Because of Them: Heartfelt Romance

by Melissa Macomb

  I get my flight booked online and rush home to pack my bags. The weather over there is much different than Oklahoma in the summer. I remember Roman being surprised that it's cool enough that no one has air conditioning. So, I grab a few light sweaters just in case and add them to the suitcase. I already can't even remember everything I've packed, and I've only just done it. I throw in some shoes and hope they match. It’ll take something like twelve hours just to get to London, then after a short layover, it'll be another hour or so to get to Inverness. Trying to figure out the time difference, panic starts to set in, and I know the tears won’t be far behind. I’m a crier. Whenever I feel an extreme emotion, whether it’s happiness, sadness, or anger, I cry. It’s freaking annoying. Right now, I do what I can to get a grip on my emotions. I can't let myself feel the pain or I won't be able to move. The babies need me, so I shove it all over a wall I built in my heart a long time ago, letting the fresh pain settle on top of the sludge of all the old pain I've never really dealt with.

  I look down at my phone just as I hear the taxi honk outside. It's time to go.

  4

  Bram

  This place is beautiful. I can see why Mary loves it so much. Loved it. God. She's gone. Mary is really gone.

  According to the car’s navigation system, it's twenty-two miles from the airport to Mary's house. I remember her laughing when she told me they'd named it Mermaid Cottage because little Abbie has a fascination with mermaids. The scenery in front of me is blurry from my tears. I can't think about Mary now. Not while I'm driving. I pull my mind back to more practical matters.

  The Moray Firth dominates the whole area. Inverness was built at the inner tip of where the Firth dips into the landscape from the North Sea. The airport is on one side of it and Fortrose is on the other. Inverness, which is the capital of the Highlands, is sprawled in between the two. Culloden Battlefield. The name on the signpost jumps out at me. My twin was saving a visit to the battlefield for when I had the time to come over and go with her. She told me because I love history so much, she didn't want to experience Culloden with anyone but me. Damn it. Think about what you need to do today. Meet the nanny, MacThomas, at the cottage. See the lawyer. Get the kids and go back to New York.

  Just past the battlefield, I see more signs that I'm coming into a city. A quick glance at the map and I see that I'll skirt Inverness proper and head across a bridge. The horn on a car so tiny it looks like a kid’s toy from my vantage point in my large, rented Range Rover alerts me that I'm doing something wrong. I'm not sure exactly what, but I haven't hit anything, so I guess I'm okay. Gradually, I’m hitting more and more traffic, so I caution myself to pay closer attention.

  It ended up being just after seven in the evening before I was able to leave New York yesterday. The flight itself took seven hours, so given the time change, I arrived here at seven in the morning. It's now coming up to nine, so the traffic I'm hitting is most likely commuters, desperate to get to work on time. But given that my reference point is one of the biggest and busiest cities in the world, I'm sure I can handle it. The bridge I’m crossing now is quite a sight, with the water below shimmering in the early morning sunshine. It's a beautiful day, which seems all wrong given that it's the first day in a world without my sister in it.

  I stay on the A9 until I'm directed to turn onto the A832. The names of places around here are wild. Arpafeelie. Glackmore. Easter Suddie. I bet those make Mary laugh. Made Mary laugh. Finally, I see the sign for Fortrose. The road I'm on has been parallel with the water ever since a tiny little place called Avoch. As I enter Fortrose, I start paying attention to the houses on my right. They're all on the waterfront, with stunning views. One of these will be Mermaid Cottage. Here it is. It's beautiful and just like Mary described it to me last year. She called me one day, so excited that they'd found their dream home. “It's not too big and not too small. It's perfect for us, Bram. We can see the dolphins play right from our front deck; can you believe it?” The memory of Mary's happiness that day is breaking my heart as I pull into her driveway and shut off the engine. It's unreal to think that Mary isn't just inside. That she's not going to come running out to give me a big hug and tease me about my long hair.

