“What’s going on here that you’re not telling me?” Syrie asked.
After all this time, she knew the two of them well enough to recognize strange behavior when she saw it.
“Ellen has agreed to allow Patrick to stay here,” Rosella said, lifting her eyes for the first time. “For a while, anyway.”
“Rosie is worried that you might be uncomfortable with him living here with us, since, you know, he’s a guy and the only open room is on the other side of your bathroom.”
A man living in their all-female household? And on her floor? Syrie sipped her tea and considered the prospect.
“Men have to live somewhere, too. And he is your cousin.” She took another sip and lifted her eyes to meet the oddly anxious gazes of her friends. “It really makes no difference to me if your cousin moves in with us. Is he awful or something?”
“Oh, no. Not at all,” Rosella denied quickly. “He’s just…different. You know. A little strange, him being a foreigner and all.”
“And tell her your good news,” Ellen chimed in, almost as if to change the subject. “Show her!”
“Show me what?” Syrie asked.
Rosella held out her left hand, her cheeks coloring an even brighter pink than they already were. “Clint popped the question yesterday. It’s official now. We’re getting married!”
Staring at Rosella’s hand, Syrie realized this bauble she wore on her hand must be the “ring to seal the deal” that Ellen had spoken of the day before. “It’s lovely. I’m so happy for you.”
Easy to be happy for her dear friend when she could see how very happy Rosella was.
“Thanks,” Rosella said, allowing her hand to drop back to her cup. “But I’ve been so into myself the past week getting ready for Clint to get back, I feel like I’ve missed everything that’s going on around here. So, update me, ladies. Ellen tells me you’re bringing a guy to the party today. I want to hear all about him.”
What was there to say? Ellen had told her to bring someone she found interesting, and Gino was a fascinating young man.
“There’s not much to tell. He’s one of the waiters where I work.”
“And…” Rosella countered, trailing out the word as if she clearly expected more.
“Details,” Ellen added, her face breaking into a smile. “Tall or short, dark hair or light, skinny or fat? You know, all the juicy details we love so much.”
“Tall, dark hair, medium build, I suppose. Neither skinny nor fat. Unique eyes.”
It was his eyes that had first drawn Syrie’s attention. So dark they were almost impenetrable, and yet still they shone with his every emotion. Old eyes, her intuition told her. Old eyes, old soul. And, even without remembering anything about who she used to be, she knew in her heart that she’d always had a fascination with old souls, as if she had spent her whole life searching for one particular soul.
One particular soul that she had no doubt belonged to the eyes she’d seen in her nightmare.
Her breath hitched in her chest and she stood up quickly, moving to the sink to rinse out her cup to hide the tears that so inconveniently clouded her vision.
How silly of her.
No matter how hard she tried, the dream she’d had was little more than a blur of impressions, so why she insisted on thinking of it as a nightmare she could only guess. And that guess centered around her fear that the eyes floating in her hazy memory of the dream belonged to the soul she’d sought her whole life. Eyes that belonged to a man she’d found after a lifelong search. Found and then lost again when she’d lost her memory.
Nightmare, indeed.
* * *
Patrick stood in the middle of Clint’s room, feeling like a prime sheep awaiting the inspection of a buyer on market day.
He wore a tight, finely knitted garment Clint had called a sweater and a pair of pants called khakis. They felt restrictive and completely foreign. He couldn’t remember ever having been so uncomfortable in the whole of his life.
“I’d prefer to wear my plaid,” Patrick grumbled.
Though he’d intended the complaint only for his own ears, he’d obviously not been successful in his attempt.
“Not a chance,” Clint said with a chuckle, continuing to circle around him, inspecting from all angles. “It’ll be hard enough to explain all that long hair. No way I’m going to try to justify you showing up at that party with a blanket wrapped around you. We’ll have to get to the store tomorrow for some shirts that fit. For now, that sweater will have to work. Maybe shove up the sleeves if it gets too hot.”
Shoving up the sleeves might provide some relief for his arms, but what about the rest of him? He still felt as if he had been shackled within the constrictive garments.
A knock on the door drew Clint’s attention, leaving Patrick uncomfortably waiting to see what new torture device would come next.
“I knew I had these stuck back somewhere,” the young man entering the room said as he thrust something into Clint’s arms. “My brother left them here when he came to visit last year. They’re too big for me, so maybe they’ll work for your friend.”
“Sweet,” Clint said, lifting two separate objects up for inspection. “Thanks, Greg. I appreciate your help.”
“No biggie.” Greg started out the door, but turned at the last minute and sighed. “There is one thing, though, you should know. Some dickweed tipped off Professor Hudson that you had someone staying in your dorm room. I heard he went ape over it and is headed your way this afternoon, ready to go all establishment on your ass.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. Being in ROTC hasn’t made me real popular with some of the people around here, so I’m sure they’ve been waiting to catch me doing something they could jump on. But no worries. We’re bugging out of here as soon as we can get Patrick put together, and these cowboy boots are the last piece of what we needed. He’ll be staying over at Rosella’s place from here on, so Hudson won’t have anything to have a beef with by the time I see him. But thanks anyway, Greg. For the boots and for the warning.”
