Her Loving Husband's Curse (14 page)

James kept his mouth shut. He opened his laptop and searched the Internet. “1600,” he said. “King Charles the First was born on November 19, 1600.”

“You’re four hundred and eleven,” Sarah said.

Geoffrey grasped Sarah’s hands and danced with her around the great room, swinging her around, arm in arm like an elegant line dance. “I’m four hundred and eleven!”

He stopped dancing and looked over James’s shoulder, his eyes squinting at the words through the glare of the flat computer screen. “What is that with the words on it?”

“It’s a computer,” James said. “How can you be in the twenty-first century and not recognize a computer?”

“I am in the twenty-first century, James, I am not of the twenty-first century. I came of age in the days when bookbinding was an art. I am appalled at the state of what you call literature these days. In my time, we didn’t have electronic doodahs like iPigs or Bumbleberries. I prefer hardcovers that weigh five pounds and hurt your back when you carry them.
That
is a book. Though I suppose reading on a Snook is better than not reading at all.”

“On a Nook, Geoffrey,” said James.

“Whatever. It’s all nonsense. I’m from a more courteous time when we had eloquent forms of communication.”

“Town criers.”

Geoffrey turned toward James, his hands on his hips, his eyes slits, his lips pursed in annoyance with his vampling. “Do not mock a perfectly acceptable form of communication. It’s a clean, simple way to get information, that. The town crier arrived, said his bit around town, and left us be to act on or ignore the news as we saw fit. You can’t pretend you don’t know things these days. Information is everywhere. When that story about vampires being real gets out it’ll be around the world in sixty seconds, let alone sixty days.”

“Who’s putting out a story about vampires?” Sarah asked.

James shook his head. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

Geoffrey looked at James, at Sarah, then James again. He shrugged and tapped the laptop keys like a little boy trying to play the piano. “So what else does your magic box say about London in the seventeenth century? What else happened when I was born?”

James swatted Geoffrey’s hands away, typed seventeenth century London into the search engine, and scrolled through the results.

“Well? What does it say?”

“I don’t know,” James said. “I haven’t gotten there yet.”

“Gotten? You haven’t gotten? When did you start speaking like an American with that ridiculous accent?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re British.”

“I most certainly am not British.”

“You were born in London.”

“In 1662. A lot has happened since then, you know, a little something called the American Revolution.”

“Oh that.”

“Oh that?”

“A little misunderstanding turned into a major blowout because you children couldn’t be bothered to pay your taxes.”

James glared at Geoffrey. “I think it had something to do with taxation without representation,” he said.

“Are you still blowing that old horn?” Geoffrey’s frustration showed as two pink spots on his white-blue cheeks. “You know perfectly well that whole taxation without representation shtick was a ruse. You had representation through the colonial legislature, yet you only paid one twenty-sixth of the taxes we paid in Britain. We were just trying to recoup some of our losses. You children were expensive to care for, needing protection from the natives over here and whoever else over there.”

“There wasn’t enough representation. Our votes wouldn’t have counted for anything…”

“Aha!” Geoffrey hopped from foot to foot, pointing at James, the glee everywhere in his bright eyes and wicked smile. “Finally, after more than two hundred years you admit you had representation. Taxation without representation my patooties.” Geoffrey paced the great room, propelled by his agitation. “You know the real problem? You didn’t care about the tax levied on tea. You cared that we undercut the price of tea from the smugglers. Surprise! Most of the colonial leaders were smugglers! And let’s not forget that the British agreed to stop stealing land from the Indians. That wasn’t good enough for you greedy, land-hungry colonists.”

“Don’t you dare call me a land-hungry colonist,” James said. He stood to his full height, eye-to-eye with Geoffrey. “I did everything I could to help the people after their land was taken. I even slunk as low as you…” He stopped short, unable to continue. Sarah didn’t know.

“I know what you did,” Geoffrey said. When Geoffrey saw the shocked expression on James’s face, the way James looked at Sarah to see if she noticed anything odd about the turn of their conversation, he backed away. He whispered so only James could hear. “She doesn’t know?” James nodded. “You keep a lot of secrets from your little human person.” James nodded again.

In a voice loud enough for the neighbors to take part in the conversation, Geoffrey said, “I think you need to write an essay saying how you wayward American children had representation through the colonial legislature, there, Professor Doctor James Wentworth, and get it published in all those boring scholarly journals only academics read. It’s about time we get that story straight.”

“I think you should go around Massachusetts as a town crier and shout it out at all the public buildings,” James said. “You can start at Faneuil Hall in Boston. You can leave right now.”

“I think…”

Sarah pushed her way between them, arms out, keeping them on separate sides of the room like a teacher breaking up a fight on the playground. “Boys,” she said, “please, let it go. It was a long time ago.”

“Listen to your wife,” Geoffrey said. “She’s smarter than you.” He walked back to his corner by the kitchen. “What about you, Missy? When did you start speaking with that ridiculous American accent? Do you say gotten as well?”

“I was born in Boston,” Sarah said.

“She’s from Massachusetts,” James said.

Geoffrey pointed at Sarah’s head. “You were born in Boston.” He pointed at her heart. “But you were born in England.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Can I have more soup?” he asked.

James shrugged. “Help yourself,” he said.

After Geoffrey left, James stood outside making sure he was gone. He looked so perturbed, James, like Geoffrey was an unfortunate relation you have to deal with maybe on Thanksgiving and Christmas or Easter, and then you don’t think about him the other three hundred and sixty-three days of the year. When James walked back into the house, Sarah took his hands.

