by Cathy Lamb
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “You’re all set.”
“Yes.” I wasn’t set. Living with Toran was the best time of my life.
He took a step forward and hugged me. I hugged him back.
“Thank you, Toran, totally, truly and terribly.” Shoot. Alliterations!
He seemed slightly confused about the “terribly” part.
“Aye, luv, anytime. See you soon at the farm.”
He turned and left.
I miss you already.
I thought, maybe, perhaps, could I have seen a shimmer of water in his eyes? Was I imagining that? Or was it a pathetic, desperate delusion?
I couldn’t see too well, though, as my tears had turned my eyes into little lakes.
Toran had been a part of my life and thoughts since before I could truly think, analyze, synthesize, and evaluate on my own. We were together as babies, toddlers, children, teenagers. We grew up together.
I have always loved him. The love changed, as I loved him when I was a kid to a teenager, and now as a woman, but it has always been there. Loving Toran came as naturally to me as . . . as . . . gardening.
Toran was my garden. My heart’s garden.
I should have been happy in my bright home. Instead I curled up on my blue couch and had a sloppy cry. Silver Cat curled up beside me.
She meowed. I meowed back.
With Toran’s permission, I had brought the brown box with Bridget’s letters with me. That night I settled on the iris comforter he had bought me. I read my letters to Bridget that she’d saved. I chatted about not liking school in Seattle, missing my father, college, my garden, and my research on gene therapy. I had asked her many questions about her life. My letters sounded so shallow and silly next to hers.
I felt like I was breaking inside as I read more, a part of me crumbling, dying.
For her, for my best friend, Bridget.
March 3, 1973
Dear Charlotte,
I had the baby. She was early. I thought she was going to rip me in two. Only at the end did the nuns give me something for the pain. Now I understand why girls scream during birth.
The baby is a little girl. I named her Legend. Remember all the legends your dad told us? That’s why I chose that name. I used to pretend, Charlotte, that your father was my father. He was my legend.
They let me hold her for three hours. One of the nuns took three photos. One of only my baby, one of me holding my baby in bed, one of me holding my baby by the window.
Then they came and took my baby! Took her, took her! I told them that I changed my mind and I wanted to keep my baby. They tried to take my baby from me but I fought and kicked and screamed, and they brought in two men and they held me and stole my baby and I kept crying and kicking and screaming and they said calm down calm down calm down and I said bring me back my baby bring me back my Legend and they said no she is gone she is with her real family you can’t have that baby you can’t take care of it stop it stop it stop screaming Bridget.
Stop screaming Bridget.
Stop!
I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore and they gave me a shot.
Shot. Shot. I was shot.
The baby had Toran’s blue eyes.
Love,
Bridget
March 6, 1973
Dear Charlotte,
I want my baby I want my baby I want my baby I kept screaming I want my baby I want my baby I want my Legend they kept saying to hush up hush up hush up.
Hush up, Bridget. Be quiet, Bridget. Stop crying, Bridget. Shut up, Bridget.
I can’t be quiet. I want Legend. Where is she? I never said they could take her.
Love,
Bridget
Bridget, sweet Bridget. Where are you? Please come home.
I loved my home.
I loved that I was walking across the wood floors that my grandparents and parents had walked across before me. I loved how I could have Scottish Scrambled Warrior eggs, my father’s recipe, with onions, diced tomatoes, and garlic, at the same dining table where four generations of Mackintoshes had sat. I loved the armoire with the honeysuckle vine my granddad made my grandma.
I loved the yellow on the walls, the new windows that were so clear I felt like I was outside. I loved the pitched roof of my sky blue bedroom with a beam that reminded my mother of a tree.
I loved how the cottage looked outside. The stone was cleaned up, the door was bright red again, the shutters white.
It was the home of my soul, the home of my clan and my family.
But there was no Toran here. Even when Toran wasn’t home at his house, I knew he would be coming home soon.
