“The things that make me different are the things that make me.”
A. A. Milne
Alberta Nightingale was an odd duck. Everyone said so. With her waist-length bright red, wild corkscrew hair that didn't look like it ever saw much of a brushing, and her long, loose fitting dresses covering a petite, softly rounded body...well, just add a wimple and she'd fit right in at any meeting of the Society for Creative Anachronism. That same everyone also agreed there could be no sweeter girl. Even if, as some believed, she was a witch or, as others believed, merely a throw back to the sixties who liked to sing to herself.
No one actually shunned her. She was always ready with a sunny smile and never failed to say to hello. They simply didn't know quite how to take her. Except when they needed a healer. Then they beat a path to either her shop, Herbs and Potions, or her small apartment in the basement of the old Tipton Mansion. No doctor could do what she did with her herbs and hands. Especially her hands.
She was a fixture at the bandstand in the park whenever there was a concert. Country, folk, Broadway, rock, classical...Bertie loved it all. And there really was some very good local talent. The only music she eschewed was gangsta for its extreme misogynistic and sexual lyrics. Otherwise, she was always there.
Tonight she was treating herself to an evening of grand opera. Onstage, with its spectacular sets, the voices of performers with immense talent and years of practice soared as the music from the orchestra pit filled the opulent Edwardian-era theater with notes rising and falling, softening and crescendoing, breathing life into the splendid space. Those that filled the audience seats listened, spellbound, as the tragic story seduced them away from their realities and took them to other lands and times, led by the renowned conductor, and local boy-done-good, Dorian Corban.
From the last row of the balcony, Bertie absorbed the grandeur of the spectacle with her emerald eyes half closed in ecstasy. “Madame Butterfly” had always moved and enthralled her. It didn't matter that the stage was so far away that she could barely read the expressions of the singers. The music told her more about the emotions being played out than any painted face ever could and she willingly escaped into a world of magic and dreams far different from her own existence. A world of passionate beauty and tragedy. A world that, had things been different, she could have helped to create. That's not to say that she wasn't happy with her life. She had long ago accepted the role she played in the world rather than the one her girlhood dreams had been made of. But her heart and soul could never not be stirred by the story and the music.
Afterward, as was her habit, she waited several minutes for the crowd to thin before making her way carefully down the carpeted steps toward the exit. From there she eschewed the crowded elevators and descended another, much grander, set of stairs to the lobby where many still lingered in conversation with friends and acquaintances. Most were dressed in gowns and black tie, as befitting the occasion. Others, like Bertie, were dressed in their Sunday best. And there was a definite division of the classes between the two groups.
“Alberta! Alberta, I had a feeling you'd be here somewhere!”
Recognizing the voice, she turned with a smile and greeted the white-haired elderly woman in a wheel chair who was accompanied by her son, a tall, distinguished man of about forty standing with his hands on the handles. Both were dressed in formal finery.
“Mrs. Tipton, it's so good to see you out and about.” Bertie turned her smile on her companion. “Hello, Erik.”
He nodded and smiled pleasantly in return, his gray eyes warmly intent on her face. His features were too chiseled to be considered classically handsome and silver glinted in his dark hair, but not for the first time she found herself thinking he really was a very nice looking man.
“Miss Nightingale.”
“Wasn't the performance just splendid?” Mrs. Tipton asked. “We're lucky to have such talent in our little town.”
Bertie nodded.
“Yes, we are. And it's no wonder with you as its patroness.”
“Indeed,” the old woman agreed regally, “If I remember correctly you are acquainted with our conductor, Dorian.”
“Yes. He was a couple of years ahead of me in school but we were both involved with the music and theater departments.”
“Have you seen him since then?”
“Only on stage, I'm afraid. We lost touch after he graduated and went away to college.”
“Oh, posh! Julliard is hardly a mere college!”
Bertie's smile turned wry.
“Very true .”
Mrs. Tipton looked away long enough to wave good night to friends as they were leaving then returned her attention to Bertie.
“Erik and I are hosting a small soiree when we leave here. Dorian will be there, along with the cast and musicians. You will, of course, attend along with us.”
Bertie's eyes widened in panicked surprise and she motioned down at her long, colorful, cotton boho dress.
“Th-thank you, Mrs. Tipton, but I'm hardly dressed for it.”
“Nonsense, my dear. I daresay the cast won't be dressed any finer. You look quite presentable.” The old woman glanced over her shoulder. “Come along, Erik, before Alberta changes her mind.”
