The Scent of Forever

by Julie Doherty

  “Who is she?” Ann asked, still studying the paintings.

  “I didn’t know until today.” He saw in the way she looked at him that he could have her. The idea filled his cock so violently it leapt against the buttons of his fly. Aye, he could have her. And then what? She’d leave him with a taste of what might have been. The unfairness of it would worm into his soul and plant a deep infection that would prevent him from looking for anyone else. He couldn’t afford that; his son needed a mother—a real one this time, not a drugged-up whore.

  “I can’t believe how much she looks like me.” Her voice was like fine silk, her expression innocent, trusting, inviting.

  His cock grew heavier and hotter. It strained uncomfortably against his jeans. It was time to end this, to erase any chance of the attraction leading to something bigger. “I would never have painted an American.”

  The wilting of her smile was like a knife to his belly.

  “Is there something wrong with Americans?”

  That certainly worked.

  “Ye must admit, ye’re trigger-happy folk. Sure, aren’t ye poking your noses into Syria’s business now? Your president has been all over the telly for days. Was it not enough to send Iraq and Afghanistan back to the Stone Age?”

  Outrage quenched the tiny fires in her eyes.

  He hated himself for hurting her.

  Alasdair rushed toward them looking frantic. “Come now, let’s not discuss politics.”

  Her wounded expression gave way to anger. Rage bloomed on her cheeks. “You know, I’m getting pretty sick of the anti-American bullshit in this country.”

  “Ye can thank George Bush for that.”

  “So, let me get this straight. Because I’m an American, you assume I am responsible for everything my government does?”

  Alasdair stepped between them. “Stop this. William, what are you at?” The old man turned to Ann. “I apologize for my friend. He isn’t usually this bellicose. He’s had a bit too much to drink.”

  “Yeah, well he can kiss my Yankee ass anyway.” She charged to the front window and looked out, no doubt praying the storm would soon pass. “I’ve been taking shit about my country across the width of yours.” She hugged herself and glared. “Yes, I am an American, but my ancestors were as Scottish as yours.” To Alasdair, she said, “I’m sorry. You’ve been nothing but kind to me. None of my anger is directed at you.”

  William wanted to run to her. He longed to gather her in his arms and apologize with a shower of kisses. Instead, he took his flask from his back pocket and downed three gulps of whisky. It seared his lips and stomach.

  Alasdair cleared his throat. He looked ready to wring his hands—or William’s neck. “Why don’t we go into the sitting room for some tea. Ann, you’ll take a chill by that window. William, this young lady shares our interest in Somerled of Argyll. Perhaps we can forget our differences and spend the evening discussing something we have in common, yes?”

  Oh, good. The beautiful woman William had to keep at arm’s length had a common interest in the King of Argyll.

  Grand.

  Alasdair led Ann to the sitting room. She headed for the couch while he threw a few sods of peat in the fireplace.

  William halted at the open doorway. He leaned against the frame and watched Ann doff her hoodie. She wore a sweater that clung to her curves and accentuated her thin waist. She was lean, strong, healthy . . . and far more beautiful than any of his paintings. Her boots and tights covered every inch of her legs, but as she sat down on Alasdair’s couch, her tartan skirt flared and revealed shapely thighs.

  Holy . . .

  He took another swig of Laphroaig. It warmed his belly and gave him the strength to remain where he was.

  “William, throw the kettle on.” Alasdair scowled at him over a thousand pieces of shortbread he arranged and rearranged on a plate. To Ann, he asked, “What is it you do for a living?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “A writer! Are you published?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “William, did you hear that? She’s a published author.”

  He heard. Beautiful, kind, artistic, and intelligent. God, what have I done to deserve this punishment?

  “William?” Alasdair’s thick eyebrows rose. “The kettle?”

  William started for the kitchen. He made it as far as the howling chimney when the lights went out.

  “Oh dear, there goes the electricity,” Alasdair muttered in the weak light of the fresh fire.

