The Essence of Fate

by Alison E. Steuart

  “Ian. Charlotte is not dead. You can get her back and I think you know that, so what the hell are you waiting for?”

  I look up at her as the thought of Charlotte no longer walking this earth knocks the wind out of me. Nana’s expression now says, I see you get my point.

  “You’re right. I can’t even contemplate that kind of finality. But how do I live my life with someone that doesn’t trust me? Nana, I gave her everything…all of me. There was a part of me that was dead, and I didn’t even know it until she brought it to life. That part of me is hers and no one else’s. I could never be unfaithful to her. Ever. But she thinks I could.” I pause to swallow down the anger that builds whenever I talk about it. “The problem is within her, and I sympathize, I really do, but how can I fix that? I can’t. She has to fix it, and if she were willing, I could help her. But she doesn’t want to.” The tension is building inside as my grip tightens on the glass.

  “Ian. You’re complicating this, and you’re wrong,” she says as a ping sounds next to her. She reaches over and grabs her cell phone—that she rarely uses—smiles, and puts it back down. Did she just get a notification? Continuing, her voice is sympathetic as she says, “Charlotte loves you just as much as you love her. Period. Yes, she screwed up by jumping the gun about Phoebe, but what the hell, Ian… Look at what she’s been through! Not to mention, you said that Brazilian guy put some crazy idea in her head. What should anyone expect when you put all the factors of that equation together?”

  “Yes, but the most important factor in that equation is that what we had was not your everyday love affair. Goddammit! And she knew that!” My voice rises as my anger spills over.

  “True. Which is why I told you weeks ago to go sit down with her and talk. Something tells me that Charlotte loves you so much, she thinks it’s a good idea to set you free…then you don’t have to put up with her ‘issues.’” She exaggerates her finger quotes. “People do stupid things for love, Ian. I’ve seen it many times. The problem I have with you right now is that you are sitting back, letting it happen. That’s not the Ian McAlistair I know,” she sternly finishes as her phone pings again. This time she actually starts typing something, and I’m stunned by her rudeness.

  “Nana. What are you doing?”

  “Texting someone.”

  “Since when do you text?”

  “Just started recently. Judy taught me how.” She seems so pleased with herself.

  “Okay. That’s wonderful, but you need to understand there is some etiquette involved here. The most important being you don’t text in the middle of a verbal conversation with someone else…especially an important one!”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, dear. You’re right.” She very politely puts her phone down and gives me a silly smile. It reminds me of a teenager showing off how skilled she is at being a smartass.

  “If it’s that important, please continue,” I offer, emphasizing the kindness in my tone.

  “No, no…it’s fine. Not important.” The look on her face screams mischief, and I can’t help but wonder what she is up to. Before I can question any further, she boldly states, “Back to where I was…enough is enough, Ian. Time to take the bull by the horns. You’re miserable, I’m sure she’s miserable, and none of this makes sense anymore. Not that it ever did.” That last part she said under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear. “Mark my words, you make the effort, it will pay off. In spades.” She reaches over and pretends to do something with her phone when I hear her mumble, “Then maybe I can get some great-grandkids before I die.”

  I have to smile at that, for two reasons. One, she uses those little narcissistic jabs masterfully to get what she wants, and two, because the thought of having children with Charlotte warms my heart from the inside out.

  “All right, Nana. We’ll see. She’s in France right now, according to Jackson, who somehow knows everything, and I don’t know when she returns. When she gets back to Miami, maybe I’ll give her a call.” The thought sends a nervous wave of excitement through my core, and I’m suddenly looking forward to something for the first time since Charlotte’s false accusations ruined my life.

  Nana’s phone pings again and she glances over, clearly reading what’s popped up on her screen. A smile spreads across her face that is so genuine I’m now curious what could have caused it.

  But before I have a chance to ask, she surprises me by saying, “Good. I’m glad to hear you’re thinking like the man I know you to be instead of whoever the hell you’ve been for the past several weeks. He was annoyingly foolish. In the meantime, I need you to do me a favor.”

  Thirty-One

  Charlotte

  Arriving in Scotland two days ago, I wasn’t really sure what to expect. My uncle asked me to cut my visit to France short so I could fly here to check out a resort that has recently come up for sale.

  When he told me it’s an old castle that was converted into a hotel, I was a bit skeptical. What I pictured in my head—an old stone building, weathered with vines covering its facade and an inescapable aroma of centuries-old mildew—was a far cry from what greeted me. This place is magnificent, and my jaw literally dropped when we drove up the driveway that was designed to show off its size, architecture, and pure opulence.

  The original building was built in the 16th century and has been altered and improved over the hundreds of years since. It sits high upon a clifftop on the west coast of Scotland overlooking the Firth of Clyde, a large body of water that connects to various rivers, lochs, and the Irish Sea. There are acres upon acres of the most incredible landscape, like nothing I have ever seen. So lush and green, it’s breathtaking.

