The Way Love Goes

by Pauline Saull

  “Freya!” Margaret approached, a pretty, heavily pregnant girl with her. “I’m so pleased you made it. Meet Donna, my daughter-in-law. As you can see she will very soon make me a grandmother. Can’t wait!”

  “Hi.” Donna smiled engagingly. “How have you settled in?”

  “Very well. It’s a lovely old house. When is your baby due?”

  Donna rubbed her stomach. “I’m two days over. Ron’s brought his famous chili burgers along, so I’m hoping they’ll urge me on!” The three laughed. Margaret had put her arm around Donna’s shoulder, and Freya thought how lucky the young woman was to have such a caring mom-in-law.

  “This is my husband, Mike.” Donna pulled the fair-haired, well-padded man forward, whom she clearly adored. “This is Freya, Mike.”

  “Wow!” Mike laughed. “The resemblance is amazing. It’s the coloring…so unusual.”

  Freya laughed too. “Quite common in Scotland, I believe.”

  Throughout the introductions Freya had been achingly aware of Flynn just to her left-hand side and knew his eyes were on her. It gave her a thrill so fierce her spine tingled. He murmured to his mom about introducing her to his dad and gramps, taking her arm again to lead her over to the barbeque area, and this time Freya didn’t pull away. Someone had turned music on, and Flynn leaned close to her ear and said, “You look beautiful.”

  It had happened quickly and just as quickly he stepped back as his father approached. “Hey, Pop,” he said. “Meet Freya. Freya, my pop, Ron. He’s our chef today.”

  “Hi, Freya.” Ron wiped his hand down an apron that said, ‘Your comment wasn’t in the recipe!’ Freya smiled, liking him already, the twinkling deep blue eyes so like his son’s, creased engagingly at the corners. He shook her hand. “My, oh my. Wait till my old man sees you! How are you liking our part of the world? Warmer than the East Coast?”

  “It’s very nice. I don’t know why I haven’t visited before now. East coasters tend to make for Florida.”

  “Yeah,” Ron pondered, “but it gets too hot there. Here we’ve got it just right. There’s your granddad, Flynn.” He pointed to a lounger where a small, very thin man lay, eyes closed, face upturned to the sun. Naked to the waist, he was as brown as a walnut. Ron laughed. “Tell him to get dressed before he frightens the guests!”

  “Mickey O’Neil, my Gramps,” Flynn said as he and Freya approached the lounger. “Gramps,” he called, “someone to meet you.”

  The aged figure sprang upright with amazing agility, squinting up at them, and Freya saw immediately where Flynn’s looks came from. Mickey O’Neill still had the same vivid blue eyes as his son and grandson, but his thick hair was almost white. A very handsome man.

  “Well, Holy Moses! If it isn’t old Archie’s girl. No doubt about that! Sit here me darling.” He made room for her. “Let me get a proper look at you. Get the girl a drink, Flynn. What’s the matter with you?” Taking Freya’s hand, Mickey lifted it to his mouth and planted a brief kiss on the back. “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. Wow, did I get a shock when I learned about you!” He chuckled impishly.

  “Really?” Freya laughed.

  “Yeah, see years ago—” Mickey stroked his chin, “—maybe six, seven…my memory’s shocking these days. Anyway, I’d been back to the old country, spent a few days in Dublin, and brought a couple of crackin’ bottles of whiskey back with me. I went over to Archie’s with them and that weekend we went on a bender. Well, he got a bit maudlin and told me he had a child. I said, ‘how come you’ve kept it to yourself?’ an’ he said he didn’t know. But he said there’d been no contact with you over the years. After blurting that out, he wouldn’t be drawn on the subject again, an’ to tell the truth, I’d begun to think, well maybe it’s all a bit fanciful, you know, the booze talking? Wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not, then up you pop, so to speak. Oh, here’s Flynn.”

  “Chardonnay all right, Freya? I got you a beer, Gramps.” Flynn handed the drinks over, pulled a chair closer, and sank in it.

