A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  I couldn’t understand why these people were doing so much for me, and for Killian. Before I left, I’d had very few occasions when I needed someone to fight for me. I knew my parents had stood up for me with Rachel’s parents so many years ago, and that my father had once pulled a kid aside after Sunday School because he was spreading rumors about kissing me, and nicely explained to him why it was unmanly to kiss and tell, especially when it wasn’t true. But until Jordan made a point to go to my parents, and then his, for their permission and blessing on him pursuing me, I’d never really experienced what it felt like to be chosen and fought for. And I hadn’t experienced it since, either. The moment I left home, I quickly realized I was the only one rooting for me.

  Yet, here was this group of people I’d left behind in my fear and shame, and instead of condemning me and hurling accusations at me, even knowing the depravation in which I’d been living, all they wanted to do was help me and my son, fight for us and protect us, even from myself if need be.

  “What did he say?” I could just picture Dad and Jim in low-voiced conversation, heads together, discussing me and the maelstrom of trouble I’d brought with me.

  “He told me to tell you he loves you and asks you to be brave enough to trust Stella and me more than—” He broke off and cleared his throat, but I knew what he almost said. More than you trusted us. I could almost hear Dad’s voice saying the words in my head. “More than you thought possible,” Jim amended. “They’re ecstatic you’ve come home, Savannah, and that you’ve brought Killian.”

  I took a deep breath and simply said, “Okay.”

  Jim smiled encouragingly and Stella rose, crossed the room to a filing cabinet in the corner, and flipped open the two-drawer facade to reveal the contents of a mini fridge. She returned with a chilled water bottle for each of us.

  “So Savannah, do you think you could tell us what happened? How you got hooked up with this guy?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Three years earlier…

  “I got a new bodice this year—it’s like this deep copper color that looks amazing with my blue skirt—so if anyone needs to borrow my old one, it’s available!”

  Wednesday Youth Night had wrapped up a few minutes ago, and the girls in my small group were all abuzz with Renaissance Faire plans. Jenny Beach and Crystal Moreno were Friends of Faire members with season passes for all seven weeks the Faire was in Southern California. Their memberships gave them each a complimentary ticket and discounts for more, and the two of them were trying to get a bunch of girls together to go.

  “It was so much fun last weekend, you guys!” Crystal had stars in her eyes over some guy she’d flirted with at one of the drinks booths, and she couldn’t care less who came along. Jenny, on the other hand, was pushing a little harder, and I had a feeling she was worried about becoming a third wheel if Crystal made good on her plan to pursue her nameless pub boy.

  “I’d like to go,” I said. I thought it sounded like a lot of fun. I knew parts of it were bawdy—Jenny called it an adult theme park—but I also knew things like that were often what you made them. I suddenly wanted to dress up in peasant garb and curtsy before Queen Elizabeth. The girls raved about the joust and the magic shows, the Scottish dancers and the aerial acrobats, even though they saw the same shows every year.

  “What? You?” Jenny’s eyes widened across the table where we still sat in a circle listening to Crystal tell us all about Jeremy. “You think your parents would let you go?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. But I had a feeling they wouldn’t be accommodating.

  Jenny and Crystal exchanged glances and Brooke Moore, who’d already snatched up one of the proffered tickets, cupped her hands about a foot out in front of her chest. “Cleavage.”

  “Lots of it,” Jenny agreed.

  “And cod pieces,” Brooke added, doing the same hand gesture above her lap.

  “Cod pieces?” Across the table, Tanya Moore started giggling. Although I was sure she knew perfectly well what they were, it didn’t surprise me when she shrieked, loud enough for the closest boys table to hear, “What are cod pieces?” Tanya had a crush on Baxter Beach, Jenny’s twin brother, and she had no qualms about embarrassing herself—or anyone around her—to get his attention.

  “Sh!” Crystal darted a glance around the room to make sure none of the adults had heard the comment. She turned her focus back to me, and in a low voice, she asked, “So do you want to spend the weekend at my place? Both Friday and Saturday night? Then you wouldn’t have to ask them at all. My parents are super busy with my brother’s soccer stuff right now, so they’re always glad when I have someone over. Makes them feel less guilty for leaving me alone so much.” She turned to Jenny and Brooke. “Hey, you guys should all just spend the weekend.”

