by Joan Hohl
“Go back to your room and get some sleep,” Sunny advised in a murmur, lightly stroking her fingertips over the shadows beneath his eyes.
“I plan to,” he assured her, catching her hand and drawing it to his lips to kiss her fingers. “Sunny, about this evening...” he hesitantly began, torn between his desire to see her, be with her, and an equally compelling belief that he needed some breathing space, thinking time away from the distraction of her company.
“I’ve rattled you, haven’t I?” she asked, as if she had read his thoughts and emotions.
“Yes.” Adam was nothing if not honest and forthright. “You must admit it all sounds a little weird.”
“And you’re having trouble dealing with it.” Since it wasn’t a question, she didn’t wait for a reply but continued on, “I expected you would.”
“Then, you don’t mind if...”
“Of course, I mind,” she interrupted. “I mind like the very devil.” Leaning into him, she kissed his receptive mouth, hard. “But I do understand,” she assured him, sighing as she withdrew. She reached for the door release and pushed open the door.
“I’ll call you in a day or so,” he said, feeling slightly sick and missing her already.
“Maybe,” she said, her eyes sad. “It’s all true, you know. Everything I’ve told you is true.”
The feeling of sickness expanded inside Adam. “I know you believe that, but...” his voice faded and he moved his shoulders in a helpless, hopeless shrug.
“You can’t or won’t believe it,” she finished for him, despair weighing her tone. “And unless you can accept it, you can’t accept me.”
He didn’t respond, didn’t know how to respond.
Sunny stepped out of the car.
“Sunny.” Her name burst from his throat in a hoarse, whispered cry.
She shook her head and moved away from the car.
Though Adam felt like something was clawing him apart inside, he let her go.
Eleven
He was searching, searching, looking for signs of the passage of his tribe. He had to find them, find her, his woman, his mate.
He was no longer naked; the blue paint was gone. His hips and loins were girdled, swathed by the short leather skirt of a Roman foot soldier. Leather sandals encased his feet. His right hand gripped the hilt of a Roman short sword.
He did not concern himself with pursuit; his Roman captor had bid him go, find his mate. Then, if his belief in the One True God proved constant, abiding, he could return, with or without his life mate.
He knew he would return. He had no choice. Enthralled by the teachings of the mission of the man called Jesus of Galilee and the One True God, he thirsted for more, to feel as one with this Supreme Being.
But he needed his mate by his side.
Sharp anxiety twisted within him, a sense of urgency so strong he felt he dare not stop searching—not to eat, not to sleep, not to rest. He had to find them, his people; he had to find her.
There had been women at the Roman encampment, lovely women, pampered women, willing women, eager to test the strength and power of the savage Celt.
His lip curled and he made a harsh, snarling sound deep in his throat.
Those women held no appeal for him, with their filmy garments and perfumed skin.
His body ached for, his mind cried out for, his soul—the wondrous soul the priests had told him he possessed—yearned for her, his life mate, his woman.
Blessed relief surged through him at the unmistakable markings of the passing.
He arrived at the new, hastily constructed settlement late in the day. He knew at once that something was amiss. Dread filling him, he followed the sounds of grief.
He found her in her parents’ dwelling. Horror smote him at the sight of her broken body, the contractions of her distended belly, the anguish twisting her beloved face.
Flinging others aside, he made his way to her, dropping to his knees beside her crude pallet.
She was dying.
Grasping her slender hand, he bowed his head, unmindful of the tears streaming down his sweatstreaked face.
Holy Mother of God, he prayed to the Blessed Virgin, have mercy. If it can be accomplished, intercede with your Son for her life. If not, take this heathen woman into your most compassionate care.
In an agony of grief and remorse, he made a vow to her. Swearing his love for her, and in the belief of the Man who had taught of life everlasting, he promised her that they would be together again, throughout eternity.
She died with his name on her lips.
The sword of inconsolable grief pierced his heart, rendered his mind.
Screaming his pain, he ran and ran...
The sound of his hoarse cry woke Adam from the nightmare. Gasping for breath, he jolted upright in the bed, wild eyes skimming over the shadowy room.
There were no trees, no forest, no cold, lifeless body of his beloved.
Sunny. The woman writhing in agony, her distended belly contracting in labor to expel the dead child from her body, in the dream was Sunny.
At that moment Adam was jolted into the horrifying realization of his failure to use any form of protection for Sunny or himself during their lovemaking.
How could he have forgotten? He never forgot. And yet with her he had forgotten, thus put her at risk.
Shuddering, Adam blinked and focused on his surroundings, searching for...
There was only the motel room, the midday light blocked by the drawn drapes.
Adam was shivering, and yet his body was slick with sweat. Raising a shaky hand, he drew it over his face, startled to discover his tears mingled with perspiration.
It was only a dream, he told himself, a reenactment by his imagination of the story Sunny had told him.
But it had seemed so real. He had felt the anxiety, the sense of urgency...and then the terrible thrust of pain, the bitter taste of loss.
