Through veils of dust, he singled out a moving figure: a female, very slender in beige shirt and shorts, her reddish hair coiled messily under a bush hat. Sunlight through the dust surrounded her with a golden aura. Like him, she seemed separate from the activity around her. Behind her, the rescue teams, the mothers and fathers wailing amid the ruins, their dark skins caked with dust—all seemed to move with the swarming speed of an anthill. By contrast, the woman moved in slow motion, taking photographs and scribbling in a small notepad.
Occasionally someone would stop her, as if pleading for help; and she would go and assist with the same slow, methodical grace.
Rufus couldn’t take his eyes off her. A journalist, he thought. He watched for half an hour as she climbed over tumbles of rock or stared down into ruptured fissures.
No. Observation revealed that she was more interested in the geological destruction around them, the tear in the Earth’s crust and the material it had thrown up. The victims around her were minor interruptions to her study.
A photographer, then, or a scientist? A geologist, perhaps, who happened to be in the right place at the right time?
The wrong place, he corrected himself.
Presently she looked up and saw him. She stopped; the world itself stopped. Closer she came until they were no more than four feet apart, their eyes locked upon each other. Around them, carnage and misery retreated behind yellowish gauze, and all activity froze as if a pause button had been pressed.
Her face was striking: heart-shaped with wide-set slanting eyes, golden-ivory skin caked with dust, and dark firm eyebrows. Her irises were liquid gold, ringed by dark brown. Red strands of hair escaped from beneath her bush hat.
Impossible. Yet, if it wasn’t her, why had she come straight to him, and why was she staring with that so-familiar, knowing gaze?
Familiar, and yet he wasn’t sure … or rather, he was sure, but daren’t admit it yet. There was a game to be played first. He needed to be certain … and so did she.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Orla Connelly.”
“Miss Connelly,” said Rufus. Neither smiled; it didn’t seem appropriate.
“Dr. Connelly,” she corrected. “Or just Orla.”
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Orla. I’m Rufus Hart.”
“Rufus,” she echoed. “And what brings you here?”
“Isn’t it terrible? I’m in shock. I don’t know where to begin.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve experienced earthquakes before. It never grows any less appalling. Who are you with?”
He shook his head, not comprehending the question. “With?”
“Which aid agency?” she said patiently.
“Oh. Oh, I see. No one. I’m traveling alone.”
Her eyebrows rose sharply. “Alone, in this region? You must have a death wish, Rufus.”
“I just happened to be in the area when…”
“Just happened?” She stared into him with her unblinking golden gaze.
Lying came easily to him. Often he said the first thing that came into his head and didn’t care if he was believed or not. With Dr. Orla Connelly, however, there was nothing for it but the truth.
“I was up in the mountains, selling guns to some belligerent types,” he said levelly. “The earthquake ate my Jeep, and there’s not much left of my tent, either. So I started walking.”
“Poor you, Rufus.” She gave a sympathetic frown. “We have food, water, medical supplies. You ought to be checked over.”
“Did you hear what I said? I’m an arms dealer. Why do you want to help me?”
“Because I assume that’s not all you are. You’re not actually pointing a gun at me. What you are to me is an extra pair of hands. But you ought to be examined first.”
“Can’t you examine me, Dr. Connelly?”
“No,” she said firmly.
“In that case, I’m fine.” He paused. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“My team.”
“Medical team?”
“No. We’re seismologists. We were studying tectonic activity in the area when this happened.”
“So it’s your lucky day!”
She blinked at last. “In the eyes of a complete sociopath, perhaps. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to gather data while people need our help.”
“I saw you taking photographs, Orla.”
“The geological damage needs to be recorded.” She held out her hands and he saw that the palms were scraped and bloody. “I’ve also been helping to dig victims out of fallen buildings. And now I’m on my way to help in the first aid tents. Come with me?”
He took her left hand to examine the injuries more closely. Her skin felt hot and rough in his fingers. “Are you asking me to help?”
“Are you offering?”
