I closed my eyes to the sight of our hands, interlocked against the coarse blanket, and tipped my head against hers. Her skin moved like silk through my fingers, soft and delicate, and as she spoke, I hoped I could manage to remember this, even if I forgot everything else. If I could only remember these few moments of pain and loss, I’d know that that at one point in my life, I had held something so wonderful it felt impossible to let go.
“I am so terrified of becoming just another memory,” she whispered, as her voice caught jagged in her throat. “I am so afraid that one day, you’ll be with someone else and they’ll do something that reminds you of me, and you’ll think about that one time you had a thing for the sister of a dead American woman. I hate the thought of that, and I hate even more that I can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“Christ, Rosie,” I answered, as I wondered how there ever could be someone else.
“We’ll be fine, though,” she said, once again yielding strength in her tone. “You’ll find your place again in your office, and I’ll get back to being a mom and an aide to the Mayor. And hopefully, one day, I’ll stop having nightmares and they’ll be replaced with happy dreams about everything we could’ve been.”
We didn’t say as much but it was our goodbye. With one last kiss to her lips and then her cheek, I climbed from the bed and told her to get some rest. She laughed with a joke about all the drugs that were finally making her sleep and hoping they sent her home with some. I grabbed my crutch and hobbled toward the door, before turning to lift my hand in a subtle wave, only to find she’d already fallen asleep. Perhaps she was just pretending, to shield her eyes from the sight of me walking away, and I decided that was for the best. If all I was to be was a memory, that wasn’t the one I’d wish for her to have, either.
I closed the door and limped past Tom with a smile and a wave. Then, as I limped my way to the lift, I whispered a final goodbye to the woman down the hall, realizing that she was right.
The fear of being nothing more than a memory is a torturous thing, knowing you’re already beginning to fade the moment you walk away.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ROSIE
I didn't see Alec again before leaving Scotland. Not when Tom and I went to Rick's house to get my belongings, or when we stopped at Rick's funeral home to pick up Gracie's ashes. I assumed he was avoiding me, to make my departure easier on both of us, but his disappearance didn't actually make things easier. If anything, it was the exact opposite, and on the ride to the airport, I told Rick and Tom as much while fighting back another bout of tears.
“It's just who he is, lass,” Rick told me, saying the words as if they were an apology.
“I know,” I said, staring out the window at the picturesque Scottish landscape. “But it doesn't make it easier.”
“He's never been able to deal with lettin' go,” he explained. “When his mother passed away, he threw himself entirely into his work, and when Aileen lost the baby, it wasnae any different. He'd rather not get attached at all than to deal with the pain of sayin' goodbye.”
“Then, maybe he shouldn't have gotten attached in the first place,” Tom muttered begrudgingly.
He was bitter and who could blame him? In the week since I'd woken up, he had heard his fair share about Alec and my feelings toward him. That was the price he now had to pay, for being my only living best friend, and he did so without complaint. But he made no secret of how he felt, after witnessing the emotional hurt I'd suffered after saying goodbye to Alec Brodie. He couldn't understand why we weren't at least giving the long-distance thing a fair shot. It made no sense to him, but it was a silent agreement Alec and I had come to, and I couldn't make anybody understand if they weren't willing.
“He didnae want to,” Rick replied, offering a miserable shrug. “But he didnae have much choice in this case.”
As we turned into the airport parking lot, I looked in the direction of Fort Crow, where I knew he was, sitting and brooding inside his best friend's house, and I thought, that makes two of us, Alec, and it wasn't all bad.
***
With a tearful goodbye, Tom and I left Rick at the gate and boarded our plane. I clutched the box of Gracie's ashes in my lap as we flew over the Atlantic Ocean, and I thought of how she had never wanted to travel alone. She didn’t want to tour Scotland by herself, when all she really wanted was for me to have been there with her. Now, I stared below, through a haze of clouds and toward the never-ending sea, clutching her tight. It was heartbreaking and tragic, but also perfectly bittersweet, that she wasn't taking the trip back to River Canyon by herself.
We landed in Hartford late in the evening and drove straight to my parents' house to bring Gracie home. They greeted me with wide open arms, a thousand kisses, and twice as many tears. Then, we ordered food from the local diner for dinner and Tom went to pick it up, while TJ begged to see my healing gunshot wound.
“We don't need to see that,” Mom said dismissively, scowling at my son and me from her favorite spot on the couch.
“Come on, Grandma,” TJ groaned, rolling his eyes. “It's cool.”
The comment struck a nerve in me, but Mom was the one to lash out. “Thomas, there is absolutely nothing cool about it,” she exclaimed, shrill and on the verge of breaking. “Your mother almost died. Do you think that's cool?”
Taken aback and looking like my mother had just whipped him across the face, he shook his head and said, “N-no, I just--”
“Then, what? What the hell do you think is so cool about almost losing your mother?”
“Marjorie,” Dad said in his signature soothing tone, reaching out to rest a hand on her back. “I'm sure he didn't mean it like that.”
“Well, then he can explain what he meant. Because I see nothing cool about almost losing my last living child,” she snapped, before clamping her quivering lip between her teeth.