Adam knew he could not bear to live through a similar situation. Before he left Virginia, he would have to contact Sunny, assure her he would take full responsibility if she had conceived his child.
The chances of him having impregnated her probably were slim, but if it had occurred, he wanted her to know he would not attempt to shirk his responsibility.
And yet, common sense told him the odds were in his, their favor. In all likelihood, he was worrying for nothing.
Tossing the tangled covers from him, he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, noting the dampness of the sheets where he had lain.
Heaving a sigh, he glanced at the clock. The digits read 1:27 p.m. It had been after eight when he had crawled into bed; he had slept less than five and a half hours.
Adam considered lying down and trying to go back to sleep. But the sheet was damp, and though he felt even more exhausted than before he’d slept, he was wide-awake, and in truth he was afraid he’d fall back into the nightmare.
Deciding he needed a shower, food, and then some brisk exercise in the bracing, fresh December air, somewhere removed from the restored area with its constant reminders of the past, he headed for the bathroom.
It was much colder in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Though the rain of the day before had abated sometime during the morning while Adam was sleeping, the sky remained overcast, the air moist and biting, more what Adam was accustomed to in the mountains of Wyoming.
Of course, the Blue Ridge Mountains, as part of the long Appalachian range, were different from the Rockies. They weren’t nearly as high or rocky. There were more trees, a lot more trees.
Adam noted the differences whenever he took a fancy to pull the car into a scenic-view area, and along every walking trail he wandered for a half mile or so.
He drew deep breaths of cold air into his lungs, enjoying the scent of moisture-laden fir and pine, and tried to imagine how it would smell in the dryer summer months.
He lingered in the mountains until dusk, then headed back to Wilhamsburg and the motel, driving well within the posted speed lim
it. He stopped to eat at a roadside restaurant, enjoying both the meal and the soft Virginia drawl in the voices of his fellow dining patrons.
It was late when he arrived back at the motel and he was tired, physically and mentally. But the excursion had had the desired effect; the sense of anxiety and confusion he had awakened with were gone. He felt a lot better than when he started out. His equilibrium had been restored.
The excursion had been what he’d needed, Adam decided, crawling into the freshly made bed after a relaxing hot shower. Distancing himself from the trappings of the past and from the reasontesting claims made by Sunny, had realigned his normal, logical perspective.
Despite the dictates of his body and emotions to seek out Sunny, continue their mind- and sensesblowing affair, Adam advised himself to keep his distance.
He could function much more efficiently without soul-wrenching dreams such as the shattering one he had experienced that morning.
His course set to his rational bent, if not his inner satisfaction, Adam fell asleep. If there were dreams, he didn’t remember them upon waking.
Reinvigorated by the nine hours of deep, uninterrupted slumber, he felt energetic and prepared to face another foray into the restored area and the past
But first things first, he told himself, exiting the suite; and the first thing on his mind was to fill his empty stomach with a good southern breakfast.
Maybe he’d even try grits, Adam thought as he strode from the elevator. He was approaching the restaurant when the vaguely familiar face of the man walking toward him caught his attention and arrested his progress.
“Good morning,” the elderly gentleman called, offering his hand and a smile.
The familiar sound of the man’s voice, his smile and the twinkle in his eyes, activated Adam’s memory.
“Mr. White, isn’t it?” he asked, smiling as he accepted the man’s handshake.
“That’s the role I play.” He chuckled. “My real name is Lawrence, Charles Lawrence.”
“Grainger, Adam,” Adam supplied, grinning. “I didn’t recognize you at first in modern attire.”
Charles Lawrence grinned back at him. “I don’t start work until later. I had an errand to run this morning and decided it would be better to do it in my regular clothes. I don’t get stopped and queried that way.” The twinkle in his eyes grew brighter. “While I love my work, there are times when I appreciate being just another face in the crowd.”
“I can imagine,” Adam responded, laughing. He hesitated, then acting on impulse, proffered an invitation. “I was about to go into the restaurant for breakfast. Would you care to join me for a meal—or just a cup of coffee?”
“Since breakfast was my intent, as well,” Charles Lawrence replied, “I’d be delighted.”
It wasn’t until they were seated and the server had taken their breakfast orders that Charles Lawrence threw a verbal curveball that rattled Adam.
“I’d remark upon the coincidence that brought us to meet this morning,” he said, his eyes fairly dancing with inner amusement. “But I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“No?” Adam raised his eyebrows, while feeling his spirits sink. “Why not?”
“I’ve learned better.”
“How?” Adam asked, frowning. “I mean, how could you, anyone, possibly know differently?”
“Through experience, Mr. Grainger.”
“Adam, please,” he said, his frown deepening. “And I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Charles, please,” he reciprocated, his smile indulgent. “You see, Adam, I know that it is certainly not coincidental that I am here, in this particular location, at this particular point.” He paused to take a tentative sip of the steaming coffee the waiter had served them.
“You’re referring to the restored area?” Adam took the opportunity to clarify.
“Precisely.” Charles’s nod was emphatic. “If you’ll allow me to give you a brief personal history?”
