Shades of Doon (22 page)
“I . . . I . . . called . . . my . . . my dad.”
The hand Jamie’d been running down my hair stilled on my back. “What did he say?”
“He doesn’t want . . . want to . . . see me. Ever . . . ever again.”
His entire body stiffened, and then he squeezed me against his chest — like if he held on tight enough he could absorb my hurt. But a part of me recoiled from him. That rejected little girl that lived inside of me screamed that no man could be trusted. That Jamie could eventually leave me too.
I leaned back, swiped the tears off my cheeks, and looked into his eyes. “I have to go. I need to be alone.” I pulled out of his arms and held up my hand to show him that I wore one of the rings. “I’ll be safe.”
“But ye canna — ”
“No, Jamie.” I snapped. “This is
my
world. I’ll be fine on my own.”
Hurt flashed across his features before he nodded and moved to the side, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
Without looking back, I slipped out the door with nothing more in mind than outrunning my grief.
D
uncan caressed her smooth curves, the look of absolute rapture on his face making me a bit regretful that I’d agreed to his crazy suggestion. “She’ll do,” he stated in that Scottish brogue that was half growl, half purr, and one hundred percent boy lust. “You’re a wee, bonnie lass. Aren’t ye?”
Refusing to go all jealous over a hunk of metal, I interjected, “Do you even know how to drive?”
“How hard could it be?” he asked with a crooked grin. On the short walk from the hotel to the car lot, Duncan had explained it’d been a desire of his since the first time I stuffed him into a horseless carriage to drive one. Since he was too young to rent, ID or not, Stevens had directed him to a lot that sold vintage sports cars.
“This is a stick shift.”
“Aye.” He had no idea what I meant but he was too far gone to care. With another gentle stroke across her hood, he announced, “I mean to have her.”
Duncan had immediately singled out a candy-apple red
Corvette convertible for his intended. Although used, the car was in cherry condition according to the sales guy.
With a resigned chuckle I gave in. “Okay, Braveheart. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“This one,” Duncan cooed, his eyes never leaving the bright, shiny paint job.
The sales guy nodded. He wasn’t bothered that the boy in front of him was unequipped to handle such a complex piece of machinery. All he cared about was the driver’s license and the platinum card in the boy’s outstretched hand.
I, on the other hand, had all kinds of misgivings. “What are we going to do with
it
when we head back to Scotland?”
“I don’t know. Give ’er to Vee’s mum?”
“Janet? No way.” Janet and Blob would never get such an expensive gift, even over my dead body.
Duncan just shrugged. “Dinna worry. When the time comes, I’m sure we’ll find the right home for her.”
The Corvette wasn’t a horse! But I guess, in a weird way, she was the modern version of his beloved Mabel. Whatever delusions I’d had of Duncan bonding with her quickly vanished as the boy tried to drive his new pet off the lot. With a complete lack of finesse, he jerked the car to life; she lunged forward and then immediately stalled.
“Try easing up on the clutch a little more slowly,” I suggested. The salesman had covered the basics: clutch, brake, gas, and shift positions — but driving a manual was a skill, not something that could be mastered without extensive practice.
I remembered, not-so-fondly, the driving lessons with my dad in his old, manual transmission Fiat. After the first driving lesson, I predicted I’d get whiplash before I would get the hang of the pedals. But my poor father had stuck by me, and by me, and by me as I learned to drive the thing. It’d taken more than three months.
Duncan started the car again, this time reacting too slowly. With the clutch engaged, the car revved without moving, and when he eased off, it shot forward, grinding as it demanded to shift into higher gears.
“Shift into second!” I commanded. Gears crunched as I added, “Don’t forget the clutch.”
The car slowed and then bolted forward again as Duncan figured out second gear. But when he tried for third, again at my urging, it stalled in the middle of the road.
Looking dazed, Duncan threw up his hands in frustration. “This modern contraption is broken. I think the shopkeeper hornswoggled me.”
Tempted to do the “I told you so” dance, I reigned myself in. Duncan’s manhood had been injured enough by the trip down the street. In the rearview mirror, I could see a growing knot of sales people at the end of the block watching the spectacle that was my boyfriend learning to drive.
I flashed Duncan a sympathetic grimace. “Before you take the car back, mind if I give her a try?”
Duncan favored me with a gallant nod of his head. “Be my guest.” As I climbed out of the car to trade places with him, I noticed money being exchanged by the group of onlookers. I pitied the fools that had bet on him to make it to the corner.
Melting into the driver’s seat, I instantly changed my mind about Duncan’s new pet. Ensconced in sweet-smelling leather, with the steering wheel in my left hand and the stick shift in my right, I experienced a similar rush to the one I got at curtain call. Yet another modern world pleasure I would soon leave behind.
No longer in a mocking mood, I turned to my boyfriend and instructed him on how to adjust his seat for maximum comfort. Seat belts fastened, I pressed in the clutch and turned
on the ignition. The resulting purr seemed to come from the core of my being, the effect of car and driver becoming one.
“Now relax and enjoy the ride,” I said with a wink.
Smoothly shifting into first gear and easing off the brake, I pressed the accelerator while letting up on the clutch. As the Corvette sprang to life, modern horse-power coursed through me like a drug. By the time I shifted into sixth gear on the highway, Duncan regarded me with something akin to awe.
“Ye’ve got a gift, woman. I’m man enough to admit when I’ve been bested.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Nay.” He reclined his seat slightly, stretching out as best he could in the restricted space. “Watching you drive my bonnie lass might even be better than drivin’ her m’self.”
The boy was amazing. How easily he laid his ego at my feet. As I followed the signs for I – 65 north, I wondered what other revelations about him our day in Chicago would bring.
