In the Time of Kings (7 page)

“You got something to say, boy?”

That’s what I am to him nowadays: boy. Not Ross, not even ‘son’, but ‘boy’, like I could be anyone’s stray kid he came across on the street.

“Josh Thompson took a job at the gas station.”

“That so? Why should I care?”

“I asked the manager at the drugstore and he said I could have Josh’s hours now, too. That means stocking the shelves on weekend mornings. I have to be there on Saturdays and Sundays at 7:30 in the morning.” I’m lying. Mr. Harris, the manager, told me 8:30, but I want to get out of the house before this charade of a family tradition is supposed to begin.

“Whoop-de-doo. Think you’re gonna buy a fancy car or something with all that extra cash?”

“I’m going to go to college. I’ve been saving for over a year now and I figure by
—”

He snaps his newspaper open. “One year and you’ll be so broke you’ll come crawling home, begging for a place to sleep and a job at the machine shop. Meanwhile, I guess we’ll be up bright and early on Sundays now, won’t we? Things are different here since your mother left us. I expect you to do your share around the house. Remember, I like my ham thick-sliced and my eggs over easy.”

I should have kept my mouth shut.

HERE & NOW

Near Berwick, Scotland — 2013

T
urning over, my right shoulder throbs with a habitual ache. I try to sit up, to open my eyes, but I flail where I lay, enveloped by darkness.

“Roslin?”

The voice is but a whisper, as airy as spider web.

“Roslin?”

This time, it’s louder, clearer, beckoning me. But where is it coming from?

I inhale again, long and deep, letting air fill my lungs, an assurance that I’m awake and not dreaming. The smell of ham and eggs frying hits me full force. I pry one eyelid open, then the other.

A slat of morning light pierces the dusky room, dust motes sparkling in a haze of suspended diamonds. Before me, a crumpled form writhes beneath the sheets. I curl an arm around Claire’s waist and slide closer. She kicks me in the shins with her heels, not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough to warn me to tread slowly. Claire was never a morning person, but I have plans for today. I’ll insist. Politely, of course.

“Morning, Sunshine.” Gently, I tuck the knotted mess of her hair behind her ear and nuzzle her neck, sniffing. “Do you smell it? Dermot’s serving up breakfast for us. I think that’s our signal to roll out of bed and start another glorious day. If you listen, you’ll hear the sizzle of ham in an iron skillet. I requested it just for you.”

A small groan — or maybe it’s a moan, I can never tell with her — thrums at the back of her throat.

I trail light fingertips down her back, then curve my palm over the rise of her hips to pull her snugly against me. Amazing how just her nearness stirs me to desire. Last night had been a wild ride. The walls are probably thin. I’m sure we’ll get a grin or two from Dermot this morning. Newlyweds. He’ll understand. The more I think about it, the more turned on I become. She must have noticed by now.

She jabs an elbow in my stomach. Guess she did notice.

“I take it you’re not in the mood, then?” I say.

“Aw gawd, Ross. I have a terrible,
terrible
headache.” Flopping over, Claire clamps her head between her hands and twists her mouth. “Must’ve been the Glenfiddich. Remind me that as of this morning, I’ve sworn off drinking.”

“Hammered, were you?” I kiss her lightly on the knuckles, then pull the sheets up around her before sliding out of bed myself.

“I had one shot glass. One. I’d forgotten what it did to me.”

I slide my jeans on and bend over to dig a fresh T-shirt out of my bag. “I don’t know. I kind of like what it did to you. You were so ... so ... uninhibited. I had no idea you knew how to —”

A pillow whacks me in the back of the head with so much force I topple over. On hands and knees, I slink back to the bed and peer cautiously at her over the edge of the mattress. “What was that for?”

“Just shut up, Ross. You’re talking too loud.”

“Right.”

After I finish dressing, mindful of every sound, I creep to her and say softly, “I’ll bring you back something to eat.”

She shakes her head once. “No food, no.”

“Coffee? Double cream and one sugar?”

“Extra strong.”

“Was that a dig at my watered down swill?”

“Shhhh!”

I lower my voice even more. “Aspirin or acetaminophen?”

“Both.”