  Freya took a sip of the delicious cold wine. “Your grandfather—”

  Mickey leaned forward and touched her arm. “Freya, me darling, call me Mickey, please.” His eyes twinkled. “I can’t have a beautiful woman like you calling me grandfather! I was just telling her,” he turned to Flynn, “that Archie and me used to enjoy a wee drink.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Flynn said dryly. “They did,” he said to Freya, “on occasion, try to drink one another under the table.”

  Mickey laughed out loud, winking at Freya. “Because we’re both Gaelic,” he said.

  “You must miss him, your drinking pal.”

  “I do that. Though the crafty so and so always managed to beat me at cards.”

  About to ask him more, Freya stopped, her eye caught by a stunning, lithe, blonde young woman sashaying across the terrace. In a simple white dress, which clung in all the right places, she appeared to be well aware of the effect she had on the gathering. She swayed sexily toward them. Flynn had turned in his chair.

  “Honey,” the woman, her eyes on Freya, laid her hand on his shoulder, leaning slightly to reveal a tanned cleavage. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new neighbor?”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Mickey rose. “I’ll go and make myself decent before we eat. I hope you’ll come and see me sometime soon, Freya. Flynn will give you Margaret’s address. I live with her and Ron. I’d like to talk more with you.”

  “I’d like that too, Mickey.” She rose to shake his hand, and he strode off. Flynn was on his feet.

  “Freya, this is Rochelle. She’s my P.A and Girl Friday.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Freya looked into the cool, pale gray eyes, knowing instantly that this girl would be no friend!

  “Hi.” Rochelle’s glance was so brief it was barely noticeable, nevertheless Freya knew it took in every item of clothing, every accessory, she wore. “Honey, has your dad any fish? The grill looks to be full of disgusting red meat.”

  Flynn frowned. “You know Mom only eats fish, so yes, of course I ordered Atlantic salmon and some cod. What’s your choice, Freya?”

  “Oh,” Freya waved a hand, “at barbeques I eat anything.”

  “Mm,” Rochelle murmured. Her eyebrows rose fractionally.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Freya said politely, sensing the other woman’s complete disinterest in anything she said. “I’m not quite used to this heat yet. I’ll find a spot in the shade.” And without looking at Flynn, she wandered off to the far side of the pool where there were lots of people laughing and chatting, and where she felt more comfortable. Seated in a chair looking out onto the acres of unspoiled countryside, the thought that had been so active in her mind since she’d first arrived in Morvenna came flying back. She was not wanted here.

  Oh, everyone had been polite enough, guarded but polite, no real warmth. Though Donna and Mickey had seemed genuinely pleased to meet her, and Margaret and Ron were nice, nevertheless she felt—

  “Excuse me. Do you mind if I sit here?”

  “What?” Freya shaded her eyes. “Oh, no. Please take it.” She turned back to the view. The noise around her had increased. Was she the only one not enjoying the afternoon, she asked herself.

  “I couldn’t help noticing you,” the same voice said.

  Freya turned. A man had taken the seat, and he was smiling—a kind smile, Freya thought, and she smiled back. “Sorry?”

  “I said I couldn’t help but notice you because you look as though you’d rather be someplace else. Tim Pascoe.” He held out his hand.

  “Freya Martin.” She liked the feel of his warm clasp.

  “Oh, I know who you are.” He grinned. “Everyone in town is aware you’re here. What’s it like to be the object of such interest?”

  Freya raised an eyebrow. “Interest? I’m not so sure. Scrutiny more like.”

  “Well you came as a big surprise to some sections of this small community…caused quite a flutter among the old
dears who wouldn’t have thought Archie capable of hiding a daughter, or indeed having one.”

  Freya laughed, relaxed. She liked this Tim Pascoe with his gentle humor and kind brown eyes. She also had the feeling, that like almost everyone else she’d met, he would love to know the full story behind her arrival in the town. But she intended to keep that to herself.

  “So what do you do in Morvenna, Tim?”

  “I’m the vet. That’s how I came to know Archie. He called me one day after a blue jay had flown into his window and broken its wing. I told him to bring it down and was able to fix it. He was still driving then, though the old Thunderbird was on its last legs. I believe the last time he went for gas it wouldn’t start so he left it there! Quite a character. Can I get you another drink? I think the food’s about to be served.”