TJ looked between my mother and me, and his eyes flooded with tears. Then, with his gaze fixed on mine, he said, “I just think it's cool that she went after the bad guy and lived. She helped to catch GiGi's murderer, so that makes her a hero. I think that's cool.”
Then, for the first time in years, without a plea or any persuasion, my son gave me a hug, and in his ear, I whispered that I'd show him my scar later.
***
Mom requested that I stay at their home for the night, despite my place being only a few blocks away, and I gratefully accepted the invitation. After Tom left with TJ, I sat on the couch between my parents, with Grace's ashes on the coffee table, and we talked about her. About all the things she would say and do, her favorite songs and TV shows, and the moments we would never, ever forget, no matter how faded they became with time and age. It felt good to talk about her now when we couldn't before I left. Too much was hanging in the air then, and too much was uncertain and unsettled. But with her murderer found and killed, our hearts seemed to rest reluctantly into the closure of knowing she was gone.
Then, Mom sighed and shook her head, keeping her eyes on the white box. “I can't believe any of this,” she whispered, touching her fingertips to her thinning lips.
“I know,” Dad replied, reaching over my shoulders to gently brush his fingers against hers.
“We should do something for her,” I decided, nodding affirmatively. “A memorial or something.”
Neither of them answered right away, and they didn't need to say why for me to understand. To do nothing allowed for the belief to hang in the air that she might come home one day. As if this entire ordeal was simply one long, horrific dream and we would eventually wake up to find her alive and well. But I couldn't see anything healthy in that kind of trickery. The sooner my heart accepted that she was truly gone, the sooner I could move beyond this awful, uneasy feeling in my gut, and I hoped my parents would feel the same way.
“Maybe one day,” Dad said, staring blankly at the box.
“But not yet,” Mom added in a hoarse tone. “Soon, maybe, but …”
“Not yet,�
�� I agreed quietly, thinking that maybe it wouldn't hurt to keep that foolish hope alive for just a little longer.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ALEC
Covered in a blanket of snow, the Fort Crow Cemetery was the picture of mortal beauty. Headstones and mausoleums, coated in a layer of white, gave the burial ground an angelic touch that warmed my heart on a day otherwise frozen and bittersweet.
When the piper finished playing, Rick stood beside me, his hand against my shoulder, as he recited Robert Burns in a somber, morose tone:
“An honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with His image blest:
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd.
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.”
Then, the air was open for anyone who felt the need to speak to do so, and the eyes of exactly six people turned to me with expectant glances. But there was nothing more to say that hadn't been said already, and so, the party scattered, except for Rick and me.
“He was a good man,” Rick said, squeezing my shoulder.
“Nobody came to his funeral,” I muttered, watching as the elderly friends of my father slowly trudged through the snowy banks and ice.
“Ah, ye cannae say nobody came,” he argued. “And even if that were true, that doesnae mean he wasnae good.”
“I suppose ye're right.”
“Do ye wanna eat now, or later?” he asked, pulling a thermos out from beneath his coat.
“Now's as good a time as any,” I replied.
So, together, we silently sat on the bench beside my father's final resting place and feasted on a warm lunch of canned stew until the thermos was empty and there was nothing left to do. But it seemed wrong to leave, with the knowledge that there was no obligation to ever come back again, so I hesitated by the old man's graveside while Rick went to warm the car.
I said nothing to the sky or the dirt. Instead, I looked ahead, imagining my withered, old father standing there before me, and said, “I've never been verra good at lettin' go, and for some stupid reason, I never imagined that I'd ever have to let go of you. The funniest thing about it though, is that ye let go of me years ago, when ye stopped rememberin' who I am. Ye always knew who I was, when I was a laddie, but who I am now …
“Well, maybe it's for the best, that when ye looked at me, ye only saw yer wee son. Maybe it's for that reason that ye never stopped bein' my dad, and for that, I'll always be grateful. That when I needed ye to just be my father, ye were always there. I just dinnae ken how I'm supposed to go on without that now,” I said, offering the vacant space before me a small, sad smile. “I'll miss ye, Dad, and I hope that, now that ye can see who I am as a man, I'll make ye proud. “
***
Roland Eddington, owner of The Lazy Crow, handed me a dram of his finest whisky and offered his sincerest condolences.
“Thanks,” I said, before knocking back the smooth, amber liquid in one swift gulp.
“Was he sick for long?”
I nodded. “Years. But he didnae get bad until about a year ago.”
“I dinnae ken what's worse,” James, brother of Roland and would-be lover of Grace Allan, chimed in from down the bar. “Watchin' someone ye love die for years, or losin' them suddenly, before ye ever got the chance to truly love them.”
I looked down the smooth oak, reflecting a hazy glow from the pendant lamps above, to watch the slow movements of his drinking arm. I saw the meaningful sips of beer he took, and the length of time it took for him to swallow each one. The man was the image of despair, still unable to shake Grace from his mind. The might-haves, should-have-beens, and what-ifs plagued him in the form of dreams and haunted memories, and the town had taken to collectively worrying about him. But in a way, I also found it amazing, that the effects of love at first sight could be so lasting and strong. It was a common ground that James and I had found ourselves on, a private island of our own, where nobody spoke of the women we had fallen for and lost, whether from death or by sheer distance. It was a lonely place to be, and yet, neither of us seemed to find the desire to leave.
