Camelot & Vine (35 page)

Davies helped me into the front seat. Good.
I was not to be caged in the back like a perp on a cop show. The
car didn’t stink. Obviously Davies didn’t smoke in there.

“S’not far. I’ll have you there by
nine.”

I held my hospital discharge papers in my
lap. They included myriad instructions: no driving; watch for
dizziness, nausea and memory problems; come back in two weeks;
sooner if trouble occurred.

The compact leaped forward with a jerk and
the papers flew off my lap. We sped out of the parking lot. Davies
managed wide avenues and cobbled alleyways with equal velocity and
expertise. After living out of time for a month, Salisbury’s
streets felt claustrophobic and too smooth. It was my bad luck to
be seated on the left side of the car because I couldn’t use my
left hand to hold onto the door handle. Instead I grabbed the
dashboard with my right, grappling with the unsettling but related
concepts of returning to the world, possible amnesia and driving on
the wrong side of the road.

We merged onto a highway charmingly dubbed
“A345,” which led north out of town. I felt less closed in, but
disconcerted by our speed. I wasn’t used to going that fast.

Davies pointed to a flat-topped hill. “Old
Sarum.”

“I should visit while I’m here.”

“Should, yes.”

I stared ahead and tried to relax. “Dr.
Rattish said you have questions.”

“Not without your lawyer present, miss.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

“Mr. Bellorham’s representing you.”

The business card, probably still on the
floor in my hospital room. “Did I commit a crime?”

“Well, er. We haven’t sorted that out.”

Davies didn’t say any more. That was a good
thing. During the half-hour drive to Small Common I had shock,
relief, heartache and painkillers to sort through, and conversation
on top of that was more than I could handle. When we arrived at the
southern edge of the village I barely got a glimpse as we flew by
the livery stable. Horses leaned their long necks out of its
windows, but I didn’t see Lucy among them. By the time we rolled
onto the gravel drive of the brick B&B with the familiar,
sideways lean I was shaken by tarmac and speed, and the constable
was tapping the steering wheel, anxious for his next cigarette.

“Ajay’s expecting you,” he said. “Bellorham
will pick you up at noon.”

-----

“Have a shower, love. I’ll put on some tea.”
Ajay flashed his fluorescent smile but his shock at the sight of me
showed in his eyes. He handed me a clean towel and ushered me up a
single flight of stairs, then left me alone. The perfect innkeeper,
he had thought to assemble my shopping bags in a tidy room on the
same floor as the bathroom. I loved him for it. I ransacked my bags
for shower supplies. Then I shuffled down the hall, locked myself
in the bathroom and flipped the switch. Light. Just like that.

And a mirror.

The woman looking back at me across the
bathroom sink had careless, wavy hair. A few gray hairs gleefully
interspersed themselves with brown roots that emerged from fading,
dyed blonde. Her suntanned skin stretched taut over freckled
cheekbones and she had a dim, yellowed bruise on her forehead that
was almost healed. Unplucked eyebrows lifted high over blue eyes,
reflecting surprise. Then the corners of those eyes wrinkled in a
soft smile of recognition. I liked her.

The bathroom was plain and clean, clean,
clean. The walls were painted blue. White lace curtains hung from
the sunny window. The white bath mat had been freshly laundered. I
stepped around it to avoid getting it dirty.

I turned the shower on as hot as I could
stand it and took my toothbrush in with me. Being one-armed,
drugged, and having to keep the left arm dry added difficulty, but
I was determined. I remembered King Arthur saying, “You seem to
like bathing.” I laughed out loud then remembered to stifle the
laugh. Then I remembered no one had said it.

It wasn’t as though I hadn’t washed at all
in the last thirty days. I had dangled my feet in the well on many
days, and after steeling myself had even splashed my face in its
green waters. Myrddin kept rain barrels where I often dipped my
hair and, if no one was around, scooped a handful to splash in my
armpits. It had been almost a month, but I’d had a decent bath in
the workroom behind the kitchen, given by two souls whose kindness
I missed. And I had rinsed myself in a dark stream in the woods one
night, hopeful of a touch I never knew.

