The Scent of Forever

by Julie Doherty

  “I really hate to ask, but could I have another swallow of that?” She nodded toward the booze.

  Peter set the bottle on the table and patted her sore shoulder. “Ye can have as much as ye like. I’ve a still in the shed that keeps me well stocked.”

  Three minutes and a shot of peatreek later, light beams cut through the trees lining the Bogles’ driveway.

  “They certainly wasted nae time.” Peter flicked on the porch light.

  They went outside onto the porch.

  A white Mercedes-Benz sedan skidded to a stop on the gravel.

  Maggie hit the ground running—and wailing. “Annie!” She skipped the steps and jumped onto the porch to draw Ann into a snug embrace. “I thought I’d never see you again.” In the chilly night air, her sobs were hot against Ann’s ear.

  “It’s okay.” Ann stroked the back of her friend’s hair, thinking she should probably be crying, too.

  William stood on the far side of the car, his elbows resting on the roof above the backseat. He averted his gaze, and she wondered whether he did so out of respect or because he was still annoyed with her.

  The light inside the car dimmed before Ann could get a good look at the driver.

  “Where did you get this awful shirt?” Maggie plucked at one of the sleeves.

  Nigel’s pale eyes and contrived grin flashed before her. I have something for you.

  Ann shuddered and rubbed her arms.

  “Och, she’s cold,” Mary said. “Peter, she left her jacket.”

  The storm door banged as Peter went inside to retrieve the garment.

  Ann shook her head. “I’m not cold anymore.” Thanks to Peter’s moonshine, she was downright toasty. Her nerves were settling, too. She felt numb and floaty.

  “Would ye like to come inside?” Mary asked Maggie. “We’ve a nice fire in the range.”

  “Thank you, no.” Maggie gestured toward the car. “My friend has a house in Oban. I really want to get her there as fast as possible.”

  Maggie has a friend in Oban?

  Peter returned with the jacket. He gave it to Ann with a knowing look and the half-empty bottle. “I’ve a feeling ye might be needing this.”

  Ann thanked the couple for their kindness.

  Mary patted her back. “There’s nae need for any of that, now. Away ye go.”

  Maggie hooked her arm under Ann’s to lead her away from the house. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Ann floated toward the car, the peatreek only partially responsible for the disconnection from her body.

  William rounded the Mercedes looking uncomfortable. As he approached, Mary whispered from some distant place, “Something bad happened up there. I think she should be seen tae.”

  “I’ll take care of her.” Maggie took the bottle from Ann, then surrendered her to William. His hands shook as they enveloped hers. “Ye gave us quite a scare.” His eyes searched hers.

  Not wanting him to see her shame, she dropped her gaze to her shoes. They were still wet. “I’m sorry.”

  He skimmed his fingertips along her cheek.

  She cringed, remembering the feel of another man’s touch.

  “We can talk later, pet. Let’s get ye sorted first. Come here.” He wrapped his strong arms around her. His heart thudded against her ear . . . like Nigel’s.

  She pushed him away. “Don’t . . .”

  It was a ridiculous thing to say when she wanted his embrace more than anything else in the world.

  William recoiled like a man facing a Radioactive sign. With a pained expression, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sorry.”

  What just happened?

  “It’s not you, William. I—” She didn’t want him to know what it was. Not yet.

  Maggie rushed to her. “You don’t have to explain unless you want to.” Her eyebrows shot toward her hairline. “Do you want to?”

  Ann shook her head.

  “Should we go to a hospital?”

  “I don’t want everyone looking at me. I just want a shower.”

  Maggie turned as rigid as a drum major’s baton. The little muscle at her jaw hinge twitched. “Oh, Annie.” She was figuring it out.

  Ann blushed. “Can we just get out of here?”

  “Sit in the back with William. There’s a surprise on the seat.”

  Although she was in no mood for surprises, she was too tired to argue. She wanted nothing more than time to herself in a safe place, and definitely a hot shower.

  When Maggie opened the front door, the dome light illuminated the face of a boy sleeping on the rear seat next to William.

  James.

  Her hand flew to her heart. “Oh . . .”

  William lifted James off the leather and made room for her.

  The boy licked his lips and flopped his head against his father’s muscular arm.

  Stunned, Ann opened the door, then dropped onto the seat.

  Maggie turned and whispered, “Isn’t he adorable? Oh, and this is Douglas Sinclair.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Ann replied, still staring at the boy’s angelic face. His long lashes fanned out over skin as smooth and white as a daisy petal. He had a red mark on his cheek from lying too long in one spot.

  “He should be in bed.” Ann brushed a flaxen curl away from his forehead just before the light dimmed. “Poor thing.”

  “Save your pity,” William said. “Today was a grand adventure for him, though he’ll sleep like the dead tonight.” He nestled James into the crook of his arm. He’d been handsome before he held a child. He was the sexiest man alive now. He caught her looking at him. They stared at one another, wordless, yet saying much in the dim light of the car’s instrument panel. It was evident by his adoring expression that his proposal still stood.

  Ann must have conveyed her relief and pleasure, for he smiled, at last.

