The Scent of Forever

by Julie Doherty

  Mozart again.

  The orchestra died. Footsteps thumped as someone rushed to answer the door. It swung open, revealing Doug. And a faded, Persian hallway runner. And walls dripping with ancient portraits and weaponry, some of which she could not identify.

  “Good evening.” He flashed his dimples. “I’m delighted you found the old barracks. Do come in.” His hair was surfer boy perfect and his face clean-shaven. He wore an untucked button shirt over khaki chinos. The pastel shirt—which matched his eyes—looked tailored, and his shoes were new. “You’re right on time.” His gold watch reflected the glow of the wall sconces. Those looked original to the house.

  She tried to appear nonchalant as Doug led her down the hallway. They passed an elegant table, where rosebuds were beginning to open in an age-crazed vase. Maggie didn’t know much about antiques, but even a novice would know the vase was English, and costly.

  Her face burned at the thought of the wine she brought. It was sufficient for a janitor. Now, it would embarrass her.

  If he thought the wine substandard, he gave no sign. “How lovely of you.” He stripped the bottle from her hand. “So thoughtful.” He set it on a Chippendale side table. “Come, I’ve made us something to eat.” They passed a formal dining room, where, if he led her in, painted canine and equine champions would watch them dine.

  “A kitchen is more intimate than a stodgy, old dining hall, don’t you think?” he asked, as they entered a room with a massive bricked-up hearth. At one time, the kitchen probably buzzed with servants preparing food for the household. They were gone now, long gone, along with everything but a central harvest table, a knife-scarred and dented vestige of the manor’s former glory, perfect in its imperfection.

  “Your home is beautiful,” she replied meekly, admiring the tasteful balance of old and new. Had she successfully veiled her astonishment?

  “Oh, it’s not mine at all.” He lifted a lid on a frying pan to give something a stir. Steam gyrated upward in curling tendrils to scent the room with garlic and fresh herbs. “It belongs to my friend, David Campbell.”

  “The ticket agent from today?”

  “Good heavens, no. David is no relation at all to that detestable man. No, Dave’s in Abu Dhabi until November. I’m watching the house for him. I hope you like mussels.”

  She nodded her head and decided against saying, “I love muscles,” as an open flirtation. A man like Doug might find bawdy humor inappropriate. Instead, she took the seat he offered, then spread her napkin across her lap, a silly move, since denim merited little protection. How embarrassing that she hadn’t worn something nicer than jeans.

  No matter how big her bank account, Doug would judge her as trailer trash . . . or would he? He might know she’d dress for a janitor, not the bloody Earl of Argyll.

  He rummaged through a drawer. “Where is that corkscrew?”

  Maggie studied his backside, which had, when she thought him a janitor, looked attractive. Sex with Doug the Janitor might have been fun. Doug the Aristocrat was probably a stiff in bed. Was it even an option anymore? Probably not, since her cheap wine and ripped jeans marked her as just another vulgar American.

  Well, so what? Who wanted sex with him anyway? She preferred men who didn’t lie on her like a railroad tie.

  Bet he moves just enough to avoid breaking a sweat.

  There’d be no mess, of course, and it would be over in thirty seconds. The sheets would be perfectly square around them throughout the whole sordid affair. If a wrinkle had the audacity to appear in the Egyptian cotton, they’d have to take a break from their hygienic coitus to iron it out.

  She stifled a grin and watched Doug rifle through the drawer. He needed a corkscrew. She needed a new plan and an icebreaker, some bit of conversation to help chart a course through rough and unfamiliar seas.

  “Are you originally from Oban?” she asked.

  Lame.

  “No. Ah, here it is.” The corkscrew squeaked.

  Pop!

  Doug poured wine—shocker!—not hers—into two glasses. “I’m from Duncairn.” He set the glasses on the table, then drained a pot of pasta into a colander hanging over the sink.

  By his accent, she guessed Duncairn was an English town. “Is that near London?”

  His pitying smile deepened her mortification.

  “No, darling,” he puffed through steam, “it’s on the east coast of the northern Highlands.”

  She was completely out of her element. With a janitor.

  “But your accent. To my untrained ear, it sounds English.”

  Doug transferred the drained pasta into a bowl. “The old boy will be exceedingly glad to hear it.” He poured the contents of the frying pan on top of the pasta, then tossed the dish with two wooden spoons before carrying it to the table. “And my elocution instructor at Eton, as well, who labored for years to knock the Scot out of me.”

  Maggie assumed a Scottish accent. “He did a crackin’ job. There’s nae hint o’Scots aboot ye.”

  Doug laughed and replied in kind. “Och, lassie, naw bad fer a Yank.”

  Yes! One point, Maggie.

  He sat across from her, his eyes still glimmering at her wit, and lifted his glass. “Spectacular to know I’ve mastered standard English, received pronunciation. Here’s to your health.”

  She clanked her glass to his. “And to yours.”

  The wine was exceptional, way better than the gasoline she brought.

  Doug gestured toward the bowl of pasta. “Help yourself. I hope it’s edible. I’m not much of a cook.”

