Fisher

by L. L. Muir

  Once their menus had been taken away, they had a quiet moment to converse. Though he dreaded upsetting her, he had questions that begged for answers.

  “I’ve been thinking on ye all the day long, lass, and I must ask: whose ashes did ye take to the basilica?”

  A tiny line appeared between her eyes. “Basilica? Oh! You mean Sacré-Cœur. Right.” She swallowed with difficulty, and he suddenly felt quite the boor.

  “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have been so bold—”

  “No. It’s okay. They’re…my sister’s.”

  “Aw, for shame. How old was she, then?”

  “Twenty-six. There was an accident,” she forced a smile, “And God took the wrong one. It was an easy mistake. We’re…we were twins, so it was hard to tell us apart. But God should have known, right?” She shrugged and took a sip of her water.

  Fisher was gobsmacked to hear a woman speak so lightly of her Maker.

  “So sure, are ye, that he did make a mistake?”

  “Oh, yeah. Everyone knows it, too. My sister…Julia…was pretty much a prodigy. She was destined to make an impressive mark on the world. Smart. A scientist. Microbiologist. She was months away from getting her doctorate—at twenty-six. Discoveries were lining up just waiting for her attention, you know? She had really incredible ideas. Big plans. Theories. So much she planned to prove, cure. I always accused her of stealing my driven gene so she could double up.”

  “But she died.”

  “Yeah. Nearly two months ago. It took a little while for my passport to come through, and for me to get up the guts to bring her ashes over. She wanted them spread, well, you know where.” The still-grieving woman waved her hand to indicate what had happened between them earlier that day. “I probably should be grateful you interrupted. I don’t know if it’s against the law to spread ashes in a public place like that, but I was going to do it anyhow. And since those policemen showed up so fast, they had probably been close enough to catch me, you know?”

  “So. What will ye do with them now?”

  Martine shrugged, then smiled. “Try again tomorrow. Hope for the best.”

  He couldn’t hide his displeasure. Neither could he explain it. How could he tell her that he’d spent decades defending his own resting place from those who would do the same as she’d tried to do that day—to spread someone else’s ashes upon his own deathbed—when he’d given his life for that bit of earth?

  It wasn’t the same at all, though, was it? The hillside below Sacré-Cœur hadn’t been a battleground. The earth there belonged to no one, and everyone. What would it hurt to have a young woman’s ashes added to the grounds?

  Nothing. It would hurt nothing. And yet, something seemed amiss.

  He’d done his good deed by frightening the Frenchman away. His mission had already been accomplished. And yet he was compelled to help Martine as long as he was able. She was terribly in need of self-worth, and perhaps a wee lecture on the topic of God not making mistakes, but how could a man like him—and temporary at that—be of any help to her?

  Fisher’s dinner companion had been correct about the omelets. They arrived sooner than they might have hoped for. Other diners twiddled their thumbs and still waited for their meals, including those who had been seated and waiting before he and Martine had arrived. So they’d had little time for conversation before their food was placed before them, when talking became unnecessary.

  Martine had chosen a bowl of greens to accompany her eggs and mushrooms, while he had chosen the frites option. Fries, she called them, as her hand snaked across the table to steal one. She declared them to be fresh, which he assumed was a positive state in which to find one’s “fries,” then she went back to eating her bowl of greens, eyeing her omelet all the while as if she would have preferred to eat it first, but there was some unspoken law that one’s greens should be consumed before all else. He was nearly as relieved as she when the half-empty bowl was pushed aside. Apparently, she had suffered long enough.

  As he ate the mushrooms, picking them off the plate first, he sent a wee thought northward, to the ghosts of mushrooms past, letting them know that he had finally won the game. Never again would he be teased by their kind.

  “By the way,” said Martine, “you never told me what happened with the police.”

  Relating the story without implying anything magical required fancy footwork on his part, but it was a good way to fill the silence.

  She smirked. “Your assistant, huh?”

  “It made my story more believable, did it not?”

  “I guess so.”

  He and Martine exchanged pleasant smiles now and again, but said little as they dealt with their eggs and mushrooms. Even so, he thought it a mighty pleasant way to pass the meal, with a lovely woman seated across from him—a woman who had the added benefit of being able to see him.

  It was a wondrous feeling to have another soul look into his eyes and acknowledge that he was real, that he deserved the courtesy of being heard when he spoke. Someone who actually ceased spreading ashes when he forbade it.

  Would that others could have heard him in years past. What a rude experience to rise from one’s grave, as one was want to do from time to time, only to find another spirit pacing back and forth upon your deathbed, insisting they had no intention of leaving their remains behind.

  After the first such experience, Fisher took to guarding his ground continually, the idea of more unwanted company being abhorrent. When a woman came to lay her husband’s ashes to rest upon sacred ground, he’d bellowed and ranted at her, but to no avail. She’d done as she’d pleased and gone on her way, only to return from time to time to place a flower for the man whose blood had never nourished the moor!

  Not every man deserves a battleground to rest upon, after all. Some perfectly commendable gentlemen are found in traditional graveyards and kirkyards the world over. Why the devil should they chose to force their beloved spirits onto my land?