Like I was given a choice, Bertie thought resignedly, and followed along behind them out into the night where a vintage white Cadillac was idling at the curb with the driver waiting with the back door open. In short order, Mrs. Tipton was transferred to the back seat through one door, Bertie was shown into the other, the wheelchair was stowed in the trunk, and Erik joined the driver in the front, before the car pulled smoothly away, headed toward the town's most elegant hotel. It was no accident that it was also a Tipton family holding as they owned most of the properties in town, including the renovated craftsman cottage where Bertie herself lived.
The “small soiree” turned out to include at least two hundred people, including members of the orchestra and cast, and was being held in the hotel's grand ballroom. A scattering of tables were covered with fine linen and tasteful floral arrangements, waiters circulated with trays of hor d'ouerves and champagne, while food for the hungrier guests was served from a long banquet table on gold-rimmed china and an open bar was situated nearby. A band was playing instrumental standards in one corner and already couples were occupying the dance floor when they arrived. Bertie was relieved to find that she wasn't the only person there who wasn't dressed formally and was able to relax as Erik guided the wheelchair through the parting crowd to a table that sat splendidly along one wall. Understanding that the table was meant for Mrs. Tipton and the most important guests, Bertie hung back and tried not to feel too intimidated by the throng of monied guests surrounding her.
When Dorian Corban arrived there was enthusiastic applause as he was led to the VIP table. Once there, he bent to brush an affectionate kiss on Mrs. Tipton's cheek and shake hands with Erik before taking his seat. At a discrete signal from Erik, the band stopped mid-note as he stood beside his mother and accepted a microphone from the hotel manager.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began, smiling out upon the crowd, “Thank you for joining us tonight as we celebrate the start of another Arts season.” Polite applause followed. “For those of you who don't know us, I am Erik Tipton and this is my mother, Delores,” more applause, “Up here with us are our mayor and his wife, J. Johnson and Tamara Madison, from the Arts Committee, Henry Chapman, Adam Fraley, and Letitia Connelly, and, of course, you all know our guest of honor, the conductor of the city's symphony orchestra, Dorian Corban.”
The crowd's response was enthusiastic, especially from members of the cast, whom Dorian acknowledged with a wide smile and brief wave.
Lifting his champagne glass from the table, Erik held it forward and waited as everyone stood and did the same.
“To a successful season!”
With smiles, the guests repeated his toast and as they sipped their champagne, the band swung into an instrumental version of Walking On Sunshine, which drew couples, young and old alike, back onto the dance floor.
Bertie took it all in with a smile but was secretly trying to think of some way to gracefully leave without offending Mrs. Tipton. She had never liked large gatherings, preferring to interact one-to-one or in small groups, and in this crowd, especially, she was feeling nervous and out of place.
Making her way to the buffet tables, she helped herself to an assortment of canapes and other finger foods, accepted a cup of punch from a waiter, and took a seat at a table against a wall out of the milling masses. Not long after, a familiar retired couple bearing their own refreshments sat down with her and soon the three were deep in conversation about the upcoming season, allowing Bertie to relax and begin to enjoy herself.
Time passed, music and conversation flowed, along with champagne and punch, and eventually she found herself stifling yawns. With an apology to her table mates, she stood and wished them a good-night, before making her way through the crowd to the table where Mrs. Tipton was holding court. Looking up, she spotted Bertie approaching and smiled warmly as she laid a hand on the arm of the young man standing beside her.
“Alberta, dear, you remember Dorian, don't you?”
“Of course I do,” Bertie replied and offered her hand, “Hello, Dorian. It's been a long time.”
Slender, blond, and of average height, Dorian Corban was both beautiful and effeminate, and his hazel eyes glittered with good humor.
“Bertie!” Accepting her hand, he leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “It's so good to see you! Where have you been keeping yourself tonight?”
She grimaced wryly.
“In my usual place. Against the wall.”
“You always were a wallflower, if I remember correctly.” He eyed her shrewdly. “And now you want to escape.”
She chuckled and nodded.
“Yes, I admit that I do. It's been a long day.”
“But, my dear,” Mrs. Tipton objected, aghast, “you haven't danced yet! Every young woman should dance at least once at my party.” She glanced at her son beside her and demanded, “Erik! Take Alberta out for a dance before she leaves.”
Resigned and feeling self-conscious, Bertie watched as Erik excused himself from his discussion with the mayor and stood up from the table.
“Ms. Nightingale,” he motioned toward the dance floor with a wry smile, “would you care to join me in a dance?”