  The interior can only be described as regal, and it’s hard to fathom that it used to be someone’s home. There are grand, curved staircases, intricate moldings and woodwork, massive old paintings in ornate frames, luxurious wall coverings and fabrics, and the most beautiful furnishings that are reminiscent of the history of Great Britain, yet timeless in their style and functionality. There is a spa, a restaurant that is to die for, a library, an exercise facility, an indoor pool, and gardens popping with blooms of every color outside each window you pass. This place is magical, I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it and I have already recommended that Uncle James close the deal before someone else does.

  Yesterday, I went for a walk on one of the many paths that meander through the estate. The temperature was comfortably cool and the air so clean, the scent of it so refreshing, I stayed out for over two hours. The path led me along the edge of grassy knolls covered in purple flowers, through dense shaded woodlands where birdsong echoed in the trees, over rocky streams so crystal clear you could easily see every stone and pebble resting on the bottom, each one’s color and texture accentuated by the sunlight shining through the water, and eventually to a small plateau overlooking the vastness of the Firth of Clyde. There was a slight breeze coming off the water, a distinct scent of brine in its freshness, and I was so energized—more spiritually than physically—I decided to meditate sitting atop a flat boulder perfectly placed near the edge of the cliff.

  I often meditate to keep my mind working at its most efficient capacity and, of course, to reduce stress. Yet, since I broke things off with Ian, I have found it impossible to meditate. Each time I tried, I ended up worse off than before—my heart racing, chest tight with anxiety, and that dreadful sense of falling that terrifies me. However, here, in this place that is comforting and strangely reassuring in its familiarity, I was able to meditate so deeply, for so long, that when I opened my eyes and took in a lungful of salt air, I realized that Ian was right… This is the place from my dream. The one that came to me in a flash of white light while Ian kissed me with such all-consuming passion, demanding I tell him my true feelings. It was Scotland, and the realization didn’t scare me or even confuse me; it comforted me in a way that can only be described as…home.

  The whole experience rotated in my mind during the long walk back to the resort. As I put all
the pieces together from the past six months…our powerful connection that refused to be denied, the electricity in our touch, a love that seemed to pick up where it left off, the vision that came to me of another place and time, Ian’s history that runs deep in these lands, and the sense of nostalgia I have just being here…they finally fell into place, fitting together as they were made to, creating a picture of a true love so deep, so compelling it transcended time and brought two souls together again.

  I stopped when the last piece clicked into place, sat down in the middle of the path lined with ferns and surrounded by trees, little sparkles of sunlight dancing through the leaves, and wept. I cried for the couple that found each other many generations in the past and loved one another for what I hope was a long lifetime. I cried for the love my parents shared that was cut short by misplaced intentions and an unhealthy obsession. I cried for the terrible mistake I made in accusing Ian of something he didn’t and would never do, for leaving him alone, hurt, and angry. I cried for the fear that I may never be able to repair the damage I created. Yet, I refused to give up hope.

  Once the heaviness of the outpouring had passed, I opened my eyes again, following the line of the path ahead of me. As the light played its fantastic game of flickering and shifting from one place to another, it caught onto a tiny winged creature in the distance and followed its random migration as it fluttered up, down, around, and over whatever caught its interest from one second to the next. A smile spread across my face as my heart expanded with joy. There she was, the portrait Ian drew of me, crystal clear in my mind, walking down a path that was identical to the one I was sitting on, smelling that delicate pink rose, its perfume both elegant and sensual, yet the meaning behind it so much more. If I had to pinpoint a moment that I fell in love with Ian, I would have to say it was then. When he exposed a side of himself that no one else sees, a side that is vulnerable and shy, talented and raw, thoughtful and romantic. My heart was never the same after he gave me that portrait.

  I stayed there, sitting on the path in the middle of a natural setting that had somehow become a part of me. I felt at home there, listening to the sounds, feeling the shift of cool air, seeing things typically overlooked by distracted eyes, and breathing in the earthy scent, a combination that was healing to my exhausted soul.

  When I woke this morning to bright rays of sunlight breaking through my window, the memory of a dream stayed with me. I smile, remembering the emerald green forest, like that of a fairy tale, where I walked down a path following a little winged creature lit up by the sun’s bright light, never getting close enough to determine its identity, but happy with the mystery just the same. I have decided there truly is magic surrounding this place, for here I am pretending…or maybe even believing in the fairy tales typically reserved for the innocent imaginations of children. There is a part of me that feels silly for even giving it this much thought, yet I cannot deny my excitement to go for another walk through the forest today and perhaps another chance encounter.

  I am light on my feet as I head down for breakfast and two cups of their coffee that is magical in its own right. In the main corridor, just down from the restaurant, I pass the library and see a display case I hadn’t noticed before. I almost keep going since I am close enough to smell the freshly brewed goodness, but something stops me and I turn back, hoping I might learn a little history or some other interesting facts about this enchanting place.

  What I find is unexpected, but fascinating nonetheless. It is titled The Poetry and Prose of Lord Alasdair Stewart. The hairs on my neck stand as I read further. Apparently the lord of this manor, during the late 1700s, was very much in love with his wife, Lady Ella Stewart. Preserved in this case are several examples of poems he wrote for her. The paper is browned with age and the thick lined script is so perfectly written, you could mistake it for a calligraphy font printed from a modern day printer. Some of the words are hard to make out, so the historians that put together this display have them translated in Times New Roman on crisp white paper next to each one. I appreciate their effort, for now I am able to read through each without hesitation, but at the same time, I have a strange longing to go back to a time when we would sit down and hand write our thoughts and ideas…our love letters, in the practiced hand of elegant script.