  As Doug backed the car around, Maggie held up the bottle. “Anybody need this?”

  “Ye have no idea how much, but no,” William replied, his eyes still locked on Ann.

  Ann took his hand. “I have everything I need right here.”

  Tiny fires ignited in his eyes. He laced his fingers through hers, then leaned over to whisper, “I will nae let ye go.”

  His statement should have poured ice into her veins. After all, Nigel made that very declaration ten times a day or more. But hearing the words festooned with William’s delicious accent warmed her heart and broke down barriers. She wasn’t afraid anymore. She’d won. Nigel was gone. He couldn’t hurt her ever again.

  Could she ever tell William he’d saved her life by giving her a reason to fight? That she’d conjured up his face countless times while shivering in the arms of a madman? There was much she longed to say to him, lengthy speeches perfected during the worst of Nigel’s brutality, when nothing else—not even prayer—could sustain her. The need to proclaim her love for William was the only thing that kept her going. Here was her moment of victory, the answer to her prayer. And yet, she found her labors wasted. A drawn-out exposition couldn’t convey all that was in her heart. But three words could.

  She slid across the seat. Leaning around James, she kissed William’s cheek. “I love you,” she whispered.

  He squeezed her hand and fidgeted. “Ye’re gonny make me do this in front of everybody in this car, aren’t ye?” He grinned. “Fine.” He kissed her cheek, the tip of her nose, then her mouth. With his forehead pressed against hers, he said, “I love ye so much it hurts.”

  Maggie snickered.

  Doug said to her, “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you? We’ll see how much you laugh when I tell you the same.”

  “Pfft,” Maggie replied. Her head snapped to the right. “Wait. Do you?”

 
“Let’s just say I think more of you than I do your wine.”

  She chuckled. “I should hope so.”

  “M’what?” James’s head bobbled upright.

  William released Ann’s hand to smooth his son’s hair. He planted a kiss on the boy’s temple. “Ye up, wee man?”

  Ann settled back against the seat, moved by William’s tenderness.

  James yawned, then looked at her drowsily.

  Her heart liquefied when he flashed a smile. She would sell a kidney for the privilege of pulling him into her arms.

  James rubbed his eyes and smacked his lips. “Daddy?”

  “Aye, Jamie.”

  “Am I dreaming?”

  “No, ye’re awake.” William pinched James’s thigh. “See?”

  “Is the lady really here?” He looked up to better assess his father’s honesty.

  “Aye, she is. Touch her if ye do nae believe me.”

  “Honest to God, Ann, his accent,” Maggie said.

  When the pad of a tiny finger poked her arm, Ann was overcome by emotion. She swallowed hard, not wanting to cry and frighten James. He was an absolute delight, one she felt she had known her whole life.

  “Did ye bring her for me?”

  “Why don’t ye ask her yoursel’ how she got here, wee man?”

  “And she’ll answer me? I mean, she can talk and all?”

  Everyone laughed, including Ann. “Too much sometimes. Hello, James. I’m Ann.”

  “Oh, is that your name? I’ve always wondered.”

  “What did you think my name was? Did you make any guesses?”

  “I always thought it would begin with a B. Brigit, maybe, or Bronagh. But ye say it’s Ann? Never would have guessed that one. It’s a nice name, though. I’m James. James McDonnell.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s a pleasure to meet you, James.” She shook his tiny hand.

  “I’ve known ye my whole life, ye know.”

  “Have you really?” The cuteness threatened to unhinge her.

  “Indeed, I have. My Daddy painted ye so many times, I lost count. He painted galleys and lots of other things, too, but your paintings are my favorites.” He scowled. “But Daddy always sold them! I hated it when he sold them.”

  “I suppose he had to, didn’t he? So you could have money for food and such?”

  He pursed his lips. “That’s what he said.”

  “Well, I’m here now, in the flesh. Doesn’t that make it better somehow?”

  He pressed a finger to his lips. “Aye, it does.” He was eight going on fifty. “Ye sound so very different than I imagined.”

  “That’s because I’m not from Scotland.”

  “Where do ye live?”

  “I live in America.”

  “So far. Are ye staying long in Scotland?”

  “For a while, at least.”

  He beamed at that.

  So did William.

  “Would it be all right if I lean against your arm?” he asked.

  “If your father says it’s okay.”

  He looked up at William. “Oh, please, Daddy.”

  “Of course, ye can, ye wee moppet.” William’s eyes glittered as James shifted as close to Ann as his booster seat would allow. She supposed it hurt him to see his son so desperate for a woman’s cuddle, something denied him by a shitty mother.

  “If this is a dream,” James said, laying his head on Ann’s sore arm, “I hope it never ends.” He was warm and innocent, and so small.

  Succumbing to the overwhelming urge to hold him, Ann unhooked her seatbelt, then slid against the booster seat so James could lean closer. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, then drew him into a soft embrace. He smelled divine, with hints of pine, sea salt, and peat smoke blending with completion and fulfillment to create the enchanting scent of forever.

  “I knew ye were real,” he said.