“Well, considering that I sold a consignment of weapons that might be used against these very people in a few days’ time, wouldn’t that be hypocritical? As you suggest, I am a complete sociopath. Why would you think I’d want to help?”
“Because no one’s beyond redemption, Rufus.” She shrugged. “Even an arms dealer must find a humanitarian streak in a crisis like this.”
“Perhaps.”
“And because I’m asking?”
“Only because you ask. You,” he whispered. They held each other’s gaze, both basking in a secret that couldn’t yet be spoken aloud. “This is unbelievable.”
“Isn’t it?” Orla said softly. Stepping forward, she kissed him on the mouth, parting her lips so he could taste her warmth.
He knew her mouth. He knew her. But he had to be sure.
* * *
Stevie sat cross-legged on the carpet in Fin’s front room, watching four children under seven rampaging amid a sea of wrapping paper. Two were Fin’s and the other two belonged to Fin’s sister, Bernie. The room was bright and too hot, a good third of the space taken up by a huge, overdecorated Christmas tree. The television was on full blast, showing a corny seasonal musical that was on every year. Fin’s father, in a green party hat, was circulating to top up drinks, while her husband, Andy, was on his knees trying to keep a pair of overexcited Labradors from knocking the children flying.
Fin, Bernie and their mother could be heard arguing and laughing at the tops of their voices in the kitchen. Andy’s father—a sweet, widowed black man in his sixties—was sitting near Stevie explaining that he’d had to emigrate from the West Indies to England because he simply couldn’t stand the heat in his home country. His humorous storytelling kept Stevie entertained.
Fin had a brother, too. Patrick was a quiet, good-looking young man with a shaven head and soft dark eyes. Skinny in dark trousers and a bright red sweater, he sat on the edge of an armchair, sipping red wine and watching his nephews and nieces at play. He looked as out of place as Stevie felt.
Part of her longed for the peace of her apartment, but she had to challenge her unsociable instincts. So here she was in the midst of a classic family Christmas. The same scene was being reenacted in millions of households all over the country, all over the world.
So too the scene of people drinking alone, like Daniel’s mother, with no news of her son … Stevie had offered to spend the holiday with her, only to be turned down flat. She was relieved. She could only imagine how grim the day would have been for them both.
Now Stevie was embarrassed to realize how little she knew about Fin. She hadn’t known her family was originally from Ireland, nor that she had a brother and sister. Patrick, Fin and Bernie sounded English, but their parents, the Feehans, retained their rich Irish accents. Although it was hard to miss the fact that Andy was black—also skinny and handsome, with the same irrepressible sense of humor as his father—she hadn’t known his folks were from Trinidad.
I’m hopeless, Stevie thought. Memo to self, start taking an interest! She didn’t mean to be self-centered. It was fear that kept her at arm’s length from the everyday world.
Over Christmas dinner, Fin’s mother grew pink-fa
ced and garrulous, a party hat askew on her dark-dyed hair. She began asking Stevie cheerful yet probing questions that she didn’t want to answer.
“So, you’re not with your family on this special day?”
“Er, not this year, no,” Stevie answered with a polite half-smile.
“What do they think of that, then?” Mrs. Feehan exclaimed.
“Well…”
“Mum, don’t interrogate her,” Fin said quickly. “More potatoes, anyone?”
“I think it’s a shame. Patrick works over in California, but he still makes the effort to come back and visit.”
“Oh, what do you do?” Stevie asked quickly, to change the subject.
“I write music for computer games,” said Patrick.
“He’s a partner in the company!” Mrs. Feehan puffed up with pride. “You wouldn’t believe how much money they make! But you’re doing really well too, Stevie, aren’t you? You run the museum, you and Fin between you.”
“She’s my boss,” said Fin. Her mother ignored the remark.
“Your parents must be so proud, Stevie. Where are you from?”
“Er, quite local, really.”
“Well, so there’s time for you to see them later.”
“Mum!” growled Fin.