  Maggie wasn’t hungry, but she spooned a small portion onto her plate before sliding the bowl to Doug. “I hope it tastes as good as it smells.” With a heavy fork, she took a bite. “It’s heavenly. You’re a better cook than you realize.”

  He tried a mouthful. “It’s not bad at all, is it?”

  Would it be like this all evening? Granted, she was just in the door, but at some point, the elephant in the room must be discussed: the janitor who listened to Mozart, wore a gold watch, lived in a weathered manor house, and sounded like Prince Goddamn Charles. She needed that footage, and as pleasant as the evening was, she was nowhere closer to seeing it. Ann could be . . . she couldn’t bear to think about where Ann could be.

  Should she just come out with the truth? That she came here intending to sweet-talk him into getting her a copy of the CCTV footage? That she was shocked to learn he wasn’t a pitiable janitor who would equate her interest in him with winning the lottery? Or, should she modify her original strategy and change, like a chameleon, into something an aristocrat might desire? After all, he gave her the once-over at the railway station. What if he actually liked what he saw? He said in the parking lot he would help her, that he would tell her how he knew her name. Should she just come out and ask? Or, did he expect something from her first? If so, what?

  This was her only shot at finding Ann. She didn’t want to screw it up.

  Thankfully, Doug required no prodding to move past the formalities. “I suppose I owe you an explanation for all of this.”

  Maggie laid her fork beside her plate. “I’m glad honesty is a side dish on tonight’s menu. By ‘all of this,’ do you mean why a man of obviously high society works as a janitor in railway station?”

  Doug’s eyes twinkled above the rim of his wineglass. “Possibly.”

  Two points, Maggie.

  He swallowed a sip of wine, then set down his glass. “You are correct. I am not of low birth.”

  She slapped a hand across her heart. “No, really?”

  “If you ask anyone in Oban, they will tell you my name is Douglas Mackenzie. The truth is I am Douglas Sinclair, second son of Sir Duncan Sinclair, lord and chieftain of Clan Sinclair.”

  “And how does Douglas Sinclair, seco
nd son of Sir Duncan Sinclair, end up mopping floors in a railway station?”

  “He simply walks away from the Huzzah Henries and trust fund kittens.” When she gave him a quizzical look, he explained. “You would call them ‘fair weather friends.’ You know the type—so far up your backside they’re getting a good look at your wisdom teeth.

  “I made a damn good effort to live the life expected of me. I went to a proper school, spoke at all the right engagements, cut ribbons, judged livestock, and sponsored hunts and parties at our estate. With my father”—he sat taller and puffed out his chest—“the great clan chieftain, I visited tenants and neighbors in hospital. Twice a year, I dressed up in my Highland finest and followed my parents to London, where they paraded me and my brother like champion deerhounds at Crufts. My brother quickly found a wife among our set, a sharp-tongued daughter of an earl. They settled down and had a baby at once.”

  “Let me guess. It’s your turn,” Maggie said.

  “Yes. About a year later, while I sat next to my father in a limousine on our way to a Feed Africa benefit, he informed me that I must take a suitable woman for my wife. Each available prospect attended the benefit that night, and I found each as dull as a plastic knife.” He blotted the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Except for one, that is, a viscount’s daughter. Unfortunately, she’s a dedicated lesbian. My mother would have me ignore that trifling nugget and wed her anyway.”

  Maggie swallowed the last of her wine. “This is crazy. I thought arranged marriages were a thing of the past.”

  Doug rushed to fill their glasses. He set the bottle on the table, then returned to his chair. “They are very much alive among the elite, darling, and they can work well, if both parties are keen to maintain the lifestyle.”

  “Am I to assume by your humble vocation that you aren’t keen to maintain the lifestyle?” Maggie couldn’t imagine why anyone would throw away a silver spoon.

  “I’m still trying to decide.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “As someone born in a trailer park, I can help with that decision: go home. Be glad you’ll never have to worry about keeping food in your belly.”

  Doug shook his head. “I would expect you to feel that way. You know, there’s an old Native American expression I’ve always admired: Never criticize a man until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins.”

  “I’m one-eighth Cherokee, and I happen to love the English proverb about grass always being greener on the other side. You have a romantic notion of middle class life. Trust me. It ain’t great. Besides, your version of ‘working man’ is a bit false, don’t you think? Mummy and Daddy are always there if you fall.”

  “Actually, Miss Mason—”

  “Please. Maggie.”

  “Fine.” He flashed a perfect smile. “Maggie. Something in me snapped the night of that Feed Africa benefit. I’d been sitting at one of a hundred tables set with too many utensils and plates. At the head of the room, images of starving African children flashed on a screen whilst everyone around me sipped Cristal Brut and Dom Perignon. I felt ashamed of my status and resentment toward those women prancing in their finest. They were combating starvation by feasting on filet mignon, most of them wearing the very diamonds Africans were dying—literally—to mine for them. I want a wife who would sleep in a tent with scorpions and give her last cup of rice to feed a hungry child. I’ll never find one amongst my own set.”

  “So, you took a job as a janitor,” Maggie said.