  He paused to take a pull of his water and realized Martine had ceased chewing her food when there was obviously something in her mouth that needed chewing. Her wary stare made him suspect—

  “I suppose I might have spoken aloud, then?”

  She nodded, but still did not chew.

  A cursory glance at other diners told him no one else had heard his rantings.

  “Forgive me, lass. Business from...home, is all. Thoughts I must work out on my own, mind. I shall not burden ye with such silliness again.”

  She lifted a dubious brow, but did resume eating in the usual way. And while she addressed the remainder of her eggs, a less-bedraggled version of her—a sister to be sure—appeared at their table. She was dressed for dinner in a white gown that starkly contrasted with her sister’s denims and trainers.

  Fisher stood and pulled out the chair to his right. The newcomer seemed quite amused by his show of gallantry, but said nothing as she took the offered seat. He was still smiling when he resumed his own and found Martine staring at him once more, her cheeks once again suggesting food waited inside.

  “What are you doing?” A mouthful of egg garbled her speech.

  Fisher rolled his eyes. “Have ye spent so little time with gentlemen, then?”

  “Gentlemen?” She pointed at her sister with her fork. “Just who are you pulling out chairs for, hm?” Then she chuckled as if she’d made a grand joke.

  Fisher turned to the sister and begged her, silently, to come to her own rescue. The woman shrugged a shoulder and smirked in a way that mirrored Martine.

  “Just how many sisters did ye have, lass?”

  “Only the one in my purse, why?”

  He looked at their guest once more, took a fair inventory of her features, then turned and did the same with Martine. Indeed, the women might have been twins if not for the state of Martine’s rain-washed hair and the pink on the tip of a nose that had not completely warmed as yet.

  While that one’s attention seemed to be deliberating the local social mores of
licking her plate, Fisher looked at the sister once again, who seemed much less interested in Martine than in him.

  He mouthed the name. Julia?

  The woman tapped the end of her nose, then watched with mischief dancing in her eyes, while she waited for his reaction.

  He simply rolled his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table a bit so the steward could take his plate. He outright ignored the sister when Martine glanced his way, pretending he hadn’t seen a thing.

  She pointed to the steward. “Would you tell him we’re ready for dessert?”

  “Dinna fash, love. They’ll not forget yer ice cream. And we’ll not leave until ye’re satisfied, even if I have to sing...or spend some time in the scullery to pay for it.”

  Martine smirked, still blind to her sister’s presence. “Scullery. Right.” She got to her feet and smiled when he did the same. “I’m going to find the W/C. Don’t run away.” She turned from the table, but paused to add, “And don’t touch my ice cream.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Fisher waited until Martine was out of earshot before settling back into his seat and addressing the sister, whom he watched discreetly lest someone think he was hallucinating.

  “I assume, Spirit, that ye’ve a message ye’d like me to deliver to yer sister?”

  Julia’s mouth fell open, then lingered for a moment or two before snapping shut again. “What are you, a medium? What do you know about spirits, besides the fact that you can see them?”

  “More than ye, greenhorn.”

  She snorted at that, and smiled, until her gaze rested on her sister’s empty chair. “Yeah. I have a message for her. Tell her I said this. A Ziploc? Are you freaking kidding me?” She chuckled. “Yeah. Tell her I said that.”

  Fisher tilted his head to the side and closed one eye. “Nay.” He shook his head, then shook it again. “I hardly think that will help the lass. Ye’ll have to think of something better, or…”

  “Or what?”

  He leaned in her direction. “Or I’ll have to make something up.”

  Again, Julia’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not funny, you know.”

  “Not meant to be, I assure ye. Martine suffers much more than ye seem to realize. I’ll not have her thinking she’s haunted as well. So ye can either be helpful or move on to the next life, if ye’re no’ too coward to do so.”

  Julia leaned away from him. Her eyes narrowed. The taunt hadn’t insulted her, but he did have her attention. And while he had it, he would make the most of it.

  “I have to admit, if ye’re here to torture yer sister, ye cannot be half the woman she believes ye were.” From the corner of his eye, he noted Julia’s spine straighten, so he continued with a slightly higher pitch to his voice. “My sister Julia. Well on her way to martyrdom, according to her. Would have been a gift to the world, had she lived.” His heart rate increased as he spoke. His chest expanded with anger. “Ye’ve got her questioning God’s judgment, his ability to tell one sister from another. Her faith hangs on a thread for she believes He made a verra real mistake in taking ye and leaving her alive.”

  Julia winced. “I know. I know, okay?”

  Fisher noticed he’d turned in his seat to rail at her, and faced forward again. “She believes she has nothing whatsoever to offer the world…when compared to her sainted sister. Ye have to change that. We have to change that. And we haven’t much time.”

  The flowers in the ladies’ restroom were reflected at least six times, thanks to the beveled mirrors that surrounded the sink. Even Julia would have been impressed, Martine thought as she dried her hands and took just a moment to commit the finer details to memory. But sparkling counters, plush towels, and crystal chandeliers in the water closet weren’t the most prominent memories she’d be taking home from Sir Winston’s. Nor was the gourmet omelet, or the ice cream, though she had yet to taste that.