  “No thanks, Tim, I’m driving.”

  “Well may I join you to eat?”

  “That would be nice, thank you.”

  They rose, and Tim, his hand on the small of her back, led her to a table set for two. Great care had been taken, Freya noted. White linen cloths on every table with a centerpiece of fresh flowers, fine crystal glasses, and silver cutlery. Flynn, she mused, had excellent taste.

  The grilled salmon with a parmesan crust was delicious, and Freya and Tim chatted easily throughout the meal. He asked about her life in Philadelphia and her work, never once asking if, or how long, she intended staying.

  She watched his handsome face as he talked, the way he had to keep pushing his hair back. He caught her glance and grinned. “Needs cutting,” he said.

  I like him—he’s uncomplicated, no hidden agenda.

  He went to fetch two dishes of fresh berries, and Freya, elbow on the table, her chin resting on her hand, watched him. Very tall, he had an almost gangly amble, which she found charming. A smile lit her face as he returned.

  Movement on her left suddenly caught her eye.

  Flynn and Rochelle were at a table with Mike and Donna. Mike held out Donna’s chair, and as she eased into it, Flynn turned and his eyes, across the chattering crowded tables, locked onto Freya’s. She stared back helplessly.

  “The strawberries are huge!” Tim placed a bowl in front of her.

  Freya turned quickly. “Oh, thanks, Tim. They sure are. Grown locally?”

  “Berries of all types thrive in this climate.”

  Tim went on to explain about the amount of produce grown in the fertile soil. “When you start driving around the area you’ll be amazed at the variety of pumpkins lying in the fields…thousands of the things! Then there’s Gilroy, a small town not far away, known as the garlic capital.”

  “I’m amazed,” Freya said. “It hardly ever rains yet so much produce is grown.”

  “Technology to the rescue.” Tim told her. “Water’s piped in from the north. Millions of gallons of the stuff to irrigate the crops.”

  »»•««

  With the food finished and the dishes cleared, tables were pushed back to make room for a small dance area. Margaret and Ron were first up, dancing energetically to an old Abba number. Freya saw Rochelle, blonde hair swinging, pull Flynn up and sink her body against his.

  The record changed, and Flynn and Rochelle left the floor.

  “May I?” Tim held out his hand.

  They danced slowly in the small space. Tim murmured something.

  “Pardon?” Freya looked up.

  “I said you smell delicious.”

  Freya laughed, enjoying the compliment. “I can’t remember what it’s called.” Her hand slid farther up his shoulder. It felt good to be in the arms of a man who danced easily.

  “Would you,” Tim said close to her ear, “let me take you for a meal one night?”

  “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “Great. I’ll call you during the week. I still have Archie’s number.”

  When the record ended, they turned to walk back to the table and Flynn was waiting. He held out his hand.

  “May I take her for the next one, Tim?” He looked into her eyes. “That is, if you don’t mind, Freya.”

  She didn’t answer, aware of Tim’s reluctance to let her go, but Flynn had already taken her hand. David Gates, singing “I Want to Make It With You,” started, and as Flynn swung her round, Freya had to stop herself from melting against him. Every nerve end in her body was acutely aware of him—the strength in his muscular arms, his breath on her cheek, and his hand, where it rested on her lower back, felt as though it burned through the thin top. She looked up at him. He bent his head.

  “You feel so good,” he murmured.

  Freya couldn’t answer.

  Words from one of the Bronte sister’s novels fluttered into her head…I’m undone!

  How apt they were.

  It took a supreme effort on her part not to just give in, lean against him. Instead she made the effort to try and concentrate, make herself remember what it was that he really wanted instead. And as she felt his hand move gently across her waist she cautioned silently.

  Don’t be fooled.

  Freya removed her hand from his shoulder. The song had ended. “Thank you, you’re a good dancer,” she said coolly. “And,” she added, “I must compliment you on the food too. It was excellent. Now, if you don’t mind I’m going to take myself home. The move to California has tired me more than I thought.”