“What? I’m only making conversation. It’s lovely that you’re here. Isn’t it, Patrick?”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. Sensing his embarrassment, Stevie didn’t look at him.
“So, any brothers or sisters, Stevie?”
“No, I’m the only one,” she answered, lightly, willing the questions to stop. “As far as I know.”
Wrong thing to say. Mrs. Feehan’s eyes almost popped from her head. “Oh? Oh my goodness, I hope I’m not putting my foot in my mouth.”
“I’m surprised you can get any turkey in there, Mum!” Fin cried.
Even the children were listening now. Stevie grimaced. This was why she hated social gatherings: having to explain herself to nosy strangers.
Fin’s small son joined in. “Is your dad is a serial killer? That’s why Stevie can’t tell us anything. You can’t spend Christmas with serial killers, because they’re in prison.”
“Where’s her mum, then?” said the daughter. “Did her dad murder her mum with a big knife?”
“What?” Fin shrieked.
“It happens on the television,” the daughter said defensively. Stevie started to laugh, couldn’t help it.
“Right, no more TV for either of you. Ever.”
Fin’s sister Bernie caught Stevie’s amusement. “I bet it’s worse. She might be one of those child murderers living under a secret identity.” Bernie raised her hands like monster claws at the children, making them giggle with pretend fear.
“Bernie!” Fin exclaimed. “All of you, stop interrogating her!”
“Yeah, give her a break,” Patrick added.
“Honestly, it’s okay,” said Stevie, taking a sip of wine before she choked. “There’s no big secret. I was brought up in foster care, that’s all.”
A murmur of sympathy rose around the table, while the children soon distracted each other by listing school friends who lived with foster families. Stevie cringed inwardly.
“And she hates talking about it,” Fin added.
“Well, you could have told us, Fin.” Her mother turned bright red. “Stevie, I’m so sorry.”
She patted her hand. Stevie flinched. “There’s no need. It’s no big deal.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Feehan repeated, beginning to gabble. “Me and my big mouth! You’re so right, it’s no deal at all. Thousands of children are brought up in care. You’re none the worse for it. Is she, Patrick? Such a lovely looking girl, you are, and look how successful!”
“She’s not on the streets, shoplifting,” said Patrick. “I call that a result.”
He and Stevie exchanged a grin.
“Mum, stop!” Fin said with a meaningful glare.
Some time ago, Stevie had had a similar, awkward conversation with Fin. Since then, Fin tried to protect her from people’s benign nosiness. Unfortunately, this was a double layer of embarrassment; Stevie twigged that Fin’s mother was checking her out as potential girlfriend material for Patrick in a none-too-subtle manner.
Stevie quelled an urge to laugh. Families. A hothouse of tension, mixed with forced joviality. She felt like a biologist observing a colony of meerkats. They were fascinating to watch, but she’d never be part of their community.
Later, Stevie and Fin retreated to the kitchen, declining offers of help with the washing-up and closing the door behind them. Fin looked hot, flustered and slightly drunk. “Stevie, I am so, so sorry about my family. They’re a nightmare!”
“It’s all right. Quite funny, really.”
“Are you sure? You looked … uncomfortable, to say the least.”
“No, I’m fine. My real problem was thinking about Daniel’s mother. Has Frances spent the day alone in that cold old house? I offered to go, but she said no. We’d both have felt miserable and awkward all day.”
“More awkward than my mother?”
“Well…” Stevie gave a brief, sad laugh. “They’ve got something in common: the torment of fretting to death over their beloved sons.”
The kitchen door opened and Patrick slipped in, offering to dry the pots and pans. Fin handed him a tea towel and said, “Good timing. Take over. I need to chill upstairs for ten minutes before I murder someone.”
“Christmas, eh,” Patrick said ruefully, as Fin closed the door. He spoke softly, standing close as Stevie handed him wet crockery.
“Sometimes I think I’m better off without a family,” Stevie said with a grin.
“No kidding. Please accept my groveling apology. My mother does it constantly: any time there’s a halfway eligible female in the room, she tries to pair us off. Why d’you think I moved to America?”