  “If you have it at Jenny’s house, I’ll come,” Tanya quipped, glancing over her shoulder at Baxter for the thousandth time.

  “Then for sure we’re doing it at my house,” Crystal muttered under her breath, and Brooke snorted.

  “Stand up,” Jenny ordered, waving her hands at me. I rose and held my arms out to the side; I assumed she was assessing me for costume fit. “My old bodice will fit you, but you’re a good four or five inches taller than I am. I’ve got several skirts and chemises so you can try them on, but you may end up showing a lot of leg.”

  “By leg, she means ankles,” Brooke explained, her flat-affect voice making everything she said just a little bit funny. “Dirty, sexy ankles.”

  By the time Friday night rolled around, everything was set. We worked late into the night determining which costumes worked best, how we’d wear our hair, and what accoutrements worked best with each costume. I loved every minute of it.

  Saturday morning, we were on the road in Jenny’s little Prius by eight o’clock in order to find good parking, do a little meet and greet with other Friends of Faire members, and be there for the frenzy of activity right before the official opening of the gates. We were all feeling the tiniest bit sleep deprived and over caffeinated, but no one was complaining. Instead, we were singing. Loudly. At the top of our lungs. With all the windows open. And getting lots of funny looks from other California freeway drivers.

  Which was exactly the way we wanted it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  They dressed me in full peasant garb; a floor-length chemise with balloon sleeves and a drawstring neck, a full overskirt, and a front-laced bodice with stiff boning stitched into the seams that made it difficult to breathe. Around my waist, I wore a leather belt from which hung a drawstring pouch for a purse, a sheathed dagger, a set of brass keys on a huge key ring that jangled when I walked, and a pewter tankard. I wore a pair of my own Gladiator-style sandals, not caring that they were reminiscent of a different era.

  There was a brief debate over whether or not I should cover my head with a little cotton cap—appropriate head covering for the time period—but the general consensus was that it would be a shame to hide my hair in any way.

  I didn’t wear the latest fashions, I didn’t have the most up-to-date gadgets and gizmos, and I wore very little makeup, mainly because I just didn’t care that much. But my hair, in its au natural state, was admittedly my best feature, and I was a little vain about it. It grew quickly with just enough curl to give it body without frizz. Dark brown in the winter, the color softened with bronze highlights during the sun-filled summer months. I cut it only to trim the dead ends away and to keep it healthy, and it fell in a thick curtain down my back, the tips brushing just above my backside.

  So instead of covering it, our first purchase inside the gates was from a street vendor, a girl with a basket full of beribboned flower wreaths. I chose one with lacy Queen Anne’s flowers and clusters of tiny red berries tucked into a circle of curled willow twigs, long, multicolored ribbons fluttering down my back.

  I was as naïve as they came upon entering the Faire that day. My mind was blown at the ample amounts of plumped-up cleavage spilling over
the tops of corsets—Brooke had been spot on about that—the glorious beauty of men in kilts, and every costume imaginable, from pirates to Vikings to Ents to Elves. It was like traipsing through an alternate universe and I felt exhilarated, every sense heightened. I was intent on seeing everything.

  We drank. Pear mead. I knew it had “just a little alcohol” in it. And I knew we weren’t supposed to be able to buy it. But Crystal had made some kind of a whispered deal to the incredibly friendly guy manning the tap, presumably her man-prey, and our pewter tankards were never completely empty. And oh, how refreshing fruit juice was on a warm, mid-April day in Southern California. In multiple layers of clothes.

  By noon, I was feeling carefree. I wondered what Jordan was doing, if he was having fun without me, and that thought made me mad. He hadn’t called, emailed, or texted since January right after he got back to school, letting me know he’d arrived and that he was looking forward to summer. I knew that was the plan—that he wasn’t going to pressure me in any way until he came back for summer, until I’d turned seventeen. I’d agreed to wait until then to see if what we felt was real, even though I had no doubt whatsoever about my feelings for him. But what about his? What if he’d found some cute little coed number and had forgotten about me, sitting here at home, pining away for him? “Not today,” I declared, holding my second—third?—tankard of mead aloft. “No pining today!”