  “Stay,” Flynn urged. “Have a glass of wine, I’ll drive you home.”

  Freya shook her head and stepped away from him, looking for Margaret and Ron. They were talking with Donna and Mickey.

  “I’ll just go say good-bye to your family. Bye, Flynn.”

  Margaret and Ron asked her to stay longer, but Freya politely declined.

  “You look tired, honey,” Donna said. “It’s difficult sleeping in a new place until you’re settled.”

  “Don’t forget a visit,” Mickey said.

  “I won’t.”

  Tim, Freya noted, was in deep conversation with an older couple. Seeing her, he made to excuse himself from them, but she waved, smiled brightly, and hurried through the house out to her car. All she wanted was to be home and on her own.

  Chapter Nine

  That night Freya tossed and turned in the rumpled bed. Awake, she’d been able to convince herself she was in charge of her emotions and able to keep thoughts of Flynn under control. Asleep, it was a different matter. She was plagued by dreams which woke her repeatedly. Always of Flynn. Flynn, holding her, his lips hovering over her mouth, his hands sliding down her bare back, her arms embracing him, her hands caressing his muscular back, running through his thick hair, and she’d jump awake, hot, bathed in perspiration, the bedding entangled around her. Finally, around four in the morning, exhausted, easing herself from the bed, she padded to the window and opened it wide.

  “No, I will not think about him,” she said to the dark star-studded sky.

  Leaning out, taking welcome breaths of the cool night air, she stopped, a small gasp catching in her throat. There was someone out there beyond the garden shed. Breathing deeply, she stepped back, peering around the edge of the window toward the shed again. Clouds suddenly shifted, revealing the moon, giving a clearer view of the trees and shrubs surrounding the squat wooden building, and Freya sighed with relief. There was no one there after all.

  She smiled at her silliness and returned to bed. It comes to something, she thought, straightening the sheets, when I can’t distinguish a shrub from a figure!

  Settled, her pillow punched into shape, Freya forced her thoughts to Archie’s life—his love for her mom, the concern he so clearly felt for his wife, and the home on Arran he’d left behind. Will I ever visit that far away island?

  With those thoughts to occupy her and dawn not very far away, she eventually fell asleep.

  »»•««

  The scuttling of the squirrels awoke her. She yawned, and on hearing whistling, jumped out of bed. From the window, she saw the skinny figure of Ian. He was turning the compost pile ove
r. Freya watched him for a moment, wondering what sort of life he led. Living on his own and often out of work, it could hardly be exciting for a young man with no parents. She felt a wave of sympathy for him. He turned suddenly and, seeing her, waved. Freya raised her hand in return.

  At that moment two vans came down the driveway, stopping outside the door. Al and Sparky climbed out.

  Donning a pair of old Levis and a cotton shirt, she ran downstairs, switched on the coffee machine, and began making breakfast. Ian, she noted, had not come anywhere near the house. It made her feel guilty. She could see him from the kitchen window still digging. He didn’t look up as Al and Sparky unloaded their gear. Putting bacon and sausage between two slices of buttered toast, she collected a mug of coffee and took them outside.

  “Morning,” she called, walking down the path to Ian. “I made breakfast. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Hi.” The small, dark eyes lit up at the sight of the thick sandwich. “Thanks, Freya. Mighty good of you. Yes, I am.” He took the plate and mug from her. “Where’s yours?”

  “In the kitchen.” She slid her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I suppose I’ll be making tea and coffee all morning. Catch you later.”

  “Wait…Freya. You haven’t allotted any jobs.”

  Freya shrugged. “I’m quite happy to leave it to you. Do whatever you think necessary.” She yawned. “Oh, excuse me!”

  “Bad night?” His eyes gleamed.

  “No, no, the squirrels woke me early, that’s all. They sounded as though they had boots on this morning.” She turned. “Oh, that’s the phone. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  Freya ran into the kitchen and picked up her phone. She saw Lucy’s number immediately.

  “Lucy?”

  “Honey, hi. Does the offer still stand?”