When the stages of Chicago went dark for the night, the city’s theater folk could be found at the Green Room Lounge, eating deep dish pizza and singing karaoke. On any given night you might get or give an impromptu performance from a Hollywood celebrity or a Broadway A-lister: and if you were lucky, sing a duet with them. Seated in a green leather booth, for the first time that I could remember, I felt at home.
Duncan toyed with the edge of his playbill as we waited for food. His face displayed a thoughtful frown of concentration. But I had no idea if the reaction was positive or negative.
I’d deliberately not spoken about the show on the way to the restaurant so that he’d have time to process. I wanted him to
love
Wicked
as much as I did, but I recognized that his perspective was vastly different from mine. “So?”
The pucker between his brows eased as his dark gaze met mine. “’Twas lovely. I liked how the story portrayed an unexpected perspective. And the music — ”
“I know, right?”
“Aye . . .” He picked up a breadstick, broke it in the middle, and offered me half. “Although I canna help but think ’tis a dangerous precedent to romanticize evil. Witches, demons, sorcerers, and the like as noble, misunderstood creatures is great fiction. When someone chooses to serve evil, they sacrifice the part of themselves with the capacity to embrace goodness.”
Taking a bite, he chewed thoughtfully before continuing. “There’s an essay I read once in the castle library. It was gathered during the Centennial in the late eighteen hundreds. The author, Edmund Burke, stated, ‘When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.’ ”
“That sounds a lot like something one of our presidents — famous leaders — said. ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’ ”
I happened to remember the quote because of a paper I’d been forced to write senior year. While other kids illustrated the Kennedy quote with examples of Hitler and Rwanda, I’d used Horton’s decision to protect the Whos despite the scorn of the entire jungle. As part of my presentation I’d sung “Alone in the Universe” with fellow thespian Dani Diaz and earned a solid B for my efforts.
“That’s an apt statement. Makes me think o’ Sean MacNally’s lot,” Duncan replied, refocusing my thoughts from an elephant’s noble quest to save a world on a clover to a world hidden from modern civilization. “Too many lads fell under
his sway. Now that he’s imprisoned though, most o’ the others have disavowed him.”
I’d been wondering about the sentiments of Sean’s followers now that he was locked up. Not that I had any concerns about them breaking Sean out of the dungeon. I knew from firsthand experience how impossible that was — even for cheerleader ninjas. Still, a wave of relief surged over me at Duncan’s words. I gave his hand an appreciative squeeze as our tattooed server placed a deep dish masterpiece between us.
Duncan’s eyes widened as he took it in. “Where’s the cheese?”
“On the inside. Along with the meat,” I explained as I maneuvered a three-inch thick slice onto each of our plates.
I watched expectantly as Duncan took his first gooey bite. He made a throaty noise of ecstasy somewhere between “mmm” and “ahh” as he slowly chewed and swallowed. When his tongue darted out to capture a little bead of tomato sauce at the corner of his lips, my own mouth began to water.
I attacked my own piece with gusto in lieu of accosting the boy across from me. “Good, huh?”
“Aye. Do you think we could bring a recipe back for Mario?” he asked before using his knife to balance another chunk on his upside-down fork and shoving it in his mouth.
“I’m not sure you could convert him to Chicago style.” I chuckled at the thought of an anecdote Gabriella Rosetti had recently told us about the first time her brother Matteo featured haggis pizza. He got banned from the kitchen permanently, or at least until the local demand for his creation got him reinstated and the specialty pie permanently on the menu. “He’s kind of a purist when it comes to pizza. You might have better luck with Mags.”
I savored another forkful as music swelled, signaling the
commencement of the after-hours entertainment. Joey, the owner and emcee, always kicked off the night with a group sing-along of “There’s No Business Like Show Business” from
Annie Get Your Gun
. As the final word “show” faded, Joey took the mike.
“Beloveds,” he crooned. “We have a very special treat for you tonight. Not only a Green Room Lounge favorite, but a true star.” I held my breath along with the rest of the room waiting to know which shining example of musical theater perfection was about to grace the stage. There were so many performers I had hoped to see live: Idina, Raul, Kristin, Kelli, Jeremy, Audra, Brian, Sutton, Darren, JRB, NPH — the list could go on and on.
Joey paused dramatically, beaming at his captivated audience. “Please welcome back to our humble stage, the dazzling and unforgettable Mackenna Reid.”
What?
In complete shock, I turned to Duncan, who was wildly applauding along with the rest of the patrons. With a grin that rivaled that of the club host, he tipped his head toward the stage. “What are ye waitin’ for? Go on, woman.”
Still reeling, I got to my feet and wound my way to the stage where Joey, who smelled of lilac and pomade, pulled me into a hug. “Welcome home, honey,” he murmured into my ear. “The first set is yours.”
As he let go, my brain started frantically indexing my repertoire. He’d given me the set, which was 8 – 10 songs — so what would I sing? I hadn’t thought to prepare anything. Thanks be to Kandor and Ebb, the patron saints of all things Chicago, I’d been preparing for a moment like this my whole life.
I made a quick mental list of songs that I would sing for the last time. I’d never be able to take sheet music for them all back to Doon . . . and even if I did, who would appreciate them like
this crowd? Which caused me to wonder what exactly I would do with my own theater when I crossed the bridge?
I couldn’t think about that now. So instead, I sang. Gloriously.
When my set was finished, I wound my way through the adoring crowd back to my even more adoring boyfriend. As I slid into the booth next to him, he kissed my cheek. “I’m so verra fortunate that you chose me.”
He meant over
all
of this . . . As I struggled to respond, I noticed a girl sitting alone at a corner table. It took a moment longer to recognize the brunette as Jeanie. Having given up her single white female homage to me, her hair was once again its natural color and in a cute pixie cut. Her makeup and clothes were back to her own unique style as well.