“He’s a good friend of yers?” Patrick asked as soon as the door closed behind their visitor.
“He’s a friend,” Clint answered, handing over the boots. “I guess I don’t trust anyone enough to claim them as good friends.”
Patrick nodded, understanding such a feeling all too well. As he tugged the strange footwear onto his feet, another thought struck him.
“If there are known enemies here, why haven’t you dealt with them? Why would you leave them to skulk about and bring you troubles?”
Leaving his enemies to roam free sounded all too much like some political move his brother Malcolm would have suggested.
Clint chuckled, his face breaking into perhaps the first genuine smile Patrick had seen.
“You sound like my grandmother now. She always told me if someone was giving me a hard time, I should just sock ‘em a good one.”
Sock them? Patrick shook his head, frustrated at his own ignorance. Orabilis had told him that somehow the Magic would allow him to communicate with people in this time. What she hadn’t told him was how much of that communication still would be a mystery to him. He understood the words, but not always what was meant by the words.
“Why would you use footwear on yer enemies?” he asked, hating to look foolish, but hating worse not to understand.
“Footwear?” Now it was Clint who looked confused.
“Yer grandmother’s advice to sock yer enemies.” Patrick stood up to test the feel of the boots, surprised at a degree of comfort he hadn’t expected. “I canna see how giving them yer socks would change their behavior.”
“Give them my socks?” Clint’s grin turned into a full-fledged laugh before he caught himself. “Yeah, you’re right. Socks are something you wear on your feet. But sock is also a word people my grandmother’s age use when they mean to hit someone. You sock them. You hit them. Same thing. Make more sense now?”
Patrick nodded slowly, b
eginning to realize that he might never truly understand this strange place and time.
“Try not to be so literal, Patrick,” Clint advised as he walked over to open the door. “To fit in, you’re going to need to be more laid-back. And to win over this Syrie chick, you’re going to need to fit in. Try to follow along with what people say. Just go with the flow.”
Patrick nodded again, his mind occupied with the vagaries of this language as he followed Clint outside and across the lawn toward the metal beast that would carry him to see Syrie. Clint was correct, of course. To have any chance of success in his quest, he needed to fit in. He wasn’t sure how lying on his back might help, but he did understand the concept of going along with things, of doing what he was told. After all, a good warrior almost always did as he was told by his leader. If that was what it took to win Syrie’s heart, he could do whatever anyone in this strange place told him to do.
No matter how much he might want to do otherwise.
To prove to himself he could do this, he climbed into the belly of the beast Clint called his truck, and did his best to lie back.
Chapter 13
Syrie stared at her reflection in the mirror a moment longer before heading back into her bedroom and straight to the closet. Though both Ellen and Rosella had assured her the plaid miniskirt and white boots were perfect for the party, she just couldn’t make herself walk down those stairs wearing this outfit.
The young man from work she’d invited to the party had been acting strange enough since she’d extended the invitation. Some little voice in the back of her head told her that this particular outfit would definitely be sending the wrong message when he arrived, and that was a complication she could do without.
She slipped out of the tiny scrap of material and chose instead a pair of white pants with large, flowing legs. Perhaps not as festive as the skirt, but they made her feel much better about herself.
After one last check in the mirror, she headed downstairs to find Ellen waiting in the living room.
“What happened to the skirt and boots? You looked so good in them.”
“The boots are here,” Syrie said, lifting the hem of one pant leg. “The skirt just didn’t feel right for today.”
“You’re such a prude,” Ellen said, her grin taking any sting from the words. “But I do understand. You have to do what feels right for you. I would want nothing else.”
“Looks like our first arrivals are here,” Rosella said from her spot at the window. “Three cars all coming at once. But not my guys yet.” She turned from the window, chewing her bottom lip. “I’m so nervous about you guys meeting my cousin. How dumb is that?”
“Pretty dumb,” Ellen agreed. “Syrie, you get the door. Rosie, you hit the music. I’m going to start bringing the munchies out to the table.”
Syrie glanced out the window at the laughing people heading up their sidewalk. Most were people she’d met only once or twice. A few were totally new faces. Only one was someone she saw every day.
The guest she’d invited stood away from the others, at the curb, waiting.
Though his chin thrust out in his usual belligerent manner, Syrie saw more in his stance. Uncertainty? Definitely. Fear? Most likely. Her coworker broadcast a swagger, an indifference that never quite reached his eyes. It was these complex layers that had first drawn her attention to Gino Williams. Clearly, he was a man in need of a friend. And she was determined to be that friend, no matter how difficult he made it for her.
At this moment, how difficult he was making it was all too plain. He’d dressed in the most outlandish, garish clothing she could imagine. A tight, long-sleeved shirt adorned with a pattern of huge flowers in eye-piercingly unnatural shades of pink, green and yellow. The legs of his pants rivaled hers in their width, and in his bushy hair he’d stuck something that, from this distance, appeared to be a small leaf rake.
With a long-suffering sigh, she opened the door to greet their guests, and then made her way down the sidewalk to the spot where Eugene waited.
“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked when she reached his side.