He called me that night. We talked for two hours.
I felt better when I hung up. Then I felt lonely again, hopeless, sickeningly desperate, and nervous. I assured myself I could be an independent feminist and brainlessly in love with a man.
I missed him.
Romance Readers and Writers Magazine
By Kitty Rosemary
Books For Chicks Reviewer
GEORGIA CHANDLER AND
HER ALASKAN MAN
Keep this under your hats, ladies!
I have more information for you on the mysterious and supposedly “reclusive” Georgia Chandler, our favorite time-traveling romance writer. I can’t divulge my source, but it seems that she is in Alaska. Yes, Alaska. Apparently, she had a breakup with a past lover—rumor has it he was from Spain—and on a whim she took off for snowy Alaska. She is now cuddled up with a new man who won the Iditarod last year. A rugged, relentless, danger-loving man, if you know what I mean.
In every one of Georgia’s books, McKenzie Rae Dean has a new man, which brings up a question that I heard at the Romance Writers convention recently. How many is too many? What do you think ladies?
Ta-ta for now!
Kiss, kiss!
Kitty Rosemary
11
On Sunday, Toran called and said, his voice quaking a bit, “Charlotte, I must talk to you. May I come down?”
You betcha you can come down. “Yes. Is everything all right? Bridget?”
“I have heard no new news of Bridget. This is of a different subject entirely.”
“Do you want to come down now?”
“If I will not be intruding.”
“You never intrude.” Never.
“See you in a minute.”
I hung up without saying good-bye because I needed preparation time. I ran to brush my hair. To be daring I took out the clip and left my hair down. I changed my underwear. Three holes! I threw them out. I took off my blue blouse with embroidered roses because it had scrambled egg on it and put on a pink blouse. The pink blouse had a red strawberry stain. I ripped that off. Gray blouse. Not my favorite, but clean. I put on my vest with two white cats on either side and a skirt.
I brushed my teeth. I whipped on deodorant. I shoved my feet into my sturdy brown shoes.
He knocked.
Shoot. Ready as I ever would be.
“Charlotte, I want to be honest with you.”
“Yes.” I sucked in my breath. “Please do.” Did he sense my love and lust for him? Did he find me clingy, like a virus? Would he tell me to quit staring at him, like a visual leech?
Toran ran a hand through his brown curls, then clasped his hands on top of my kitchen table. “It’s not . . . now . . . if your answer is . . . not what I hope, what I wish . . . it will be terribly unfortunate . . . for me, as least . . . forever . . .”
“Now you’ve lost me.” It was completely uncharacteristic of Toran not to be precisely articulate.
He stood up and paced the kitchen, where I’d set down two cups of Bengal Tiger tea, which neither one of us had drunk. He stopped. “Char, I’ve missed you. I’ve always missed you, and not only since you moved out. I’ve missed you since you left Scotland. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you to return.”
“I feel like I’ve been waiting to return to Scotland, too. As if my
life has been on hold and I didn’t realize it was on hold.” I stood up, leaned against the counter, and fiddled with one of the buttons on my blouse. “And now I’m here, and everything feels right.” Almost.
“For me too, luv.” His face registered his relief. “You’re back in my life and it’s as if you brought the sun in. When I saw you, everything between us was the same. The same friendship. The same trust. I hardly trust anyone. You and Pherson, the Stanleys, a couple of other men I’ve known since childhood. That’s it. I’ve never felt comfortable around a woman as I do you.”
“What do you mean comfortable?” That sounded like a pre-announcement to: You’re my sister. Cheerio! My sister’s back in the fold. Let’s go make mud pies now.
“You can talk about anything—biology, space, politics, books, social issues, all things I like to talk about. I love that you like to walk on the beach and rock on the rocking chairs on my deck. I love that we can talk about farming, my business, and how you’ve made everything there so much easier, instantly.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that. I love listening to you talk about McKenzie Rae Dean and her time traveling. I love that you love Bridget, despite her lies to you.”