  “Yes, and moved to Oban.”

  “Do your parents support your plan?”

  He cocked a brow. “They were less than pleased, at first. Forbade me from using my real name. It took six solid months of returning their checks before they stopped sending them. I had a good talk with them last time I visited the ancestral pile. I think I finally convinced them I’m not sleeping in alleyways or on the open moors. The old boy seems to understand I want to make my own way in the world.”

  “At your age.”

  “Yes, at my age. I haven’t hit my forties yet, I’ll have you know.”

  Maggie laughed. “I didn’t think you had. Your parents probably think this is a phase you’re going through and that you’ll eventually land back on their doorstep.” She didn’t really want the rest of her pasta, but after what Doug just said, she wasn’t about to let it go to waste. When she swallowed the last of it, she sat back and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

  “I may very well end up where I began,” Doug said, “but that’s not the point. The point is I want to choose.”

  “I understand.” Maggie ran her finger across an ancient knife mark on the table. “Since you’ve been so honest with me, I feel it only fair that I be honest with you.” She looked directly at him. “I only came here tonight because you have something I want. I thought I would have to sleep with you to get it.” She ignored the heat creeping up her neck. “I expected you to be easy prey because you’re a janitor. I thought you lived in a tiny flat over a noisy pub, or maybe in a council house. I wore ripped jeans because I thought if I wore a skirt, I’d be overdressed, and I brought cheap wine because I didn’t think you’d know the difference.”

  “I can forgive you for everything but the wine. For that, darling, you shall do penance.”

  “What do you mean?” She wondered if he was a sadomasochist.

  He stood, then rounded the table. “Come.”

  Intrigued, she took his outstretched hand.

  He led her across the kitchen, carefully swiping the corkscrew and two clean glasses off the counter.

  At the far end of a hallway, he pulled her into a sitting room. They crossed another Persian rug. “Sit.” He gestured to a leather couch facing a low fire. “Stay right there.”

  He turned on his heels, then left the room.

  She stared at the massive antlers above the mantel.

  “Oh, God, no,” she said, laughing, when he returned with the bottle of cheap wine.

  “Yes, that’s right. For your punishment, you shall drink this petrol until you are sufficiently remorseful. Oh, dear, looks like we won’t need this.” He tossed the corkscrew onto an end table. “I don’t believe I ever tried wine from a bottle you simply unscrew.”

  One point, Doug.

  He poured a glass of wine, then handed it to her.

  “May I at least let it breathe for a while?” she asked.

  “No.” He poured a glass for himself, then swallowed a large gulp. “Drink up. It’s absolutely marvelous.”

  “Really?” She took a sip. Her face contorted as though she bit into a lemon.

  Doug dropped onto the couch beside her, throwing his head back in a hearty laugh that wheedled tears from his eyes. He wiped at them and sniffled. “Oh, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. That is undoubtedly the worst wine I have ever tasted.”

  “Do you forgive me now?” Maggie asked.

  “I think I must.”

  They sat in silence, sipping the awful wine, and staring at the fire.

  “Doug?” She was feeling tipsy already.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it okay now if I ask you about the CCTV footage?” The combination of alcohol and thoughts of Ann proved lethal. She started to cry. “I’m sorry. This isn’t like me. I’m sorry.”

  He set their glasses on the floor, then drew her into an embrace. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you sitting on those cheap chairs in the railway station. Of course, you may ask about the CCTV footage. Dry your eyes. Ask away.”

  She sniffled. “Did the police take the footage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they let you watch it first?”

  “No, but . . .” He brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead. “This is going to make you very angry, so prepare yourself. You know Campbell?�
�

  “The ticket agent who belittled you in front of us?”

  “You noticed that, did you? Yes, that ghastly person. He was filling in for someone at the station when the police phoned to request preservation of the footage. They rang the station quite early Monday morning, when Campbell was finishing out the night shift. Campbell saved the footage, but he also made a copy for himself.”

  “Why? Why would he do that?”

  “He was informed an American author went missing somewhere between Mull and Glasgow. For all he knew, that missing author was Stephen King or James Patterson. He was disappointed to find it was neither, of course, but your friend is still a bestselling author. He’s hoping she has enough of a following to make the copy profitable.”

  “The son of a bitch!”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry. Anyone would be. But look at the bright side. His greed will work in your favor, since you wouldn’t stand a chance of viewing Police Scotland’s copy of the footage.”

  “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

  “I was going to, discreetly, but then you came into the station, and it made Campbell’s copy pretty important.”

  “But how will I see it?”

  “I’ll copy it.”

  “Oh, Doug, if you could do that, I would be so grateful. Since the police are so tight-lipped, we’ve been trying to investigate on our own. We have no leads. Did you see the footage?”

  “Yes.”

  “What can you recall?”

  Doug gave her a reassuring pat on the back. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Your friend walked to the platform amongst others and boarded the car with about five men, but she spoke to no one. The men who boarded with her were carrying tool bags. They were probably laborers heading to or from jobs. Not the sort to abduct a tourist, if you ask me.”