I told him about Bob, and his fall. I told him about all the people in the Chicago contingent, and their foibles and their strengths. I told him about Aaron’s life and death, and unwound for him my unwilling conclusions. Finally, I told him about my terror-stricken flight from Jake, my horror when I realized I was wrong, and our version, Jake’s and mine, of what had really happened.
“You won’t have to do anything about it, will you, Alan? Jake and I thought it was better left alone.”
“Me? This is Scotland. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”
“I don’t know whether to hope Teresa gets well, or not. I don’t think I ever want to know for sure—”
“Your friend Mr. Pym would tell you to leave it to God, and he’s probably quite right.”
There was a rather solemn, but comfortable, silence.
“I don’t suppose they’ll ever find Bob.”
“Mmm. I had a little word with the police today, by radio. They’ve called off the search for the body—there’s no point, apparently, after such a storm—and marked the investigation closed. The Chicago people can go home as soon as they can get a plane from Glasgow. Listen, Dorothy.”
His tone of voice had changed, sharpened with intensity. I sat up straighter, surprised. “What?”
“Dorothy, will you marry me? Soon?”
I sat, dumb.
“You cannot imagine what I’ve been through, not knowing what kind of trouble you were getting into, not being able to see you, or talk to you, or help you. I don’t ever, ever want to be put in that position again. I know you hadn’t quite made up your mind, and I didn’t intend to rush you, but—my God, woman, I can’t live this way!”
The black and white cat jumped down and scurried away. I found my voice.
“Alan, this whole week I’ve been missing you and trying to reach you. All I wanted to do was talk to you, get your advice, hand the whole situation over to you. And when I heard your voice coming over the hill today, for a minute I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Yes, of course I’ll marry you—as soon as you like. Can we do it here—on Iona? In spite of—everything—” my voice caught for a moment and then steadied “—this is a special place for me.”
He pulled me to him, his arm around my shoulder. “I wish we could, but there’s the little matter of a license. It’ll have to be back in Sherebury, I’m afraid. Or in Indiana, of course, if you’d rather—”
“No, you don’t,” I said firmly. “You said soon. Don’t renege. Sherebury, as soon as we get back. And Alan—in case I never said so before—I do love you. A lot.”
He laughed hugely and turned my face to his. I’m quite sure the Nunnery, in all its hundreds of years of chaste existence, never saw a kiss like that before.
THE CAMPBELLS HAD a ceilidh for us that night, a before-the-wedding reception. Hester picked the few flowers that had survived the storm, and so did every other gardener; Janet arranged them, and the room looked lovely. Hattie Mae sang to Chris’s accompaniment, including an extremely surprising version of “0 Promise Me,” and everyone kissed the bride to be; I got an enthusiastic buss from Jake. There was Highland dancing; I tried one easy reel with Alan and then just watched contentedly.
The Chicagoans left the next day. It was a Sunday, just a week (amazingly) after I had left Sherebury. We all went to the Abbey for an ecumenical service, and prayed in our own ways for Bob, and for Teresa, still unconscious in Oban. I said a fervent prayer for Jake, too; he was there, in a corner, his accustomed ironic smile on his face. Look out for him, please, God, even if he doesn’t believe in You. He needs something worthwhile to do, something hard that will occupy all his time. Find it for him, will You?
Grace had, with her customary efficiency, arranged matters with the airline and the Chicago Religious Assembly; the group was going to catch a Monday morning flight at no extra charge, so they had to catch the Sunday 1:15 ferry from Iona. They’d stay in Oban for a couple of hours, to see Teresa, and then catch the last train to Glasgow. Alan and I walked down to the jetty to see them off.
Each of them shook our hands ceremoniously. Grace smiled graciously, Janet grunted something about being glad to get off this godforsaken island. Typical to the last.
Hattie Mae and Chris walked down to the boat together, arguing loudly about music. “I sure was glad to meet you, Dottie, honey,” said Hattie expansively before turning back to attack Chris’s views. Chris merely winked as he shook my hand.
Jake was the last to board. He amazed me by kissing my hand with one of his little bows. “You’re a lucky man,” he said to Alan. “If you’re ever in Chicago . . .”
“We’ll look you up,” I promised, and meant it. “Good luck, Jake.”
He shrugged and raised his eyebrows and boarded the ferry.
The village was steeped in Sunday quiet as we walked back up the hill. Waves lapped at the jetty; seagulls mewed; shoals of sparrows swam in the still air. You could hear the beat of their wings.
We took the shortcut through the Nunnery grounds, and as we reached the garden, Alan paused.
“Dorothy, we’ll be making some promises to each other soon. There’s one I’d like now.”
“And what might that be?”
“I’ll be taking you for better or for worse. Will you please promise me that you’ll limit the worse to no more murder and mayhem than can reasonably be expected?”
He was smiling; I looked up at him and grinned. “I promise I’ll try.”
Hand in hand, we walked up the peaceful road.
Holy Terror in the Hebrides Page 21