  The driveway is empty except for the Range Rover, so I guess the nanny isn't here right now. I’ve asked her not to tell the children anything yet, and to keep to their routine as much as possible, so she must not be back from taking them to school yet.

  I’m avoiding going in, even though I know where Mary hides a spare key. It’ll be under the garden gnome that has on overalls. It's a Mary thing, collecting garden gnomes, and she had her collection shipped here when they moved. Her favorite is the one with overalls that has a patch on its back pocket with a sunflower on it, and that’s where the spare house key will be. As I walk along the stone path that leads to the front door, I notice that Mary has added quite a few gnomes to her collection since being in Scotland. The sheer absurdity of a garden full of these colorful little gnomes makes me laugh. I already miss you so much, Mary.

  The front door is on the side of the house and after locating the key, I let myself in. The first thing that hits me is that my sister’s house doesn’t smell like her. It smells like freshly baked bread. Mary was good at a lot of things, but cooking was not one of them. She thinks it’s funny that I love to cook, and she can’t even boil eggs. That's the way she is. Taking everything in stride, not letting things get her down. But now she’s gone.

  The house is empty, as I thought, but then I’m early. I know I can't be still with my thoughts or Mrs. MacThomas will walk in and find me broken down and crying. I should look around the house and make sure it'll be safe to lock up and leave until I can get things sorted out with the lawyer.

  The house is fairly new. I think I remember Roman telling me it was built about ten years ago. He was happy about that because it means the living area is open concept. The living room and kitchen blend together to form one large but surprisingly cozy atmosphere. The wow factor is that the entire side wall, running the length of the whole house, is floor to ceiling windows. I step through the sliding door onto the deck which also goes the length of the house.

  The smell of salt and seaweed is everywhere, along with something that reminds me of days at the beach when I was kid. Sunscreen. It smells like the sea and coconut sunscreen. Weird. I cup my hands around my eyes and peer through the glass into the room next to the living room. It's the master bedroom suite. What a view to see every morning when you wake up. Nice one, sis.

  I wander back inside and explore the rest of the house. There’s an office, two more bedrooms, a family bathroom, and a laundry room. The laundry room leads outside to the back yard I passed as I came in. I wasn’t able to see into it from the driveway because it’s surrounded by a large privacy fence, so I step outside and explore.

  It’s basically a children’s fantasy playground. There’s a large swing set, complete with slides, one wavy and one straight, swings and a glider, a rock-climbing wall, and a clubhouse area at the top that can also be reached by climbing up a rope and swinging across the monkey bars. To one side is a huge sandpit filled with child-sized construction vehicles equipped with an excavator and a front loader. I would’ve loved this as a kid.

  I visualize Mary and Roman here with the twins, pushing them in the swings, catching them as they come down the slide, building castles with them in the sand pit. I can see it so clearly that my heart tightens in my chest with the pain of all that they’ve lost. I can’t think about this now. I’ve got to hold it together.

  With nowhere else for my mind to go, it clutches onto the familiar theme of guilt. It was my responsibility to look out for Mary. My father told me over and over again that it was my job to help keep her safe. Handing that responsibility over to Roman wasn't easy. But even I finally admitted that he genuinely loved her. Of course, that didn’t stop me from trying like hell to get them to move to New York, but Mary wouldn't even consider it. She wanted to rai
se her family in a small hometown environment. That meant Oklahoma to her, especially since Roman had some family there.

  I thought when Roman got a promotion that meant he would need to go to Scotland for a few years, Mary would see sense and come stay with me in New York. It makes me laugh now, that I seriously thought they would separate their family and live on two different continents. Mary, of course, told me I was nuts. She assured me one day I’d understand because I’d love someone so much, I couldn’t stand to be apart.

  I do understand, or at least I think I do, but not because I’ve ever loved anyone that way. I’ve never been in love. But I recognize it here, right now, in the life Mary and Roman built for themselves and their children. Thinking about how hard I fought to separate them, I feel ashamed.