Eugene’s mask of indifference slipped for a second as he turned wounded eyes in her direction. “Why did you ask me here? I saw those other people. You and I both know I’m not going to fit in with this crowd.”
“I asked you because I’m your friend,” she answered immediately. “And I want you to meet my friends. Come on.”
Looping her arm through his, she urged him forward toward the lovely old house she’d come to think of as home. As they stepped inside the door, she spotted Ellen and Rosella, and led her guest in their direction.
“Ellen, Rosella, this is the young man I told you about, Eugene—”
“Whoa, little mama,” her guest interrupted, his public face and loud, aggressive manner securely back in place like a suit of armor. “It’s Gino. Gino Williams.”
“Gino,” she repeated, adding emphasis to the name. How careless of her! She should have remembered how upset he’d become when their shift supervisor at the restaurant had used his real name.
“Eugene is a bummer, baby,” he told her as they walked away, his voice little more than an uncharacteristic whisper. “Totally brings me down.”
“Why is that?” she asked, sincerely at a loss to understand his dislike of his own name.
Once again, Gino lowered his defenses, allowing her to see behind the mask he wore. What she saw in his eyes was raw emotion.
“Because Gino is one cool badass. But Eugene? Eugene is some science-loving square.”
Again he’d lost her.
“But why do you want to be a badass?” She rolled the unfamiliar word off her tongue, having only a vague sense of what he meant in its use. “You told me you were studying science, didn’t you? I thought it was something you really enjoyed.”
For a fact, the one time she’d gotten him to open up about his studies, he’d gone on for longer than she’d ever heard him speak, on a topic about which she could understand only a little.
“Most people aren’t like you, Syrie. They don’t accept me in the way you do.” He shook his head and stared out the window. “There are maybe seven others like me at this university. Eight tops. I’ve learned that people respect what they understand and fear what they don’t. For the most part, they leave alone those they either respect or fear. I earned my way in here by working hard for grades, but people out in the world don’t have much respect for brains. So, if I can’t have their respect, I’ll settle for their fear. Whatever gets them to leave me alone.”
“But you don’t want to be left alone, really,” she said, as perplexed as ever. “You want friends. That’s why you agreed to come with me today, isn’t it?”
“You are one crazy-assed little white mama, for sure. With one rose-colored view of the world. That’s a fact.”
The man seemed obsessed with asses.
“As far as I know, I am mother to no one,” she said. “Little or otherwise.”
Gino’s laughter was authentic, but his emotional mask was back in place and Syrie doubted she’d have another opportunity to see on the other side of it any time soon.
It was a discussion Syrie wanted to continue anyway, to try to understand this odd man. But Rosella called out her name, and when she turned in her friend’s direction, all thoughts of her curiosity to learn more about what motivated Gino fled her mind.
Rosella stood just inside the front door, her hand clasped within the grasp of a man who could only be her beloved Clint. That alone, though interesting, wouldn’t have kept Syrie from her pursuit of information about Gino. No. It was the man standing just behind Clint. A stranger. A stranger with eyes so blue they seemed to fix upon Syrie and draw her toward their owner.
“Syrie, I have someone I want you to meet. This is my Clint,” Rosella said, a smile spreading over her face. “And this is Patrick MacDowylt. My cousin. From Scotland. The one I was talking about earlier who’s going to be staying here with us.”
Nothing in the world could have torn her gaze from Patrick’s. Without conscious thought, she lifted her hand and he clasped it within his own, bending his head until his lips brushed lightly against her skin, sending a frisson of electricity tingling up her arm and down her spine.
“Do I know you?” she asked, her voice as breathless as if she’d been running.
He straightened back up to his full height, his gaze keeping her pinned to the spot, her hand still held by his. “I canna say, my lady. Do you know me?”
His voice, deep and smooth, rolled over her like a blanket of soft, fuzzy wool, his accent at once foreign and familiar and completely captivating.
“I don’t…” She paused, words failing her as she continued to stare into his eyes.
“Hey, man,” Gino said, arriving at her side to physically disentangle her hand from Patrick’s grip before casually draping his own arm around her shoulders. “What’s your bag, anyway? You some longhair, draft-dodging peacenik or what?”
“He’s asking what you do,” Clint said quietly as if translating from a foreign language. “He wants to know what your occupation is.”
“My occupation,” Patrick repeated thoughtfully. “I’m a warrior.”
He made the statement as if what he said should have been clear to anyone without their having to ask. For some reason, Syrie wasn’t the least bit surprised.
Gino snorted, a sound unmistakably filled with contempt. “You don’t look like any soldier I ever saw. Not with all that hair. The army buzzes you short, man. They don’t go for that look.”
Her gaze freed with the release of her hand, Syrie allowed herself the luxury of studying Rosella’s cousin. The hair that Gino mentioned was definitely something most people would notice right away.
Right after they were able to get past his eyes, that is.
Long, straight and black, it would likely have hung to the middle of his back if it hadn’t been caught up with a tie at his neck. As it was, his leaning over her hand had brought the whole of it cascading over his shoulder, where it lay now, caressing his chest in a way she found herself wanting to emulate.
Anywhere in Time (Magic of Time Book 2) Page 8