I had almost become accustomed to the
filth—almost—but sense memory of clean lay latent in my toes and my
teeth. As soap revealed my suntan; as I massaged the goop of suds
beneath my breasts and behind my knees; as I scrubbed my scalp with
shampoo and rinsed, then lathered again like the label says to do
but I had rarely done before; and as I brushed my teeth (Davies and
Ajay had been too kind to say anything about my breath or the
mixture of scents emanating from my armpits), I reveled in my
return to the real world.

Yet I could not let go of Cadebir.

I had no desire to return to Los Angeles.
Cadebir wasn’t possible, but I had a hole in me the size of a hill
fort. I twisted the ring on my pinkie and wished for home.

What rushed down the drain was merely a
month’s worth of grime. Time, memory, pain—none of that would wash
away. Even if it was crazy, it was part of me. It was mine.

-----

“You were zonked, remember?” Ajay sipped his
tea while I spread jam on my scone. “I was so swamped I didn’t
report you missing ‘til the next morning. Sorry. Tourist season.”
He winced. “Davies was already searching for you by then.”

“How did he know?”

“Bellorham.”

I set down the scone without biting. “Who is
this Bellorham guy?”

“He was driving the car that almost hit
you.”

“Conflict of interest. He’s supposed to be
my lawyer.”

“He was quite upset. Everyone was.”

I threw up my hands—hand.

“It’s a tiny village, dearie. More tea?”

“No thanks.” I stood to go.

Ajay rested his chin on his hands and gazed
at me. “Are you going to tell me where you were all that time?”

“I’d better talk to my lawyer first,” I
said. I had questions of my own.

-----

Bellorham was due in a few minutes. I
gathered my nerve and called my mother from the phone in the hall.
She didn’t answer.

“It’s Evelyn,” said her cheerful outgoing
message. “You know what to do, so do it.”

I took a deep breath.

“Hi Mom. It’s Casey. I know, I know, it’s
not a holiday, but guess what? I’m in England. I actually took a
vacation. Um...listen, I just wanted to say hello. I’ll try you
again soon.” I hung up, relieved and slightly shaking.

At 11:55, having dented the pain in both
head and arm with Dr. Rattish’s prescription painkiller, I waited
on the Langhorne’s front porch. I had left the purse and fanny pack
behind. Everything I needed fit into my one remaining serviceable
pocket. My muscles were stiff but my jeans were loose. I felt lean
and tough and ready to stand up to whatever Bellorham had to
say.

The daylight made me squint, probably an
effect of the concussion, so my sunglasses came in handy. I could
have done without the bra, but the thrill of clean underpants was
no small thing. My feet burned from the abuse of my stylish, ruined
boots, which I wore without zipping them. It hardly mattered
because the soles flopped loose, but Small Common didn’t have a
shoe store and I was damned if I’d wear hospital booties to meet a
lawyer.

From the porch I saw thatched roofs across
the way, reminders that what Small Common lacked in commerce it
made up for in charm. It might be the perfect hideout for a
green-thumbed widow, a novelist with a day-job in Salisbury or an
errant actor who needed a new path.

Tires crunched on gravel. A black
Mercedes-Benz sedan—not new, not old—rolled to a stop on the
driveway. I ran my fingers through my newly defiant hair.

A dark-haired man climbed out of the
driver’s side. I took one step down the porch stairs and stopped.
The man approached and offered his business card.

“Hello, I’m Arthur,” he said.

He was.

FIFTY

I stared.

“Perhaps you have one already.” He even had
the gravel voice.

“Sorry. No. Please.” I held out my hand.

He smiled and gave me the card. “I’m glad to
meet you, Cassandra.” He had whiter, straighter teeth than the
king’s, which was to be expected in a century with dentists.
“Extremely glad. Relieved, actually.” He laughed in a soft,
embarrassed way, as though maybe he shouldn’t have said that. He
had gray eyes.

“You mean the accident.” I hardly heard
myself.

“Well. Yes. Erm.” He cleared his throat.
“Have you had lunch?”

Bellorham had a sturdy build, like the
king’s. He was clean cut, like a lawyer should be, but not overly
so. He wore his brown hair just long enough to pull it behind his
ears. A country lawyer, I assumed. Without whiskers to soften it,
the corner of his jaw was accentuated. Instead of a tunic he wore a
white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Whatever battles he may
have fought had not scarred his arms.