  The sound of crunching gravel pulls me out of my memories. I hope it's Mrs. MacThomas. I need her to pack things for the twins. I don't have a clue what they might need. Of course, I can always buy them whatever once we're back home, but even I understand that they'll feel better with their own things around them. Yet again, I’m grateful for my assistant. After I finished talking to the detective yesterday, Andrew had taken over. He found out who was handling Mary and Roman's legal affairs and from there he was put in touch with the nanny, Rhona MacThomas. From the plane last night, I consulted with my own attorney in New York and set him to work trying to figure out how I can legally get the kids back to New York with me. He assured me it wouldn't be a problem, and I'm counting on that. These kids are my obligation now, and they're the only family I have left. My heart hurts when I think of that, but I can't think about it now.

  I know I haven't even heard a car door yet, so for some reason, she's still sitting in her car. Maybe she's waiting for me to come out to her? I can't think of a single reason she would do that, but whatever. I walk across the yard, open the latch on the gate, and walk through to the driveway. My Range Rover is in front, so I can't immediately see the car behind it. A quick glance at my watch tells me there's only a little over an hour before I have to meet with Mary's lawyer.

  This is nuts. I don't even bother to hide my irritation as I walk around my rental car to the little hatchback sitting behind it. A woman is getting out, but her long black hair hides her face. I can tell, though, that she's younger than what I'd figured Mrs. MacThomas would be. I stop just short of her car, waiting for her to turn around and see me. When she does, I take a step back. She's looking up at me with puffy, bloodshot brown eyes and the tears on her face catch the sunlight.

  Damn. She's beautiful. I hope to hell she's not Mrs. MacThomas.

  5

  Tessa

  I'm so tired I can't think straight. I tried to sleep on the flight, but my brain wouldn't let me. Memories of my childhood with Roman won't leave me alone. He was my last link to mom and dad. The only person I could talk to about them and our life before the endless foster homes. Even as young as we were when our parents died, Roman and I knew we had to keep talking about them or we’d risk losing absolutely everything. Once we were allowed to be fostered together, the first night in a new home found us defiantly huddled together under the covers, telling each other things we remembered about our real mom and dad. Roman always talked about things like feeding the horses and Dad teaching us about rocks and the earth. That's actually what inspired him to study geology at school. I always talked about mom reading to us from sections of her favorite romance novels, sometimes even recounting the blurbs from the backs of them. It was from one of these that we got our unusual names. Roman hadn't remembered that until I reminded him. Our family was unorthodox, but full of love.

  I drag my mind out of the past and into the present and look around me. I'm sitting in the driveway of Roman and Mary's home, Mermaid Cottage. It's much bigger than a cottage is my first thought. And it's beautiful here, but I’m too tired to fully appreciate it all. I barely remember the drive from the airport, which tells me that I desperately need some sleep.

  The first phone call I made when I landed was to the nanny, Rhona MacThomas. My brother had made sure I had her contact information when they hired her, just as I had his lawyer’s name and number. Because our childhood was so chaotic, I think Roman compensates by keeping everything else in his life in order, tightly controlling as much as he can.

  I'm still thinking about him like he's alive.

  The pain is so immediate and sharp I double over onto the steering wheel. My body keeps making tears and my brain keeps letting them fall. I seem to have no control over them at all, just as I can't stop my thoughts from imagining my brother coming out of the house and pulling me out of the car into a big bear hug. I need to get a grip. Mrs. MacThomas is probably inside the house wondering what the hell is taking me so long. Okay, deep breath. I can do this. Maybe the nanny will take care of the kids while I get a little sleep. Then I can talk to the lawyer to find out what the heck I need to do to take them back to Oklahoma.

  I know I must look like shit, but I'm beyond really caring. I glance down at the pair of jeans and rumpled blouse I don't even remember putting on yesterday. It's white and has to be ironed, so I rarely ever wear it. To be honest I don't even like the way it looks on me, so I'm mildly surprised to see I have it on. The past twenty-four hours have been surreal. As I get out of the car, I sniff back a cry. For Pete’s sake, I can't go in there blubbering. I take a deep steadying breath again and turn toward the house.