“Back in ten.” My glasses are sitting on the bedside table. The frames are definitely bent. Must have happened when Reverend Murray flattened me with the door. I leave them where they are and reach toward the bottom tab on the shades, thinking to let in the daylight, but draw my hand back when she flips the covers over her head. Even with a hangover, she’s so damn cute. I want to ravish her several times today, but I think my chances are slim. Still, it’s all I can do not to rush back to her and tell her so.

The tumbler in the door lock clunks as I close it behind me. The floorboards in the hallway groan like arthritic old men and the stairs squeak like gerbils at feeding time. This building has to be four hundred years old. I expect to see ghosts around every corner. From the floor below comes the sounds of a cat being tortured — that or it’s the murder of “Morning Has Broken” by a tone-deaf leprechaun. As I near the bottom, the odor of pork fat overpowers me. I push two fingers to my lips, trying not to vomit. Usually I’m okay when meat’s cooking, but this smell is overpowering. Dermot appears at the landing, humming, a smile as wide as the Firth of Forth on his cherubic face. In one hand, he balances an iron skillet; in the opposite, he waves an oversized fork like a conductor’s baton.

“Did me singing wake you?” he chimes in his lilting accent.

“
You
were singing? I thought a chorus of angels had gathered at the front door. I only came down to let them in.” I take a quick look outside the front door, then close it. “No one there. Looks like everyone else has already headed out for the day. Just you and me then.”

He leads the way into the breakfast nook: four small round tables draped in white linen, each with a centerpiece of freshly plucked daisies. “Will Mrs. Sinclair be along soon?”

“
Ms
. Forbes, actually. Modern woman, you know? We both agreed that Claire Sinclair sounded kind of hokey. But please, just Ross and Claire will do.” I sit at the table closest to the window to soak up the morning sunlight. “Anyway, she has a pounding headache. I thought I’d run to the chemist’s after this for some medicine.”

“No need for that, Mr. ... Ross. First door on your left by the entrance. Just about any remedy you can think of stashed in the cabinet there.”

“I’m sorry if you went to the trouble of cooking up something specifically for her. I’m sure she’ll be better by tomorrow morning.”

“Ah, just a couple of thin slices of ham with an egg on the side.” He pats his round stomach. “It won’t go to waste. Nearly my lunch time, ‘tis. Been up since sunrise. The Pattersons had to be off early to catch a plane. You’re here for one more day?”

“Two, actually. Then back to Glasgow and headed home.”

Moments later, Dermot places a scone and bowl of fruit and yogurt in front of me, then pours a cup of coffee from a silver pot.

“Tea for me,” I say, “but would you mind if I took my wife this cup when I’m done here? I know you probably don’t prefer guests to take food and drink back to their rooms, but —”

“No worries! Go right ahead. Will you be relaxing here today or doing a wee bit of sightseeing?”

I glance down at my bare wrist, realizing I’ve left my watch in the room. “What time is it, Dermot?”

“Half past nine, I reckon.”

“Already?”

“Aye, ‘tis.”

“Damn ... I mean ... I’m going to be late. I forgot our rental car had a flat and I have an appointment at ten o’clock.”

“Where at?”

“Oh, I’d say it’s no more than five or six kilometers from here. South of Aberbeg. A little kirk called St. Joseph’s. I’m meeting a man there named Reverend Murray. Said he might have some information on my genealogy.”

“Ah, aye, I know the place. Stone wall about so high” — he holds a level palm to his hip —“covered in ivy? Gravestones all ‘round? Giant yew tree out back, looks like it would smash the roof in if a good wind came along?”

“That’s right. Said he had an early appointment before that and had to be off for Dunbar for the rest of the day. If I don’t catch him at ten, I might not at all.” I take a few sips of black tea, burning my tongue in the process, devour a scone laced with walnuts and gobble down several spoonfuls of yogurt, nearly choking on the chunks of fruit I had forgotten were there.

Dermot drifts back in from the kitchen. “I’d offer you a lift, but I have to take me mum to the doctor’s in an hour. Do you know the way? You can borrow me bicycle. Wee bit o’ rust on the frame, but I keep the gears oiled and plenty of air in the tires.”

“Yeah, I suppose I could make it if I leave in the next few minutes.”

“Your ancestors are from around here, then?”

“Not exactly. They took part in the Battle of Halidon Hill, though.” I don’t bother to tell him they probably died there. That’s a given.