Taking a deep swallow of his coffee—because now he really needed a shot of caffeine—Adam responded with a brief nod of agreement.
“I’m originally from upstate New York, a small town you’ve probably never heard of,” Charles tacked on, smiling. “I was a teacher by profession... a history teacher.”
His eyes took on a faraway look—an expression that by now Adam had become accustomed to seeing in Sunny’s eyes. Steeling himself against an eerie sensation invading him, he murmured, “Go on, please.”
Charles blinked, then smiled. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry for wandering off, but it still amazes me.”
“What does?” Adam prompted, sparing a smile of thanks for the waiter as he served their breakfasts.
Charles likewise smiled at the waiter and tasted his scrambled eggs before continuing with his account. “I always felt a particular interest in American history, especially the prerevolution period. Do you like the grits?”
Startled by the sudden switch in subject, Adam laughed and admitted, “No.”
“Can’t say I do, either,” Charles said, laughing with him. “Must be an acquired taste. Now, where was I?”
“Your interest in prerevolution history,” Adam reminded him.
“Ah, yes.” Charles nodded, finished chewing and swallowed before continuing. “My wife and I often talked about visiting Colonial Williamsburg, but with having to raise and educate four children, we never could find the time—” he grinned “—not to mention the money. After our youngest finished college and was on his own, we started saving and planning. We came down here the spring after I retired.” An odd expression crossed his face. “It was strange, but from the minute we arrived I felt as if I belonged here.”
“Belonged?” Adam asked. “In what way?”
“Like I had at long last come home. After discussing with my wife the feasibility of relocating, I applied for a job, and was accepted, as a part-time reenactor. We subsequently sold our house in New York and bought another small place here. I have never regretted it.” Finishing the last of his meal, Charles sat back in his chair.
Adam stared at his own empty plate in consternation; he couldn’t recall tasting any of his food. The resumption of Charles’s recollections snared his attention.
“In the beginning, when I was experiencing sharp and clear moments of déjà vu, I was shocked by a seeming familiarity of places, things and people....” He smiled. “Not living people, you understand, but people famous and anonymous, long since gone. And the really startling, almost frightening thing was, I saw myself as one of them, living with them.”
“You’re referring to reincarnation,” Adam said, stifling a sigh of resignation.
“Yes.” Charles arched his brows. “I take it you don’t believe in reincarnation.”
“No.” He shrugged. “I believe in the here and now, in logic and reality.”
“So did I,” Charles assured him. “In fact, I was a critical skeptic of anything paranormal.”
“But being here, in this restored area, made a believer out of you?” Adam asked, wryly.
“Over time,” Charles admitted. “And after some rather thorough research.”
“Research?” Adam frowned. “How did you go about gathering research on something like that?”
“By visiting the museum of the steeping prophet.”
“The who?” Adam exclaimed.
“Edgar Cayce Museum in Virginia Beach.”
The name rang a distant bell in Adam’s mind; he had heard the name before, but... He shook his head.
“They called him the sleeping prophet, because he diagnosed illnesses and made predictions about the future while in a trance state,” Charles explained.
“Diagnosed?” Adam asked. “For whom?”
“Many, many people,” Charles said. “From thousands of miles away. People he had never seen, would never see. His diagnoses and prescribed treatment proved effective in most instances.”
Adam looked skeptical.
“It’
s documented.” Charles smiled. “He also recounted his own previous life memories. What I learned there, in addition to what I experienced here, made a believer of me.”
Adam didn’t respond. What was there to say?
“And so, Adam, that is why I don’t believe in coincidence,” Charles went on, bringing his explanation full circle. “I couldn’t convince myself that it was a coincidence, pure chance, that brought me here at the exact moment in my life when I was ready, open for a complete change in my life.”
“Well...” Adam shrugged. “Things happen,” he said—inadequately, he knew.
“But that’s my point,” Charles countered. “Things don’t just happen, willy-nilly, without purpose or design. I feel certain my encounter with you today, at this precise time, was not a coincidence, either.”
“But...” Adam shook his head, and laughed—a bit uneasily. “What could be the purpose or design of our meeting in the lobby of a motel?”
Charles smiled; his expression was both encouraging and compassionate. “Since I know why I’m here, I suggest you will have to work the answer to that one out by yourself.”
It was late when Adam returned to the motel from Virginia Beach. In spite of his reservations, and the certainty he was on a wild-goose chase, he had driven to the beach resort town soon after parting company with Charles Lawrence.
Adam had spent hours in the museum, studying the information on display about the sleeping prophet. He had come away still unconvinced of the theory of reincarnation, but impressed by the amazing life of Edgar Cayce.
The unassuming man appeared to have lived to serve.
Incredible...and humbling.
However impressed, Adam had not been inspired to exist simply for the betterment of mankind. While he could admire the selflessness of another, he knew himself to be a man of rational self-interest.
And rational self-interest was urging Adam to cut and run, distance himself from the unsettling effects of the restored area in general and Sunny in particular.