  I go back and forth between his original piece and the printed type, wanting to be sure I correctly read every word. He was enthralled by her beauty, captivated by her wit and clever mind. She seems to have had a love of nature and an uncommon connection with its creatures. Each poem and letter is so heartfelt, so beautifully written, it’s as if I can feel his love for her.

  Finally, at the end of this sentimental presentation, I get to see the woman that stole Lord Stewart’s heart. There, in a copy of a painted portrait, is a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman. She is young in this image and she is quite beautiful. A genuine smile stretches wide as a confounding sense pride comes over me. The artist has captured a mischievous glint in her eyes and for some strange reason, it pleases me immensely. I can’t stop staring at her or ignore the rapid beating of my heart. Why does she seem so familiar? Who are you? I wonder to myself before my eyes drift to the short letter right below her portrait.

  * * *

  Lady Ella ~ My dearest faerie maiden,

  * * *

  I thank God every day that our souls found each other again. Let us grow old joyously, knowing they will do so from now through eternity.

  Your humble servant and loving husband,

  Alasdair Stewart ~

  * * *

  I feel light headed, my hands are tingling. There’s no way! But then I step to the right to see what the last section of the display case reveals. A huge lump forms in my throat as my hand covers my mouth, muffling the gasp that tries to escape. It’s him, I swear it is him. The stranger from my vision; dark hair, strikingly handsome with Ian’s turquoise eyes. He’s wearing the same high collared jacket with gold embellishments. Underneath the portrait his full name and title stand out boldly and reading it tightens my stomach with a mass of sensations, each one attached to a different emotion. Alasdair Gavyn Stewart, 7th Earl of Galloway, Admiral ~ British Royal Navy. I keep reading it, saying it over and over in my head as a familiar awareness expands outward from my core, painting my body in an unmistakable warmth that reaches to the tips of my fingers and toes.

  “Alasdair.” I hear myself whisper as visible chills raise on my arm.

  My hands are starting to sweat as I continue to stare at him. Occasionally I glance at Lady Ella, curious to know more about her, but I want to look at him. I want to open the case and take out his image so I can hold it close, examine every detail. The vision I had, that confused…even somewhat scared me, is forefront in my mind and I have a gnawing urge to feel his warmth, smell his scent, hear him say my name.

  The soft sound of a droplet landing on glass draws my attention away from his portrait. I stare at the tiny puddle for a few seconds, wondering where it came from, then notice the cool, wet trail it left on my face. My fingers come up to catch the next tear before it can fall. My God! I can’t believe this is happening. The logical part of my brain is warring, quite forcefully, with the reality my gut is telling me to accept.

  A boisterous group of guests walk by, laughing and talking loudly on their way to breakfast. I turn to watch them pass, leaning against the case that holds a mystery I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around. I feel like I’m not actually here. Like the people passing by wouldn’t see me if they turned and looked this way. I feel transparent and light, floating just above solid ground. I press my back into the corner of the case, wanting to feel the sharp edge dig into my skin. I wiggle my toes in my shoes. “Everything’s fine.” Did I say that out loud?

  I focus my vision on the massive window on the other side of the corridor overlooking the towering trees that line the main drive into the estate. I stare out over the beautiful landscape, trying hard not to picture that striking figure, impeccabl
y dressed, atop a horse that was—no doubt, as handsome as the man himself, trotting up the drive to greet his beloved wife. A terrible sense of longing comes over me, so I turn back to the poems and images that now seem easier to handle than the picture I just had in my mind.

  Twenty minutes or more must have passed before I finally decide I can’t stand here any longer, staring at these people I’m desperate to know, wishing I could ask them a hundred questions and more. I pull out my phone and take pictures of Lord Stewart and Lady Ella, testing the angle to make sure there is no glare and that the clarity is perfect. I include his poems as well, otherwise it feels like I’m leaving them here and my conscience simply will not allow it.

  At the restaurant entrance, I wait for the hostess, hoping it won’t take too long to be seated. My legs feel strange, I’m light headed. I really want coffee and I really want to sit down. My eyes close and my lungs expand with a deep breath, hoping to calm my nerves, only to be startled by Deidra, the restaurant manager and her adorable Scottish accent.

  “A good mornin’ to ye, Ms. LeFay.” She pauses to look at me with a creased brow. “Are ye alright? Ye look as if ye’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I think I have seen a ghost, Deidra. Two, to be exact.” I feel myself try to smile and feel badly because I know it’s weak. “Do you have a quiet table available?”

  “Aye. Follow me, dearie. I have the perfect table by the window. Best view in the house.” She guides me to a cozy little spot near the massive stone fireplace and it truly does have the best view. It’s a perfectly clear morning with a sea of blue to the left, and to the right a vast expanse of every shade of green imaginable—with pops of color here and there, where several of the flower gardens come into view.