  Jenny laughed and clanked her tankard with mine. “No pining today? I’m in.” We linked arms, hollered for Brooke and Crystal to join us, and then wound our way down the lane. The next performance stage we came upon had us all stopping mid-skip, and Jenny let out a catcall of approval. Marek the Gypsy King was leading his motley troupe on stage in a call-and-response dance that involved twirling, tapping, and clapping. I gasped with delight. It was the most exotic and fascinating thing I’d ever seen in real life.

  But it wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen on YouTube. In fact, watching him and the others on stage, I began to move with them without thinking, my body slipping into the familiar postures and fluid movements of the belly dancers.

  There was nothing you couldn’t learn to do by watching YouTube tutorials, and I’d been working on my belly-dancing technique for over a year now in the privacy of my bedroom, even going so far as to give myself a secret Gypsy name, Savah. I’d never shown a soul, never told anyone what I could do with my body, but on that day, in front of the hundreds who’d gathered to watch the Gypsies, bolstered by too much mead and new experiences, when Marek clapped his hands over his head in a syncopated rhythm, I copied him flawlessly from the back of the crowd. When he tapped his heels on the wooden planks of his stage, I bounced soundlessly on my heels on the rough wood chips beneath my sandaled feet. When he swiveled and thrust his hips, spinning like a flamboyant top, I mirrored him with my own saucy moves.

  “Girl, you got moves!” Crystal hooted, and Jenny let out a shrill wolf whistle, drawing a lot of looks our way. Including the eyes of the man on stage.

  A wicked smile spread across his face, and The Gypsy King pointed at me. I froze, suddenly realizing I was caught in the limelight, and then tried to duck out of the crowd to run away. But Jenny, Crystal, and Brooke were cheering me on and had no intention of letting me sneak away. When Marek crooked his finger at me, beckoning me to come forward up the middle aisle, my embarrassment began to fade as I was filled with excitement and anticipation. There was something intensely gratifying about being publicly singled out by the sexiest man I’d ever laid eyes on. Maybe even sexier than Jordan Ransome. College-boy jerk.

  I approached the stage, my eyes never leaving his, and he reached down and drew me up in front of him, his lean-fingered hands holding mine. He didn’t let go of my hands, his body moving now in more of a swaying motion, reminding me of one of those serpent dancers. His eyes, like gemstones set in the flawless bronzed skin of his face, bore into me with a fervor that left me breathless. His voice, like the music we both still moved to, was rich, fluid, and exotic.

  “You like to dance, sho ka shoey?” He spoke with a very slight accent. “I want you to dance with me. I will show you.” And with that, he lifted my hands above my head, spun me around so my back was to his body, and lowered our arms in front of me so he was wrapped around my torso.

  Where he moved, I moved. When he swayed to the left, I swayed to the left along with him. When he stepped to the right, I stepped to the right. When he drew back and tapped his heels in a rakish pose, I put my hands on my hips and clicked my heels with just as much sass in my own posture. When he pulled me up against him, one hand spread wide into the curve of my lower back, pressing our hips together in a move so carnal I could barely stand, I laughed giddily, throwing caution to the wind. And when he bent close to my ear and whispered, “I think perhaps you would like to dance with me all night, no?” I thought my insides were going to burst into flames.

  As the music came to a throbbing, crashing end, he spun me away from him and bowed low, a leg thrust out, one arm swept high behind him. I smiled, curtsied self-consciously, and turned to step off the front of the stage. But Marek caught my hand, stepped off stage with me, and walked me down the aisle to where my friends waited with wild expressions.

  Marek introduced himself to all of us, and when I gave my name as Savah instead of Savannah, my friends played along and didn’t give me away. Marek turned me to him, his hands resting intimately on my waist. He moved my hips side to side, his eyes locked to mine. “You, Savah, must let me be your teacher. Study under me, I insist. I will show you passion and fire, magic in every move. You will come for me?”