  William patted across the mantelpiece until he located the matchbox Alasdair kept there. He lit the hurricane lantern. Its orange glow joined the feeble firelight to illuminate the room and cast long shadows on the walls. He searched Ann’s face for anxiety and found none.

  “So much for the tea,” Alasdair said. “I wish now that fireplace still had a crane in it.”

  “Does this happen often?” Ann asked.

  “In gale season,” William replied.

  “I can remember a few snowstorms that left us without electricity for weeks. We played games by lamplight. It was nice.”

  She looked at William and presented him with a smile, an apparent peace offering. Her lips were a perfect frame around straight, white teeth.

  He looked away, feigning indifference, but his honest cock refused to participate in the deception; it throbbed miserably.

  “Weeks without electricity,” Alasdair said, “and here’s me wondering how I’m going to survive the night with no tea.”

  “You can have tea in five minutes if you don’t mind sacrificing one of those inexpensive tabletop grills in the gift shop,” she said.

  William knew the ones she meant. Alasdair ordered the grills years ago, when the new campground opened on the island. “There’s no charcoal, and even if there was, nobody’s gonny stand over a grill in a gale.”

  She rolled her eyes, then asked Alasdair, “May I?”

  “Of course.” Alasdair offered William a wry smile, clearly amused by her sass.

  She hooked a finger under the lantern’s handle and glared at William as she flounced past him to retrieve one of the grills. Its silver grate glinted as she pulled it out of the package. She balanced it on the coals.

  “Do you have an old pot or a kettle that you don’t mind getting a little sooty?” she asked.

  Alasdair led her into the kitchen. They returned with a pot of water, which Ann set on top of the grate. It sizzled.

  “You’re a resourceful wee lassie, aren’t you?” Alasdair teased. “Look, William, I shall have my tea after all.”

  She shot William a triumphant look that threatened to topple his resistance.

  “So I see,” William said. “Perhaps now she will don a cowboy hat, cook us some beans, and sing ‘Oh Susannah’.”

  Her smile flattened to a taut line.

  “William, honestly, what has gotten into you?” Alasdair set the plate of biscuits on the coffee table.

  Ann crouched to stir the water, dropping the hem of her kilt between her thighs.

  William stared at her legs. The ache in his groin turned unbearable. It was, what, six months since his last shag? Did God hate him so much that He sent an off-limits angel to torment him? He wouldn’t sit here all night and look at her. He couldn’t. He needed air, a walk in the cold rain, a few more drinks.

  “I’m away to the pub.”

  Alasdair shot him an incredulous look. “In this storm? William, don’t be daft.”

  He had to go. If he stayed in this room one more minute, he would fall for her. He whirled on his heels, knowing in some deep region of his mind that he already had.

  Chapter 13

  The rented Fiat’s wipers slapped across the windshield, but they did little to increase visibility. Rain las
hed sideways in front of Nigel’s headlights and puddled on the A849. The lake lay on his left, which meant Fionnphort was only a kilometer or two ahead.

  The tiny car rattled across a watery pothole, then stalled.

  Shit.

  Nigel turned the key, restarting the motor with a sputter. He inched forward, rejoicing when the terrain fell toward the sea. Worst case scenario: he could coast from here.

  Fionnphort was dark.

  Electricity must be out.

  An inn called The Puffin had an oil lamp burning on a windowsill and a No Vacancy sign undulating on chains in the yard. It looked to be the only show in town. Ann McConnell said she was staying in Fionnphort. This had to be the place she booked.

  Nigel parked the Fiat and opened the door, which the wind stripped from his hand and flung open. It took all his might to close it again. With his jacket over his head, he leaned into the storm and crossed the street to the inn.

  The innkeeper, a woman in her fifties, answered the door wearing a robe and bedroom slippers. “Och, come in, come in. Ye’ll founder oot there.”

  He stamped his feet on the welcome mat and peered hopefully into the sitting room, a nervous flutter plaguing his belly. His spirits sank when he discovered the room was empty. Perhaps Ann was already in bed.