He ushered me down the steps and held the
car door for me. Such gentlemen, the Brits.

“I’m certain we can put things right without
much trouble,” he said, backing the car out of Ajay’s small, gravel
lot. “There was no damage to the monument and English Heritage
doesn’t want publicity. If the world knows how you got inside the
fence, then everyone’ll want to have a go at it. And of course
they’re afraid you’ll sue.” He glanced at me, then back at the
street. “You’re not going to sue, are you?”

“English Heritage?”

“Stonehenge is one of their properties.”

“Why would I sue?”

“Some people think that’s what Americans
do.”

If I hadn’t been in shock I’d have laughed.
I tried smiling.

“You must tell me if you don’t feel well,”
he said.

Not the reaction I was hoping for.

“I’ll be happy to drive you to Salisbury if
you need to see Rattish again.”

“Thanks. No, I’m okay.”

We pulled up in front of the pub and he
hurried around to help me out of the car. I could have managed it
myself. We could have walked to the pub, for that matter.

An unlettered, painted sign, a picture of a
turkey and a cat, hung above the door. Inside the pub a carved,
wooden bar, leather booths and a stone fireplace (unlit for summer)
accommodated a few regulars.

“I recommend the fish and chips,” said
Bellorham. “It’s the real thing, not that greasy stuff they sell in
the tourist spots. Hello, Tom.”

The red-faced innkeeper ambled over to us
from the far end of the bar.

“Welcome to Two Toms, miss. Good to see
you’re feeling better. Fish ‘n chips?”

“Two,” said Bellorham. He ordered a pint for
himself and a sparkling water for me. The regulars tracked our
progress across the room and we took a booth in the farthest corner
by the window. One man said, “Hello, miss.”

I welcomed the engulfing coziness of brown
leather seats. “I guess people notice strangers in a town this
small,” I said to Bellorham as we settled in.

“We’re only just a village. And you’re a bit
of a celebrity.”

“Oh no,” I blushed, “I’m not famous.”

“You were a missing person. We’ve all been
concerned. Especially me.”

“Oh.” Of course they hadn’t seen my
commercials. “Because you were driving.”

“Yes.” He leaned across the table and
whispered. “And because it was strange. I didn’t hit you. Did
I?”

“I don’t think so.”

He gave a satisfied nod. “I did brake, you
know, as hard as I could. But it was raining. The horse slid on the
pavement. You flew into the bushes and the horse seemed to fly
after you. I got out to help and you were...gone.”

He waited for my reaction with eyebrows
raised.

“Gone?”

“Completely disappeared.” He slapped the
table. “The vision has not ceased to plague me.”

It happened. He saw it happen. He saw me
leave.

He tilted his head to intercept my gaze.
“What is it?”

“Maybe you imagined it.”

“I did nothing of the sort. The horse
practically left skid marks.”

“That’s wild.”

“Yes it is,” said Arthur, watching me.

I turned away and gazed out the window, not
knowing what else to do. People came and went from the
half-timbered buildings of Small Common’s one block downtown. They
carried bags, swept sidewalks, stopped to chat. Between the shops,
shady alleys beckoned to secret hiding places overflowing with
flowered vines.

“I like Small Common,” I said.

“It must seem provincial compared to
Hollywood.”

“Not necessarily a bad thing.” I touched the
rippled window glass and wondered about other eyes that had gazed
through it in other years, long-ago.

“That ring is most unusual,” said Arthur.
“Where’d you get it?”

“Um.”

“I have one much like it.”

He placed his hands on the table. They were
just like the king’s, only cleaner and without calluses. He didn’t
wear a wedding ring. On the fourth finger of his right hand he wore
a ring like King Arthur’s, the one that matched Guinevere’s. It
could have been the same ring, black from tarnish and age.

Tom arrived with our fish and chips. “Best
in town,” he said, placing the plates before us. He headed back to
the bar.

“Easy to say when you’re the only pub,” said
Arthur to Tom’s back.

I stared at the food, taking in the aroma of
fried fish and hot potatoes.

“Go on. Aren’t you hungry?”

I remembered I was famished. The fork felt
strange in my hand. The fish was delicious and the green, lumpy
stuff on my plate was interesting.