Her own smile was wry as she waited for him to round the table and lead her out among the dancers. As if on cue, the song changed to a love theme from a popular movie and Bertie was pulled gently into Erik's arms, where she suddenly found herself overwhelmingly aware of him in a way she never had before. Somehow, even though she had only danced with anyone once or twice in her life, her feet and body knew what to do. She could feel the warmth emanating through his clothes, even as he kept a respectable distance between them, and the understated scent of his expensive cologne added to the headiness of the moment. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders but when she looked up her baffled emerald green eyes met his admiring gray ones.
“I'm sorry about this,” she murmured, just managing not to stammer.
“Sorry for what?”
“Being shanghaied into dancing with me.”
His chuckled quietly, the sound more felt than heard.
“Hardly that,” he assured her, “I was wondering how I could draw you out of the shadows and into a dance. Mother simply made it easy for me.”
“All you had to do was ask.”
He was silent for a moment before confessing, “I wasn't certain you would agree.”
Her eyes widened.
“Why ever not?”
“You didn't seem interested.”
“Interested in dancing with you?”
“In me, period.” He sighed. “I've wanted to take you out for a long time. Get to know you better, so that I didn't feel the need to keep calling you Ms. Nightingale.”
She smiled, charmed by his honesty.
“I've been calling you Erik for years.”
He nodded.
“Yes, you have. But,” he sighed in frustration, “I don't know why I couldn't bring myself to show the same...familiarity.”
More at ease now, her smile softened.
“Then, please, call me Bertie from now on.”
He gazed down her consideringly.
“Your nickname never seemed to suit you. At least to me it doesn't.”
“Oh? And Alberta does?”
He grinned.
“Not really. What's your middle name?”
“Which one? I have two of them.”
“Two of them?”
She nodded, her smile widening.
“My mother and father couldn't decide on a middle name. He wanted to name me after his mother, Elizabeth. Mom wanted to name me after her grand-aunt, Moira. In the end they named me after both and I became Alberta Elizabeth Moira Nightingale.”
He laughed softly.
“That's quite a mouthful.”
“Yes, but in all honesty, I wish they'd just called me Moira and been done with it.”
“Moira? Why?”
“Grand-aunt Moira is a legend in our family. She was from County Cavan in Ireland. She sold her things to pay her way to America, took work in a New York garment factory, fell in love and married a Scotsman who had immigrated here about the same time, and they eventually settled in Chicago where they opened a pub called the Leg and Garter. Which, by the way, is still there today.”
“The Leg and Garter, huh? Have you been there?”
She shook her head regretfully.
“No. They sold it for a tidy profit and returned to Ireland where they lived happily ever after off those profits.”
“Must have been quite tidy indeed.”
“Oh, yes. A certain gangster made them a very generous offer they couldn't refuse and they were more than happy to get out of Chicago and back to Ireland. They arrived just in time for the uprising where they took the side of the rebels and became spies.”
“They were never arrested?”
“Nope. They were very good at what they did, you see, and the authorities never guessed that two seemingly benign, comfortably well off retirees could be something else entirely. It wasn't until after they died of ripe old age that the truth came out.”
“Incredible!”
“Isn't it?”
“I can see why you'd want to take her name.”
“I've even considered legally changing it, but decided against it”
“Why?”
“Too much hassle having to change everything. Not to mention trying to get everyone to call me Moira.” She sighed. “I'll always be Bertie to them.”
“Not to me you won't.”
She looked up and was startled to find him staring down at her with an intent expression.
“I won't?”
“No.” His voice dropped to a deep murmur. “You'll be Moira to me from now on.”
She blushed becomingly.
“Won't that get a bit confusing? When you refer to me as Moira instead of Bertie, I mean?”
“I've never referred to you as Bertie. Or Alberta for that matter.” He cocked his head to one side. “If you like, I'll continue to call you Ms. Nightingale in public. But when we're not, I'll call you Moira.”
Her smile bloomed.
“That would be nice,” she agreed, then buried her face shyly against his shoulder as he hugged her closer.
He was as good as his word. From that night onward, he continued to call her Ms. Nightingale when others were around, and on those infrequent occasions when they found themselves in less public surroundings, he always greeted her as Moira, his eyes filled with masculine appreciation, and something more that she was afraid to name.
Bertie's business continued to thrive as the weeks went by. From time to time customers would come in with complaints requiring her special attention, but for the most part what was asked of her was her expertise in all things herbal, from holistic treatments to teas and even to seasonings for recipes.