  And get an eyeful of the most handsome man I've ever seen.

  His shoulder-length brown hair blows gently in the sea breeze I'd been completely unaware of just a second before. He has beautiful bone structure. His hazel eyes look at me and I can see the questions in them as his eyebrows draw together, wrinkling the perfection of his forehead. I have just enough time to take all this in before my brain and mouth keep doing their own thing and I hear myself let out an undignified yelp of surprise followed by, "Who the hell are you?"

  "What the hell?"

  He keeps walking toward me but stops just a few feet away. I can't help but stare at him. Up close he's not just handsome, he's magnetic. Even at this distance, I’m forced to look up at him. He must be over six feet tall. And the muscles, oh my God. He's sex and candy. I'm imagining what it would feel like to unbutton his shirt and run my hands over his bare skin. The five o'clock shadow on his jaw and chin encourage me to think what it would feel like to kiss him or have him bury his face in my breasts. He's staring at me, too. The realization that he is just as affected by me as I am of him shakes me to the core. I can honestly say I've never had this kind of intimate gut reaction to anyone else, ever. I don't know what to do with it.

  I need to say something.

  "Hi."

  He's still looking at me with that frown between his eyebrows and it's starting to get on my nerves. The least he should do is say hi back, for Pete's sake. Why do I get the feeling I've seen him somewhere before? The longer I look at him, the more I think I should know who he is. I would remember if I'd met those muscles before, so I'm sure I don't know him. But there's just something...

  "The people who live here aren't home."

  His voice is deep and inviting, like a warm blanket or a cup of hot chocolate. It causes a flutter in my stomach, but the words themselves are like ice water in my veins and all of a sudden, I remember where I've seen his face. When they still lived in Oklahoma City, Mary had shown me a photo album full of pictures of herself and her twin brother. Most of the pictures were from when they were teenagers, but the man in front of me had truly become a man. Every once in a while, Mary had shown me pictures of Bram on her phone. They were photos taken from papers that reported on New York society events. Those pics didn't do this man justice. At all.

  I realize he's staring at me again, but this time I can almost see the thought bubble above his head asking me if I'm stupid or just deaf.

  "Bramble? Bram Carter?"

  "Do I know you? No, I would remember you. How do you know my name? Are you Mrs. MacThomas?"
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br />   I have to fight hard to stop the inappropriate laughter from escaping. I saw a picture of the nanny on Mary's Facebook page last week. She’s old, short, more than a little round, and even if she does have a kind face, I don't much want to be mistaken for the woman.

  "Um, no. I'm Contessa, that is, Tessa Stephenson."

  The hulk in front of me just shrugs. I'm not sure if that's to show he doesn't know who I am, or that he's not impressed. Either way, it ticks me off. I happen to know that in all the time Mary and Roman have been together, Bram hasn't visited them once. Not even to meet his new niece and nephew. I think that's pretty damn unforgivable. It bugged me to hear Mary defend him, insisting that her brother is devoted to his family. So devoted he doesn't even recognize I have the same last name as his sister.

  "I'm Roman's sister." I really want to finish the sentence with you jackass, but I manage to bite my tongue. Bramble Carter is obviously as self-centered and selfish as I've always thought. In the society pics Mary had shown me, he always seemed to have a different gorgeous woman on his arm, like a trophy. Even more damning is that he couldn't even be bothered to keep up with his sister's life. Another man who thinks his looks excuse his bad behavior. The arrogant ass. Why doesn't he say something?

  When he finally does say something, I want to slap it back into his mouth.

  "What are you doing here?"

  I can feel my mouth gape open as I look at him, standing there with his arms folded across his massive chest. The shirt sleeves are straining against his biceps. Stop it. I need to stop looking at his body. He's a walking, talking ass.