  “I see you have no vacancy,” he said, “but I’m in a terrible bind. Is there any chance you have a spare couch? I’ll even stretch out on a floor, if you have nothing else.”

  “There’ll be no need of that,” the innkeeper replied cheerfully. “A guest missed the ferry back from Iona. Ye can have her room for the night. Let me just clear oot her things. She has nae slept in the bed.” She led him to the hearth in the sitting room. “Warm yoursel’ here.”

  He faced his palms to the flames and waited while she went upstairs, then returned with a tote bag and a suitcase. She leaned both against the wall behind a reclining chair. A United Airlines tag dangled from the suitcase’s handle.

  “Can I get ye a cup of tea?” she asked.

  He tore his gaze away from Ann’s luggage. “That would be lovely.”

  “It’ll take just a wee while. I’ll have to use the cooker, since the electric’s oot.”

  “I’m happy enough here.” He blew on his hands and hoped the lights came back on soon. His energy was dwindling fast.

  When the innkeeper left the room, he skulked over to the suitcase to read the luggage tag.

  Ann McConnell, Seven Stars Road, Millerstown, PA 17062. USA.

  He waited until he heard dishes rattling in the kitchen, then unzipped the suitcase and plunged his hand into its interior. His fingers brushed against something silky.

  Jackpot!

  He tucked the panties into his jeans pocket, rushing back to the fire before the innkeeper returned with a steaming cup of tea.

  “We’ll wait until the gale breaks to settle up. I canny get ye a receipt until then anyway. I’ll do my best to make your stay pleasant in spite of the conditions.”

  “My dear woman, I could not possibly be happier.”

  He finished his tea, then set the cup and saucer on a coffee table. “If you’ll just show me to my room, I will be out of your hair.”

  “This way.” She lit two tapers, then led him to the staircase. “Take care,” she whispered. “I have a full hoose. Most are asleep.”

  They climbed to a room labeled Abbey View. The innkeeper opened the door and mouthed, “Bathroom is across the hall.”

  He walked into the room and set his candlestick on a nightstand.

  The candlelight cast an orange sheen on the innkeeper’s cheeks. “If ye’re all sorted . . .”

  He whispered, “I am. Thank you.” I am well sorted indeed, madam.

  She smiled before turning and padding down the stairs. When her distorted shadow disappeared below, Nigel closed and locked the door. Trembling so violently his teeth chattered, he slipped Ann’s panties from his pocket. He brushed them across his face, then spread them out on the duvet cover. His hands fumbled with his belt and zipper. He slipped out of his clothes, then eased down on the silk. “Soon, darling.” He rubbed his flaccidness against the satin. “Soon.”

  Chapter 14

  The Crossed Swords had been carefully situated by its builder in a sheltered glen between two bald hillocks. As a result, the pub suffered no storm damage, even during the worst of Scotland’s gales, which pleased the locals, who considered the pub the second most important structure on Iona. The first was the abbey, of course, although some would argue that the pub served men in a more practical way. A man got his news at the pub. He argued over politics there, and it was where he heard about available work. At the pub, a man could buy and sell livestock, implements too, and discuss marital problems with wise old widowers, not an unmarried priest.

  The Crossed Swords—or Duncan’s, as the locals called it—wasn’t the only place a man could buy a drink on Iona. The Curragh also served alcohol. Wedged between the inns facing the sound, The Curragh catered to tourists, who ordered haggis on portabella caps and pretended to know something about single malt whisky. Duncan’s was better, William thought, as he staggered past The Curragh. At Duncan’s, the proprietor, John Duncan, served no food, just honest drinks and sound advice.

  William’s billowing raincoat pulled him past the ferry pier, where waves crashed against rocks and pylons. Soaked with rain and sea spray, he crawled, spider-like, up the lane toward Duncan’s, stumbling when he entered the sheltered glen and the wind disappeared. The storm raged overhead, blowing leaves and bits of heather from one barren hillock to the other, but in the glen, all was still except for a garbage bin rattling across the lane.