“Halfway eligible? That makes me feel special.”
“No, I didn’t mean— I think you’re absolutely gorgeous, Stevie.”
“You’re quite cute yourself.”
“No, really, you’re stunning. Mum actually chose well for once.”
Stevie turned, holding a large glass dish that dripped soapy water onto their shoes. “So, don’t you think it’s about time you told her you’re gay, Patrick?”
He went white. “Fucking hell, is it that obvious?”
She smiled. “To everyone except your mum, and maybe your dad, too. Andy’s father couldn’t keep a straight face.”
“Don’t say anything. Please don’t say anything!”
“Hey, calm down. Not a word. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Got someone special?”
Red blotches spread into his pale cheeks. “Yeah. My business partner in California.”
“So pretty soon you have to tell her the truth. It’s for the best. Put a stop to the excruciating matchmaking attempts.”
He groaned. “Yes, I know. I think she knows, secretly. But we’re Catholics; denial is her default setting. If I sit down and tell her, all her illusions come crashing down.”
“I’m sure she’ll survive,” Stevie said crisply.
“Hey, you know, it’s really nice meeting you,” Patrick said, sounding more relaxed. “Any time you’re in the States, you have to call me and we’ll meet up. I’ll write down my phone number. Promise?”
“It’s a deal,” she said, knowing she’d never go. No time, no confidence. Also, no passport.
The day rolled into evening, full of games and chocolates and cakes and more drinks, overexcited children, too much television. By nine o’clock, Stevie was exhausted. She made her excuses.
“Andy will drive you home,” said Fin.
“You’re kidding. He’s more drunk than you are. And it’s only ten minutes’ walk.”
“Fifteen. He and Patrick can walk with you then.”
“There’s no need. Please. I promise not to get murdered.”
&
nbsp; “How’re you fixed for tomorrow?” The question was too polite. Stevie knew the score. Fin knew she was alone, and found it a pleasure to invite her on one special day. But for the entire holiday season? That was different. There was a line where genuine sociability edged into obligation, a time to say enough and good night.
Stevie didn’t want to be treated as a charity case. They both knew, and acknowledged it with awkward, ironic smiles. “Tomorrow,” Stevie said, “I’m going to an old folks’ home.”
“I know how you feel.” Fin laughed. “My family has that effect on me, too.”
“They’re not that bad.” Stevie shared her amusement. “No, I go a few times a year. I help to serve party lunches, blow up balloons, all that festive stuff.”
“You kept that quiet.”
It was on the tip of Stevie’s tongue to add that there was a reason. In the foster home where she’d stayed the longest, the only person who’d shown her any understanding was the grandmother, Nanny Peg as they’d called her. Now Peg was small and frail and in a care home, but Stevie visited her even though Peg often did not remember who she was. Tomorrow she would sit and hold Nanny Peg’s hand and stroke her white hair. Not for the first time, Stevie felt guilty that she didn’t visit more often.
She didn’t say this to Fin, because that might have led to explaining an episode of her life she was always trying to forget.
“Anyway, I must get home to the ghost cat. Even though she’s departed the earthly plane, she still gets mad if I leave her alone for too long.”
“You and your ghostly cat!” said Fin, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know whether to laugh or call a psychiatrist!”
“Stevie’s cat is a ghost?” exclaimed Fin’s daughter from the hall doorway.
“It’s a joke,” Fin replied. “Don’t start pestering her. Night, Stevie. Happy Christmas, take care.”
“See you in the New Year.”
They hugged. Stevie closed the door on the treasure box of light, tinsel and merriment, and stepped out into the quiet, dark night.
* * *
Night fell. Rufus and Orla lay close together without touching, still fully clothed, gazing into each other’s eyes. Her tent was considerably better-appointed than his had been, with an air-filled mattress to cushion them. Her sleeping bag lay loosely over their bodies as an extra layer against the growing chill of the night.
Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) Page 8