He took a deep breath, then came and stood right in front of me. “You’re beautiful. Your thick hair, the way it curls and waves, and your green eyes, brightest eyes I’ve seen in my life. I love your hands, I love your smile, I love the way you laugh. You’re calm, Charlotte. You’re together, you’re independent. I love your brain.” He blinked rapidly and his voice was rough. “I love you, Charlotte.”
Hoo. Woo-hoo. La la la! Whew! Did he say “I love you”? Was I hearing things? “You do?”
“Yes, although I feel like a fraud saying that.”
“Why?” A fraud? No fraud! None of that nonsense.
“I don’t think I’ve ever fallen out of love with you. We fell in love as teenagers, after being friends as kids, and that feeling, of loving you, wanting to be with you, it’s never left. You’ve always been with me.”
I took a wobbly breath. I would be brave, bold, bright. Stop with the alliterations! “I love you, too, Toran.” I sniffled. Darn. I wish I had a tissue. I usually have them in my skirt pockets.
“You do?” His eyes widened.
“Yes. Always.”
“You love me . . .” I knew he was nervous, and I found that so endearing. “As a friend?”
“Yes.” You bet I did. I saw him swallow hard.
“Only as a friend?” His face sagged.
“I love you as a friend, my best friend, and I love you as a man and I want to rip off your clothes and I’ve been wanting to rip off your clothes since I saw you.”
He smiled, his chest rose up, then down. He grinned. “I have felt the same, luv.”
“But you waited all this time.”
“I didn’t want to have this conversation with you when you were living in my house. I thought it would make you uncomfortable. It was improper. You wouldn’t have anywhere to escape to if you didn’t want to be around me. You might feel cornered, awkward. You might feel toward me as you would a brother, and it would make you feel . . . sick, my feelings for you. It wasn’t fair of me.”
“It would have been fair.” Exceedingly fair and yummy. “You’re a studly man, Toran.”
“Thank you. I have tried. It has been hard since I saw you to . . . to not . . . lose control.”
“Ah, control.” I waved my hand. “It’s overrated. Let’s lose it, shall we?”
“Charlotte, my Charlotte.” He cupped my face with his hands. “I have missed you every day.”
“Me too, Scottish warrior. Now are you going to kiss me or not?”
“Yes, I am, my darling lady, yes, I am.”
He pulled me into his arms, my chest tight to his, and he smiled at me. We both laughed, put our foreheads together as a few tears slipped out each, and then all I felt was hot and delicious as his mouth landed on mine. The only man in my life I have been able to let go with has been Toran Ramsay.
He’s the one.
And it was one fine orgasm, too.
The second was dandy.
A third for safe keeping.
“Why, Grandma, do you think I don’t have the Scottish Second Sight, like you?”
“Child, I don’t know.”
We mixed the yeast, flour, and sugar for crumpets. “But you have it and your mum had it and her mother before that had it.”
She nodded, her hair curling around her face. “That is true. But my sisters don’t have it and neither did two of my aunts. I don’t know why it skipped you. It will probably come to your daughter.”
“Do you like having Second Sight?”
“Sometimes. And sometimes it sends me batty, that it does.”
“I don’t think I want it. It would be scary.”
“Sometimes, Charlotte, it scares the bejeezes out of me.”
“I don’t want the bejeezs scared out of me.”
She laughed, gave me a kiss. “I love you, Charlotte Mackintosh.”
“I love you, too, Grandma.”
“Let’s jump into the ocean.”
I giggled. I’d had a glass of wine and Scottish whiskey. We were lying on Toran’s couch together, me on top of him.
Toran had taken me out for dinner at an elegant restaurant the night after we’d engaged in out-of-control naked gymnastics. He had also taken me to a traditional Scottish breakfast a few days later. We had black pudding, baked beans, sautéed mushrooms, Lorne sausage, toast and tea, broiled tomatoes with cheese, tattie scones, fruit pudding, and haggis. There were a couple of food items I refused to eat.