  “William!” The regulars lifted their glasses as he entered the candlelit pub.

  “Rough oot there, lads.” He hung his sodden raincoat on a peg next to ten others. Nearby, two Guinness kegs supported a board and candles in jam jars. A row of flashlights leaned against the wall.

  John Duncan tossed him a towel from behind the bar. His pudgy face glowed red above a hurricane lamp. “Lagavulin, William?”

  “Aye, John, thanks.”

  John spun on his heels to pull the bottle off the shelf.

  “Slide it down here,” Liam Doherty said as John poured. The Irishman patted a vinyl-covered stool and looked at William. “This one’s waitin’ on his arse.”

  William dried his face and hair, then returned his mane to the confines of an elastic band. When he strode to the bar, Liam asked, “What’s the craic?”

  The colloquial greeting required no reply, but William offered one anyway.

  “Not much. Some storm. When did ye get in?” He nodded his thanks to John for the whisky.

  “Yesterday.” Liam sipped a Guinness, depositing foam on his thick mustache. He would drink nothing else. “Weatherman predicted this gale would go south to Kerry.” He tapped his large skull, which held mischievous eyes that reflected the candlelight. “But I got a sixth sense about these things.”

  “Ye did right.” William climbed up onto the stool. “There will nae be a slate left on Iona after this.”

  “Aye,” Liam said. “I told Mary this was gonna be a bad one. I’m glad for the work, but it gives me no pleasure to be right, sir.”

  “Never known ye to be wrong. Unlike the bloody weatherman.”

  “Aye, that wanker.”

  According to the Irish Department of Social Protection, Liam Doherty had been unable to secure gainful employment for the past fifteen years. This entitled him to welfare benefits, which he proudly collected while secretly working as a roofer. He had a particular talent for being in the right place at the right time, and since Iona saw its share of gales, he was well known—and well liked—on the island.

  He suffered no guilt about his fraudulent activities. Indee
d, he saw it as his patriotic duty to “screw the men at the top,” as he was wont to say. For the most part, William—and the people of Iona—agreed with him. Even if they didn’t, they hired him anyway. He provided superior service at reasonable rates, and he was always there when they needed him most.

  “I could use a few bob, if ye do get work,” William said.

  Liam laughed. “Oh, Billy me boy, there’ll be work. Sure, I’ll be lucky to see me wife this month. I’m surprised ye’re not flush. They tell me it’s been a busy season on the island. Have ye not sold any of your paintings?”

  “Aye, but the money’s already gone. Just sent the solicitor five hundred quid. Still owe him a grand.”

  “Jaysus, that much?”

  “Fighting a restraining order is nae cheap.”

  Convincing the justice system that he wasn’t a wife-beating maniac took time. And money. Lots of it.

  “Feckin’ bitch.” Liam gritted his teeth. “Feckin’ strung-out slapper.”

  “Well, it’s over now. I can file for custody. Solicitor is working on the petition, so I canny owe him a grand for long, if ye get my meaning.”

  “Aye, keep him well sorted. Ye see the wain lately?”

  “Two weeks ago. I have my first unsupervised visit coming up. They’re letting him off school for a few days. I canny wait for that.”

  “Good on ye. Must be growin’ like a weed.”

  Daddy, please do nae go.

  William forced his constricting throat open with a gulp of whisky. “Would ye believe he’s past my waist now? Learning Gaelic. Chatters away at it. His foster mammy says she’s ready to tack his tongue to the floor.” He rubbed his forehead. “I gotta get him back soon, Liam. I’m going crazy. This craic of having to schedule appointments to see my own wain . . .” He downed the last of his whisky, then nodded to John, who smiled sympathetically and left the bottle. “I count the minutes until I see him again. Then, when I do, I start counting how much time I have left wi’ him. It ruins the whole visit. When I have to leave, I lose him all o’er again.”