  “I can’t. We live over an hour away.” But oh, the thought of learning belly dancing in a group of dancers? And from this man? How I wished things were different, that we lived closer, that my parents wouldn’t care, for once, what people thought they should or shouldn’t do—what I should or shouldn’t do. I pushed the thought of Jordan away.

  Jenny laughed out loud, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me away from him. “Are you wanting to teach her Gypsy dancing or Gypsy sex, man? Holy cow, that’s about the boldest proposition I’ve ever heard!”

  Marek smiled politely and cocked his head.

  “Oh no. Don’t try to pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Mr. Gypsy King. Study under you? Teach her passion in every move? Will she come for you?”

  I squeaked in mortification as the words, so intense and almost beautiful coming from Marek, sounded so crass and dirty when Jenny said them. Crystal laughed, and Brooke poked me in the ribs.

  “How old are you, Marek, King of the Gypsies?” Brooke spoke up, her words slower and flatter than usual. I giggled. “Thirty? This girl—” she yanked me to her, almost pulling me off my feet, “—is jail bait, my friend.”

  “Jail bait?” Marek pointed at our tankards. “Then please tell me you are drinking fruit punch in your cups.”

  I shook my head, half-smiling, half in frustration. “Don’t listen to her,” I begged, clutching at his arm. “We’re all legal.” I made an exaggerated pouty face, and Marek reached out and touched my bottom lip with his thumb.

  “It makes my heart glad to hear that,” he said, although I could tell by the twinkle in his eye that he didn’t believe us for one minute. “So glad, in fact, that I want to give you my card. If you change your mind, okay?” He held out his hand for me to take, and when I did, he pulled me along beside him as we skirted the crowds and headed toward the back of the stage. From a small box, he pulled out an inexpensive business card with a picture of a Gypsy couple dancing in the moonlight in front of a charming covered wagon. The troupe’s website, Marek’s name and phone number, and an email address were on the back.

  I took the card and tucked it into my drawstring bag, but then had no idea what to do next. My friends hadn’t followed us, and we stood just behind a curtained door that separated the backstage area from the crowds. There were a few people milling about back there, but most were on stage dancing, playi
ng instruments, or mingling with the audience.

  “Okay. Well, thank you, Marek.” Had I pronounced his name right? My tongue felt thick and I giggled. I said it again, drawing the syllables out to make sure I got them down. “May-reck. That was fun.” I bit my lip and turned to go, but he stopped me, his hand resting on my forearm.

  “Wait, beautiful Savah. If you insist on leaving me without a promise to see me again, you must leave me with a kiss goodbye instead.” And he pulled me up against him, one arm encircling me, his hand pressing me to him again like he’d done on stage, the other at the back of my head, his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me captive while his mouth lowered to mine.

  I simply stopped breathing. And then my knees gave out and I clutched at his biceps, afraid I might just melt into a puddle at his feet. I whimpered against his lips, and the unfiltered sound sent a tremor up my spine. It did something to him, too, and he groaned low in his throat, his mouth nudging mine open. His tongue felt foreign and intrusive, but I was having a hard time keeping up with how quickly things were happening, and I was still trying to figure out if I even wanted to kiss him when I felt his hand move down over my backside, his fingers suggestively squeezing. An unfamiliar urgency welled up inside of me, and I couldn’t tell if it was a good or a bad thing. My head was spinning, and every time I closed my eyes, the rest of me started spinning, too. I needed to breathe, I needed air, I needed to think, to clear my head, but when I tried to pull away, his fingers tightened in my hair, holding my head so he could taste me and taste me again.

  A tiny tremor of fear made its way up the back of my neck. “Stop,” I whispered, growing still in his arms, realizing that my attempts to retreat only spurred him on. “Please.”

  And he did. He pulled back, smiled down at me, his azure eyes heavy-lidded with something I couldn’t even begin to define. Bending forward, he kissed me again, softly, his lips gentle, and took a small step back, his hands sliding away from me.