“Never been much interested in my own ancestry,” Dermot muses. He hands me a fresh mug of coffee, then scoots the sugar and cream closer. “But I’m sure there are a fair amount of skeletons rattling around back there. If they could only tell their stories ...” He chortles to himself, his cheeks reddening. “Then again, maybe there are a few things we’re better off not knowing, aye?”

“Maybe, Dermot. Maybe.” I stir Claire’s coffee and push my chair back. “I’ll just grab a few pills, take this up to my wife, ride out to the kirk and be back by noon.” Wishful thinking, I know, but it sounds like a good plan. If Reverend Murray has somewhere to be later today, I can only spend so long with him — which is a blessing, considering the talker he seems to be.

“I’ll fetch the bicycle from the shed and prop it next to the side door for you, then.”

“Thanks, Dermot.”

I duck into the bathroom by the front hallway and pop open the medicine cabinet. I have to hold the bottles at arm’s length to read the labels, but I finally decipher what’s what. I pour a handful of aspirin into my palm. Then, not wanting to take advantage of Dermot’s generosity, I count out four and put the rest back. There are only two acetaminophen capsules left, so I take the bottle, reminding myself to buy him a replacement when I return later.

Again, the stairs creak under my feet on the way up. I’m more successful in opening the door quietly this time, though I expect to find Claire curled up under the blankets, dozing off her potent Glenfiddich. Instead, I hear her in the bathroom, puking up last night’s dinner of haggis and rosemary potatoes. I warned her. Waiting until I hear the toilet flush, I set the coffee on the bedside table and go to look in on her, like any good husband would.

She’s donned one of my ratty old college T-shirts. Hair springs raggedly from her loose ponytail, one unruly lock covering her left eye. Pushing it out of the way, she rolls back onto her bottom, then leans her head against the wall.

Extending my palm, I offer her the pills and a glass of water. “You really are a mess.”

“I’ve felt better.” In two quick gulps, she downs the pills. “Better hurry up. You’re going to miss breakfast.

“Already back from there.” I run a washcloth under cool water and dab her forehead, then press the cloth into her hands. “You know, I was going to meet with Reverend Murray this morning, but I’m not sure I should leave you like this.”

“Oh, Ross, I’m so sorry. I’m ruining our honeymoon already.”

I sink to my knees on the glossy tiles. “You’re not ruining anything. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’ll be okay once I can hold the pills down. Mostly it’s my head that hurts. I feel better just having emptied my stomach.” She screws her eyes shut, then covers her entire face with the washcloth. “Really, not much you can do here, except watch me hurl some more and maybe take a nap, if I’m lucky.”

“You sure?”

Her head bobs in a feeble nod behind her terrycloth veil.

“Don’t be mad at me if I tell Dermot to look in on you, okay? I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Well, three at most, knowing Reverend Murray — I promise. I’ll have my phone with me.”

She flaps a hand at me.

“You sure?”

“Go, before I throw up on you.”

––––––––

M
y transportation, missing its kickstand, is propped against the brick wall along the driveway. When Dermot said there was rust on his bike, he wasn’t kidding. It looks like a relic from the days of the Wright Brothers’ cycle shop, with big, knobby tires and an oversized seat. A basket is strapped to a wire platform over the back tire, big enough to transport a few days’ worth of groceries. The original color was once royal blue with white trim, but oxidation has taken its toll, splotching the frame with patches of deep red rust. The inner tubes may have been well inflated, but fine cracks in the tires’ rubber hint at the beginnings of dry rot. I push down on them several times, expecting the telltale hiss of a leak. If they go flat, the worst thing that will happen is that I’ll have to walk back. Luckily, it isn’t that far. I’ve been telling myself I need to start an exercise program. Maybe today’s the day. I hike a leg over the seat and glance down to notice a big smear of oil from the chain streaked across my pants leg.

“Just great,” I mumble.

“What’s that?” Dermot says from behind me.

Looking over my shoulder at him, I fake a gracious smile. He’s drying his hands on his apron. Since I didn’t know he’d followed me out, it’s a good thing he spoke up or else he would’ve heard a string of cuss words next. “This is great. Thanks, Dermot.”

“Just put it back in the shed when you return. Do you need me to call the car rental company for you? Or run the tire over to me cousin’s?”

“Thanks, but no, I can take care of that later. Should be back around lunchtime, or a little after. If you could stop by the room sometime ...”