  She might not recall much of anything once she was home. But the image of Fisher Rankine, sitting across from her in traditional Scottish garb and making small talk was something she would never forget.

  When he’d jumped to his feet and adjusted the chair between them, she was sure he’d just been showing off a little, letting her get a better look at the entire costume. Or maybe he’d been trying to impress her with his sexy knees that peeked out the bottom of his kilt when he moved. Either way, it was pretty cute for someone his age to try to get her attention.

  She had to admit, she’d probably been concentrating too much on her food and failed to keep up her end of the conversation. Now that she had food in her stomach, she felt better, and she could do better.

  Plus, she could stop worrying about her frozen fingers breaking off. They were warm now, but it had taken forever. She should have thought to order a cup of hot water just to hold onto, but it might have cost five bucks.

  “Don’t worry about the cost,” she told herself. “You’ll never get another date like this. It doesn’t matter who’s paying for it. Enjoy it while you can.”

  She checked her reflection, made sure nothing was stuck between her teeth, then headed back to her table. She’d worried he might not bother waiting for her, but she remembered what he’d said about being a gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.

  Sure enough, he was still sitting there when she came around the corner. He mumbled something, but bit his lips together and popped to his feet when he saw her. Just as he had when they’d arrived, he pulled out her chair and helped her scoot closer to the table before sitting down again.

  No ice cream.

  She raised an eyebrow, accusingly.

  “They tried to serve it, love, but I sent it back. Worried I was that it might melt before ye could enjoy it, ye see.”

  The next few minutes were the first uncomfortable ones since he’d recognized her in the tunnel. She tapped the table with her fingers while he folded and unfolded his hands. Every now and then she caught him looking to his right, toward the entrance. He was obviously anxious to be going but maybe just as eager for dessert as she was.

  The waiter returned with a smile on his face and served the scoops of salted caramel crème glacée. He obviously thought Fisher was quaint to worry about her ice cream melting too soon and gave her the slightest wink before disappearing again.

  Fisher lifted his spoon in the air. “To happy coincidences in tunnels.”

  Martine lifted her spoon high, wondering if it was some Scottish tradition. He tapped his against hers, then rewarded her with another charming smile.

  “To unmelted ice cream,” she said, then tapped his spoon and laughed, hoping she didn’t look like a grinning idiot. After savoring her first and second bites, she leaned back and patted her lips with her napkin. “I wanted to ask you. Singing in the tunnels. Is it your regular, you know, source of income? Or do you do it for fun? Do you live here all the time? You speak the language so well, I mean... I guess that’s a lot of questions. And you’ve got places to go...”

  “I have no pressing business.”

  “I thought, the way you kept glancing at the door...”

  He glanced to his right again, but it wasn’t the door he was looking at. It was the next table, which was currently empty.

  “If you’re still hungry, you can order whatever—”

  “Nay, lass. The glacée—er, the ice cream—will finish me, I assure ye. Now. As to yer questions, nay. My home is in Scotland. I will be in Paris for a day and then some, if all goes to plan. I learned the language when I lived in this very city with my uncle, when I was a wee laddie. And never have I made it a habit to sing for coin. When I hurried into the tunnel, I but sought refuge from the rain. The bloke who bid me perform mistook me for someone else. He assumed that my, uh, costume meant I was the performer due to relieve him. The space there, against the wall, is not easily won, he said. But it hardly mattered once they decided to close the tunnel. I was to hold the spot for another, but could not.”

  “And you gave the money aw
ay because—”

  “If Fate were playing fair tonight, the money would have been theirs in any case. The man for whom I was mistaken never arrived. If I had been...where I should have been, they would have won the crowd themselves. The wee lass with the fiddle was exceptionally talented. I was careful to hold back the largest paper bills for her.”

  “Where you should have been?”

  The Scot chewed the corner of his lower lip for a second, then shook his head. “I hadn’t planned to be in Paris.” He picked up her hand and looked closely at the back of it, like he was counting the bones or something. “Destiny offered me a detour, and now, tonight, I am doubly glad I accepted.” Before she could decide whether or not to allow it, he tugged her hand halfway across the table and planted a kiss on it with shockingly cold lips. Then she remembered they were eating ice cream.

  When he released her hand, she went back to eating hers. “Your lips are so cold,” she said between bites, “for a split second, I worried you might be a zombie or something.”

  “Zombie?”

  “You know. The undead.” She laughed and went back to making her own mouth cold.

  He pretended to appreciate the joke, but she figured the Walking Dead must not be so popular in Scotland.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Despite his earlier agreement that she would pay the check, she thought Fisher might literally die of embarrassment when she actually did it. He blushed and mumbled to the ceiling when the waiter accepted her credit card and when he brought it back again. She couldn’t tell if he was praying or cursing, but once they were outside, he was over it. At least he stopped mumbling.

  “I shall walk ye to yer boarding house, aye?”

  “You mean my hotel?”

  “Aye. Yer hotel.”

  They headed back the way they’d come, and he moved to the outside, placing himself between her and the traffic, as if it was something a gentleman would do. There wasn’t any way he could know the significance it had for her.