  The final missing piece of her life snapped into place. She was a complete picture now, a woman with no more wants or needs.

  It felt like a reunion, like she’d been lost for decades and had, at last, found her way home. There was nothing unfamiliar about William or James. She knew them, had always known them. She belonged to them, and they to her. It made no sense, and yet her heart shouted it was the unmistakable truth.

  Was this heaven? Did Nigel actually kill her in those woods?

  The events of the past week made distinguishing fact from fantasy a challenge. All she knew for certain was that she loved the man wiping his eyes and pretending to look out the window, and she would die for the boy nestled against her.

  Chapter 35

  On the northeast tip of the island, Alasdair scuffled reverently through pungent tufts of decaying seaweed. A dire premonition had been dogging him since yesterday, when a shadow passed through the Centre. Unease wormed its way into his core and gnawed at his wellbeing, resulting in a restless night with too many cups of tea and the overwhelming fear that his progeny had botched another chance at fulfillment. Would they ever learn?

  Disquiet turned to panic at dawn, when the first notes of a low chord pierced the veil between Here and There. It amplified with the rising sun, choking him with emotion and wheedling an old homesickness from a dusty chamber of his soul. Oh, how he longed to add his voice to that splendid chorus . . . It summoned him to Traigh Ban nam Manach, the thinnest place on the island—maybe even the world—where an invisible conduit stretched to the nail-pierced posterns of Paradise and a gate forever closed to him.

  The news would not be good. Was it ever? He recalled all too well the last time the conduit opened. That day had been clear, too, with a strong sun roasting Somerled, who lay in grief-induced madness aboard his ship with his arms locked around Brèagha’s flyblown corpse. The memory of that mournful scene pressed Alasdair to his knees on the white shell sand, blissfully warm and kind to his host’s aching joints.

  And now, here he was again. Did they foul it up a third time?

  Regret dropped like dye into the waters of his soul to create the blackest shade of desolation. There was nothing he could do except . . . well, there was nothing he could do.

  He bowed his head, noticing the whiteness of the sand and judging himself less significant than a single grain of it. Shame tempted him to burrow into the beach, to hide with his guilt in darkness. Instead, he prayed.

  Father, I am unworthy of asking for anything, but I must. My children . . . they are the last two. The last two. Please, please . . . let them find contentment. Let them find peace.

  It was a plea made often and, so far, in vain, thanks to the free will of man.

  I beg you, let your messengers send only good news.

  It was a ridiculous thing to ask, since the event requiring a message already happened and could not be changed.

  His anxiety hit a feverish pitch as the invisible conduit unrolled like a party favor, pushing the waters of the sound ahead of it in a series of narrow whitecaps that rippled in from Mull’s dramatic landscape. Passersby would think a rogue wind ruffled the sound—and it did—but only he would hear the message it carried.

  He lifted his face and spread his arms wide, allowing the gust to buffet him, like a disobedient child presenting his cheek for a slap.

  Oh . . .

  There they were, all of them. Everyone he’d lost . . . right there . . . on the other side . . . just beyond his reach.

  The hummed chord shattered into countless voices that cascaded up to an unfathomable pitch. Its beauty and intensity nearly ruptured his soul. Love and unbearable longing threatened to split him in two as those beyond his reach expressed pity for his regrettable predicament. Though they were forbidden from communicating with him directly, he felt their concern; it warmed him like a blanket.

 
Then . . . they began to back away.

  No. Please, no. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.

  He was so lonely, so hungry for communion.

  The choir fell silent. The news was coming; he braced for it.

  A voice clanged in a language spoken by One. Four words struck him like swings of a bell clapper, sending tears streaking from his eyes.

  “Semjaza. Is. No. More!”

  The conduit began to dissipate.

  “Wait!” He reached for the channel, but it vanished like smoke.

  He fell to his side and clutched his throat. Semjaza was gone forever. That was welcome news for all concerned. It also meant his father was still judging them. If they could earn final condemnation, did a chance for redemption still exist?

  Why, oh, why hadn’t he seized the opportunity to ask? He might never have the chance again.

  Furious, he sat up to slap sand and tears off his cheeks. If he had a heart to tear out, he would do it now. The one fluttering beneath his breastbone belonged to John Dunmore, his host. He’d made a deal with that man long ago, holding cancer at bay for sixty years in exchange for the use of the body after John no longer needed it.

  John Dunmore made good on that agreement twenty years ago in Bonnyrigg, Scotland. “Oh, Hamaziel, it’s so lovely.” He soared to Paradise, leaving behind a strong and comfortable body that was only now beginning to show signs of wear. A new one must be found—and soon. That meant leaving the island, since Iona was too small to furnish an unknown host.

  He rose and stared at the azure waters of the sound. He had expected a messenger’s voice to blare down the conduit, not his father’s. He sighed. The message of Semjaza’s death could be delivered by no other, he supposed. He rubbed his forehead. Why, why hadn’t he seized the opportunity to plead for mercy? It would have taken three words and no more. He’d had time for them, although his father’s presence had been fleeting.