curtain of pleasantries. He had ages to prepare for this moment, after all; she’d had only a breath.
“Thanks.” He pulled out a small wrought-iron chair from a matching table, café size, nothing fancy. “So… I could have knocked you over with… what did you say? A guinea pig’s whiskers?”
“Well, I suppose I could have said a mouse’s whiskers but that would have made me sound frightfully frail, don’t you think?”
“Yes of course, and I’d never want to think of you as frail,” Christian said grinning. “What is it you wanted to show me?”
“Do you remember that summ
er—you gave me something.”
“I remember giving you a lot of things.”
“I’m quite sure you do!” She raised her eyebrows, but those eyes of hers told him very sternly to tread with caution. “I’ll wager that you’ll get further in this meeting if you don’t mock me.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Perhaps.”
Some squawking above from a pair of seagulls seemed to be on Gilly’s side. He was out-numbered, so he backed off.
“Still feisty, I see,” he added.
“Is that your idea of acquiescing?”
“I didn’t come here to start a fight,” Christian said, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Why did you come?” Her voice sounded sincere.
Christian lowered his elbow to his knee and cupped his chin with his fingers. His eyes traveled to hers. “I don’t know.” A long pause rested between them as he suddenly couldn’t recall why he’d actually come. “I suppose I just wanted to see you.”
He could see Gilly swallow with a quick tilt forward, in a way to accept such a simple truth. And it was the truth. He didn’t really know despite his self-analysis time and time again. Gilly reached into her pocket.
“This is what I wanted to show you.”
Gillian could see straight away how affected Christian was. Age made that even more beautiful. The lines on his forehead had deepened, and his face had filled out in a rugged sort of way. Even time had etched small lines around his eyes. He was much fitter than he’d been as a younger man, as though he’d been made to pull his weight in more ways than one. Of course, it was hard to tell through his clothing but she could see it in his forearms and in the opening of his shirt just under the hollow of his neck. His eyes still drooped, although now there was an air of sadness in them like he’d been lost for these fourteen years.
She took his hand and placed her lucky charm in his palm, curling his fingers around it.
“My pocket watch,” he said, his breath shortened in surprise.
“I’ve kept it all these years. It’s seen me through times I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
He gazed at her then turned it over.
“I can’t believe it. It never worked properly. Why did you bother?”
“It worked brilliantly for your information—as a bookmark.”
He chuckled, “Yes, that’s right. Did you really use it for that?”
“Of course, silly. Why not? The chain is perfect for reserving pages. And you know I’m never without a book in hand.” She glanced down at her empty hands. “Well, almost never.”
“Knowing you, it’s held pages in hundreds of books.”
“At least!” She smiled back.
The watch hadn’t changed. It was as tarnished as the day he’d given it to her. She’d considered cleaning it on occasion and restoring the silver to it’s original beauty but stopped short every time fearing that it would no longer feel the same, no longer have Christian’s stamp on it. Somehow she’d always felt as though this watch was on loan to her even though he’d given it to her with all the love possible in this world. She felt as though she was safekeeping it until it was in its rightful owner’s hands once again.
Christian held the watch, understanding now why she’d dashed off the way she had. He felt touched that Gilly had kept it all these years. No, not touched. Something much greater, but he didn’t have the words or even the emotions to define it. The dirty gray was maybe a little darker, but otherwise it felt the same. The weight in his palm felt the same, too, and he smiled looking at Gilly, knowing that she’d taken care of something that meant so much to him. True, it wasn’t worth a penny—that was for sure. He didn’t even think for a minute he’d get a dime if they melted it down. But he was glad she knew what it had meant to him and where it came from.
Christian had found the watch along the shoreline just outside Tobermory when he was on the hunt for more pirate bones. He’d just laid Snarky Cutter beside the captain in his wooden box and would label the new bone later. The storm the night before had churned up the shoreline, leaving fallen tree trunks for Christian to clamber over. He’d overheard some fishermen saying that the winds had reached over sixty knots in Lake Huron and all they wanted to do was get the heck out of there. Christian treasured the calm after a storm like that, the way things sat heavily on the beach, the way the thick air held them down. He reveled in the array of findings on a shore littered with storm debris. As Christian balanced himself along a shaky log, pretending he was lost at sea, something shimmery had caught his eye just at the edge of the water. Christian remembered he jumped down into the spongy grass and bulrushes. He liked the velvety sausages and tried to grab one in mid air. His mom always insisted they weren’t rushes at all but reeds and everyone else got it wrong. Didn’t matter to him what they were called. The only thing that mattered to Christian as a young boy was finding treasures.