“I don’t understand why you invited him to our wedding if he annoys you so much,” she said. “He thinks you’re friends now so he stops by sometimes.”

James shook his head. “I don’t understand it myself. I’m appalled and fascinated by him at the same time. I hate him for abandoning me after he turned me, yet I feel drawn to him, connected to him, like he has some answer I’ve been looking for. Perhaps it was the note.”

“What note?”

“After he came here the first time he left me a note saying he hadn’t abandoned me the way I thought he had. He kept track of me, he knew everywhere I was, everything I did, but since I was doing all right he stayed away.”

“Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. Maybe he thinks creating vamplings is like being a mother bird who pushes her young from the nest—that’s how you help them fly.”

James shook his head. “There are other ways to help vamplings learn to survive. You help them by being there. Teaching them. Letting them know they’re not alone in the world.”

“Like being a parent.”

James smiled. “Yes,” he said.

Sarah brushed some stray strands away from his eyes. “Geoffrey’s a link to your past.”

“I suppose he is.” James looked at the pot on the stove. “How about more of that soup?”

“I can do that.” Sarah ladled more soup into his bowl and set it in front of him “Look how normal we are,” she said. “A husband and wife together on Christmas Eve, the husband eating soup, holiday music in the background, a fire in the hearth, our daughter asleep in her crib getting ready for her first Christmas. We’re just like other families.”

“We were visited by Geoffrey and you think we’re like other families?”

“All families have a crazy relative. It’s mandatory.”

“Geoffrey a relative? God help us.”

James finished the soup and licked the spoon. “That’s one thing Geoffrey was right about,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re smarter than I am.”

Sarah smiled. “I know,” she said.

CHAPTER 11

The daycare was two miles past SSU, down Lafayette Street into Marblehead sitting atop a short hill. It was a white Victorian-style home with triangle windows on top and colonial-blue trim. Primary Time Child Care and Preschool stayed open into the night to accommodate university employees like James and Sarah, who stood in front of the door, Sarah clutching Grace to her heart.

“What’s wrong?” James asked.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea. She’s been doing so well with Olivia.”

James took Grace in one arm while he kissed the top of Sarah’s hair. “Grace will be fine. She needs to get used to other people.”

“But she’s only seven months old.”

“They have a baby room.”

“Maybe I should cut back at the library. Maybe I should quit altogether.”

“I want you to do whatever makes you happy, Sarah.”

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you more.”

Sarah opened the door and they walked inside. The friendly looking woman behind the desk was the epitome of a preschool teacher in a boxy applique sweater with apples and ABCs , short curled hair, and a perpetual smile.

“We’re the Wentworths,” Sarah said. “This is Grace.”

“Hello, Mrs. Wentworth. I’m Miss Nancy.”

Miss Nancy took Grace’s hand. “Hello, Grace. Welcome to Primary Time.” With well-practiced hands she swept Grace from James’s arms. “No worries,” said Miss Nancy. “Miss Linda and I work together in the baby room. I’ll call you if we need you, but from the looks of it I think we’ll be fine, right Grace? She’s a sweet baby.”

“She is,” James said.

Grace nodded as if she understood every word. Sarah kissed the top of her gold curls and stroked her pink cheek.

“I’ll pick you up when I’m done at the library, okay Grace? Then we’ll go back to get Daddy. He starts his vampire class tonight.”

Miss Nancy squinted. “Vampire class?”

“It’s a vampire literature class,” James said.

“That vampire show on cable is from a book, isn’t it?” Miss Nancy asked. “What’s it called?”

“We’ve never seen it,” Sarah said.

Miss Nancy leaned up, watching James. He stepped back, nervous until she turned to Grace. “Your daughter looks just like you, Professor Wentworth.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at the lady holding his daughter. “You have our numbers in case you need us?”

“We’ll all set.” Miss Nancy hugged Grace. “Let’s go meet your other teacher, Grace.” She stepped away, but Sarah stopped her.

“Should I go with you?” she asked.

“You can go wherever you like, Mrs. Wentworth. This is your school now.”

Sarah looked at James, and he laughed. “I haven’t seen the classroom yet,” he said. “Let’s go.” He clasped Sarah’s hand as they followed Miss Nancy into the infant room, painted sunshine yellow with rainbows and clouds on the blue-sky ceiling. They met Miss Linda, another soft-looking, smiling woman, and said good-bye to Grace.

Sarah looked like she would cry as they drove toward campus. “I thought Grace would be a little sad when we left,” she said.

“Don’t worry, honey. If she hasn’t forgotten us in three hundred years, I don’t think she’ll forget us in a few hours.” He kissed her hand. “That school is highly recommended. Martha’s daughter has used them for years.”

“I know,” Sarah said.

She looked miserable, and he hated to leave her in the library but he had to get to class. He groaned to think of it. It was a frigid January night, and it had snowed the day before, leaving slippery puddles and black ice on the ground while the thin branches of the naked trees hunched toward the ground as though still searching for the leaves that got away. The students looked like living bundles of clothes in heavy winter coats, scarves, and hats, and they walked quickly and huddled close, clutching hot coffee in their mittened hands. James marveled at their sensitivity to the temperature. He remembered how he hated the dark winter months in his human days, annoyed by the goose bumps and the shivering, his longing for the warmth of the fire in the hearth, and then, after they were married, for Elizabeth’s warmth under the blankets at night. Lost in memories of his first life, he was startled by a human-looking Howard, professorly in a jacket and tie, walking beside him. They stopped near Meier Hall and James looked through the window into the empty first-floor room where his class would start soon.

“Starting your vampire class tonight?” Howard asked. James nodded. “Going to teach them how to be a vampire?”