“So, I heard ye quit the force,” Roland said, steering the subject toward something far less depressing in comparison.
I looked away from James to nod at his brother. “I did.”
From beside me, Rick chuckled. “As soon as he was well enough to get back to work, he walked straight into the Chief Inspector's office and resigned.”
Roland handed me another dram and I grunted, as I lifted the glass to my lips. As far as I was concerned, the whole damn office was haunted now. Everywhere I looked, I saw Sharp and Finley, frozen in an endless loop of cordial friendship before we knew of the darkness in Sharp's life. There was no life for me in that office, and there never should have been. But I wouldn't regret my initial transfer now. Not when it had also brought me to the brief amount of time I knew Rosie Allan.
“So, what are ye gonna do now, then?” James asked, before demanding another drink from his brother behind the bar.
“Havnae really thought much about it,” I told him, shrugging my hunched shoulders. “Truthfully, there isnae much left for me here. I only came back to care for my father, and now, with him gone, I don’t have any reason to stay.”
“Except me,” Rick chimed in, offering a half-smile, and I nodded, clapped my hand against his shoulder, and replied, “Except for ye.”
“Where were ye before?” Roland asked, handing his brother another bottle of beer.
“Edinburgh,” I said, waiting for him to suggest I go back, while knowing I never would.
To my surprise though, he didn't. Instead, he suggested, “Ye could always go somewhere else. Inverness, maybe, or perhaps away from The Highlands altogether.”
James hummed thoughtfully. “Head out to the islands,” he commented, a dreamy look on his face, as he nodded. “It's gorgeous out there.”
The conversation of my future died with an incoming group of tourists. I glanced over my shoulder at the giddy older women, dressed to the nines in tartan coats and Outlander shirts. Roland chuckled beneath his breath and mentioned something about loving the franchise for bringing in so much business, while I smiled at the memory of Rosie explaining to me her reasons for loving Scotland in the first place.
Lord, I missed her, but no matter how madly I longed for her, I would never ring or send a message her way. It could only serve as salt to a wound that might never close, and so, I left it alone and sipped at my whisky.
Then, Rick cleared his throat and said, “So, I saw that they're havin' a memorial for Grace sometime in Spring.”
“Who is?” I asked sheepishly, only wanting to hear him say her name.
“Ye daft prick, ye ken exactly who I'm talkin' about.”
I shook my head and muttered, “It could be anyone.”
“Rosie and her family,” he groaned with a sigh. “Are ye happy now, that I’ve uttered the name of She Who Shall Not Be Mentioned?”
I laughed beside the aggravating ache in my heart. “Oh, incredibly.”
“Anyway, I just thought I'd bring it up,” he casually went on, circling the rim of his glass with a bandaged finger. “Just in case ye wanted a change of scenery for a bit.”
With that suggestion, the universe of possibility cracked open and beckoned for me to slip inside. I worried I wouldn’t be welcome. I worried it would be unwanted, to make an effort to be more than just a memory. But how would I ever know, if I didn't reach out and try?
“Y’know,” I said, downing the rest of my drink. “I have always wanted to see America.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
ROSIE
After the ground had thawed and six months had passed, my parents and I agreed we were ready to let her go, knowing that in life and death, there
are no goodbyes. All there is, is see you laters and a long hiatus, until we can be together again, and I knew that our reunion would be sweet. But right now, I had a life to live and a son to raise, and for those reasons, Gracie would have to wait.
It was a good thing she had always been the patient one.
The months after her death had surprised me with a mixed bag of emotions. Throughout my life, I’d been no stranger to loss. I had experienced the passing of grandparents, aunts and uncles, and countless pets, and I thought I’d been through all of the emotions grief had to offer. But nothing in the world could have prepared me for the experience of accepting my sister’s death, and nothing had ever been so strange and difficult to process. Days would sometimes pass before I found the need to cry again. Sometimes, I even forgot she was gone, and I would find myself wondering when it was she would knock on my door. Other times, I could only go hours without experiencing the persistent crush of heartbreak before it rushed back as if it had never left. But I never once went a second without thinking about her, wishing that it had all gone differently and wondering where she would be now if it had.
James Eddington had reached out to me a few times since I’d left Scotland. Weeks would pass between messages, and then, there he would be again. Once, he asked for a picture of her, along with an apology for even asking. Another time, he inquired about my well-being, after apparently hearing of my own brush with death, and admitted that he and Inspector Brodie had become something close to friends. Then, most recently, he wondered if it would be at all possible to visit in the future, to pay his respects and perhaps take me out for a drink. With a heavy heart, I chose to ignore him and blocked his profile from my social media. I hadn’t wanted to, and I felt sorry for him, but his occasional messages were also a further reminder of that night and the life that Grace never got to have. Talking to him hindered my ability to move on, and I suspected it to be the same for him.
A Circle of Crows Page 26