I tried to pay, but Toran said, “No. You are my lady, Charlotte. I will pay for us.”
The feminist in me wanted it to be equal, but the woman in me said I would offend my man if I objected, so I made him chocolate chip cookies. Since our first breathless, bouncing copulation we had also gone to Edinburgh to explore for the weekend and did not leave the hotel much, but we agreed, “We had seen enough.”
“You want to jump in the ocean, Toran? It’s ten o’clock at night.”
“Yes, it is, darling Charlotte,” Toran drawled. “Are you up for a bit of an adventure?”
Was I? The North Sea is freezing.
It was late.
It was dark.
It was flippin’ cold.
“Race you to the truck.” I sprinted for the door.
He beat me, then opened the door of his truck with a flourish. “After you, my lady.”
The North Sea is filled with liquid ice.
“My buttocks feel frozen just looking at it,” I told Toran.
“Mine too. In we go before we change our bleepin’ Scottish minds.”
He started to strip.
“You’re going in naked?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
Now this was fun. Whooee.
At least, it was fun to see him. But me? I’m a skinny bird with a hefty chest. “Okay, tough guy.” I stripped, quick. “I’m in and out for one second—”
“You have to get wet, head to foot,” he yelled at me as we ran for the ocean.
“This is insanity. Icy insanity.” I snuck a peek at him. Oh shiver my science beakers, he was gorgeous. Tall, broad, muscled. His genes were scrumptious.
“Hold your breath. In you go.”
I saw him glance down at me. Like eye lightning. He called out, over the waves, “Now that is a sexy sight I shall never forget.”
He is irresistible.
We splashed through the liquid ice. I shrieked. He shouted. He dove. I dove right after him. Within three seconds we were running up the beach, legs trembling, gasping for breath. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out. He wrapped a towel around me, then wrapped my hair in another one before wrapping himself in one.
“Freezing. Oh, my gosh. I am freeze-freeze-freezing. We’re insane.” My knees started to shake.
“Yes, we are. We proved it. Grab my hand. I’ve got our clothes.”<
br />
We ran to his car; he turned the heater on high.
We did not even bother to dress as he drove to his home, as it would only take a minute.
“I haven’t skinny-dipped here since Clan TorBridgePherlotte did it together.” My teeth chattered.
“Me neither. Not once.”
“You haven’t?”
“No. Seemed an activity best done with you.”
“You are intelligent and adventurous, Toran. A blend.” My lips were frozen. I could hardly speak. “A brave warrior and peach pie.”
“I’m a fightin’ Scot. I’m only sweet with my sweetheart, and that’d be you.”
“Aw, Toran.”
“Sweet Charlotte.”
And, la la la! There it was again. Sex fire between us. We were frozen to the bone, yet lust was suddenly zinging in the car.
“I want you to know that I love you.” He raised my icy hand to his mouth and kissed it.
My chin wriggled, my lip wobbled, and I sniffled, not a gracious sniff, and managed to choke out, “I love you, too, Toran. Always have.” I wiped my nose on the towel.
“The same is true for me.”
He opened my door to his truck, and we sprinted for his house, like two fast snowmen. Our towels came off quickly as he pulled me in tight.
I have never been kissed by anyone who can kiss like Toran. It’s like he’s kissing my whole self, my whole body, my whole soul. There is little science in kissing. It’s all for the heart.
He lifted me up. I wrapped my legs around his body and he carried me upstairs, because he is made of muscle. We had sex in a hot shower and warmed up lickety-split.
Our lips never left each other’s except to travel south. He could not stand my “southerly movements” for long and pulled me back up, telling me he was going to “lose it if you keep doing that, luv.” I enjoyed indulging in making his southern parts “lose it,” as the hot water streamed down.
“Lose it, baby.”
We were North Sea skinny-dippers.