Christian shuffled his feet into the shallow water, following the dull sort of glitter that came from the sun falling behind a cloud. Christian curled down into a ball, not caring that his bottom was now soaked, then lifted a stone that was holding the treasure in place. Nothing could have prepared him for the thrill of finding a real treasure, one that maybe even Captain Ripper St. John had used. Something this marvelous had to have been his. Tarnished, aged from years of sitting at the bottom of Georgian Bay, then churned and twisted by the storm, and finally set free. No businessman here on summer holiday would let something like that go unpolished. No way! No, to a nine-year-old, this had definitely been owned by a pirate!
Christian could have jumped out of his pants. He’d run back to the house, the watch in one hand and his bones box in the other. He sat behind some crates in his dad’s fishing shed and rubbed that watch till his hands nearly bled. Almost silver-looking. Silver enough to give to his dad for his birthday the following week. He spent ages trying to get it to work but couldn’t quite manage even a tick. But it didn’t matter. His dad could fix it. His dad could fix anything. Christian had knots in his stomach all week imagining the great surprise, the great reveal. He knew his dad would never forget such a present.
When the day came and went, Christian knew it was one he’d never forget either. His dad smiled and patted him on the back—a genuine smile he thought. Then he tossed the watch onto a chair, Christian’s eyes following it, where it bounced onto the rug then rolled behind the couch. His dad left the room, and the watch stayed exactly where it had landed, behind the couch, until the day he’d left and never come back.
On his father’s birthday, seasons later, Christian took the watch and kept it for himself, a watch that Griffin explained was known in the great legend of his very own Ripper St. John’s nemesis, Captain Sardinious Scum. They had battled for the glory and title of Ruler of the Great Lakes—the greatest lakes on Earth, and it was Scum’s pocket watch, one that was without a doubt looted from a ménage of commoners, that was drawn when all fell silent in the trembling swells beneath both ships. Nothing stirred apart from the moving hand… tick… tick… tick until it fell upon the third hour when Scum signaled, hooks and ropes in hand and canons at the ready. Oh yes, the element of surprise, Griffin cautioned, was of the utmost importance.
Ever since, Christian carried that watch on him like the prize-find it was meant to be. And when he’d tasted love for the first time, he couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of a treasure than Gilly.
“It’s yours Christian. It was never truly mine. You know that.”
“But I gave it to you. I wanted you to have it.” He gazed quizzically. “Do you remember that day?”
“How could I forget?” she said while reaching for the watch in his palm. She opened it gingerly, not wanting to crush into tiny flakes the treasure that did, in fact, belong to her.
“God, Gilly, you still have it?” She flinched at the sound of his name for her. She hadn’t heard Gilly for fourteen years and now twice in the last five minutes.
She caref
ully lifted the stem of a now brittle four-leaf clover. “Yes.” A soft smile merged into her cheeks, making her feel more relaxed. “I haven’t opened the watch in all these years, but I knew it was there. My lucky charm,” she shrugged, her brow arched high.
Drips fell from the sky, tiny ones from brooding, indecisive skies. Gillian couldn’t decide herself. She felt odd, thrown into a mix of then and now. It wasn’t right. Her life had changed in a myriad of ways. Was it the rain gods up there who were toying with her now? Or her God, a God she’d learned to trust, one that she’d believed had her best interest at heart. No, she decided quite frankly, the moody sky came out of nowhere!
“So much for the morning sun,” she said, trying to find a reason to quibble. But she couldn’t. It was lovely to see him again, rain or shine, watch or not. It didn’t matter whether it was his or hers. All she knew was that he gave it to her with all the love he had to offer. A sunny day in Tobermory, a flowery meadow, a copy of Gulliver’s Travels in hand with Lilliput soaking her in, her head on his lap and a patch of clover sitting next to him.
“This is for you,” he said. She remembered feeling a light gasp when she saw it had four leaves. “It’s good luck, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Daddy found one for me years ago when I was just a tot. We had been strolling on the knoll but I remember letting it slip from my fingertips and sobbing till my eyes were like little puffed sausage rolls as I scrambled about trying to find it. I never managed and haven’t found one since.” She knew how earnest her expression must have appeared to him and felt a sigh overcome her. “Thank you for this. I shall treasure it always.” She opened her book intending to lay the four leaf clover between the conditions of the contract for Gulliver’s freedom—that nasty Skyresh Bolgolam—perhaps the clover would be a bit of a good luck charm for Gulliver? She had a feeling it would serve anyone who had good intentions when Christian snapped the book shut.
The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley Page 14