Erik Tipton's frequent presence inside Herbs and Potions was noted with secret smiles and nods, as well as much speculation. It seemed an odd relationship, he with his high, conservative status in the local gentry and she being, well, odd to begin with. But they seemed happy with it and as the town loved them both it was a welcome addition to the local friendly gossip.
One night as she was preparing to close up, Erik arrived to escort her home. It was something he often did, insisting that a woman could never be too careful. This despite the fact that she had been seeing herself home for years. But she appreciated his concern and enjoyed the opportunity to spend time with him away from work.
They had just exited the store and she was turning the key in the lock when an old sports car screeched to a stop, leaving the rust and primed chassis rocking violently against the curb. Startled they turned just as a teenage boy half emerged from inside.
“Ms. Nightingale! Ms. Nightingale! You hafta come quick!”
Bertie glanced at Erik before turning her attention to the young man, concern wrinkling her brow.
“What's wrong, David?”
“It's my mom. She's-She's hurting something fierce but won't let me call the ambulance. She-she says we can't afford it. Can you come help her, Ms. Nightingale? She said you were the only one she trusted!”
His urgency had already communicated itself to her and she once again looked at Erik.
“I have to go, Erik. I'm sorry.”
“I'll take you,” he replied, his tone allowing for no argument and she nodded.
David waited until Erik had backed his SUV out of its parking spot, then led them almost recklessly out of town. Within minutes, they were pulling up to a faintly dilapidated house where Bertie and Erik quickly followed David inside then upstairs to a bedroom at the end of a long, dark hall.
A middle-aged woman was lying in a semi-fetal position on the bed, her arms wrapped protectively around her belly. Her white face was contorted and bathed in sweat and she was breathing heavily. Bertie hurried to the bedside and bent over the woman.
“Mattie?” she said, “Mattie, it's me. Bertie.”
Mattie opened her eyes and stared up at Bertie.
“Oh, god, Bertie. I'm hurting so bad!”
“Did you eat something to cause this?”
“No! I haven't eat anything since last night.” Mattie groaned and closed her eyes for a moment. “It just started this morning and it's got worse through the day.”
Bertie gently moved the woman's arms away and ran her hands over her belly, and suddenly she suspected what the problem was.
“Are you pregnant, Mattie?”
“I-I don't know.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Bertie's eyes sought out David.
“David, where's your father?”
“I'm not sure,” he confessed, “He was in Dallas last night, headed for LA.”
David's father was a long haul truck driver.
She nodded and returned her attention to Mattie.
“Ok, Mattie, you're not bleeding that I can see but I suspect you're losing a baby. It's probably an ecoptic pregnancy. I'm going to try to help you but I need you to lie still for a few minutes, okay?”
The woman's eyes squeezed shut and she groaned before she gave a jerky nod.
“I'll try.”
Bertie glanced one more time at David.
“Call 9-1-1, David.”
Mattie's response was immediate and panicked.
“No! We can't afford the hospital!”
For the first time Erik spoke.
“Don't worry, Mattie. I'll take care of it.”
With a moan, she gave a weak nod and willed herself to lie still.
Bertie quickly lifted Mattie's sweatshirt and lowered the waist of her sweat pants to bare her lower belly then gently placed her hands on the tight, clammy skin. Closing her eyes, she shut everything out but the feel of the woman's straining body, reaching deep with her mind, past Mattie's distress until her pain began to radiate up through Bertie's hands and arms. She felt her hands warming, growing hot, and she directed the warmth into Mattie's body. For long minutes she concentrated the heat through her firm touch, her mind focused solely on the task at hand. In her mind's eye, she saw the ruptured Fallopian tube and the bloody, embryonic mass that spilled from it and bore down her energies until she felt the bleeding slow. By the time the ambulance arrived, Mattie was out of immediate danger of hemorrhaging.
As the paramedics rushed in, Bertie stood and stumbled back out of the way, exhausted from her efforts. Erik caught her before she could fall, supporting her body against his. They watched as the medics examined Mattie and readied her for transport. A litter was brought upstairs, she was quickly loaded, and then carried back downstairs, placed onto a gurney, and loaded into the ambulance. Within a very short period of time, it was rushing back out to the main road, lights and sirens going, with David close behind in his car.
Long moments passed before Erik urged Bertie to sit on the side of the bed.
“Sit down for a minute before you fall down.”
She nodded as she sank onto the mattress with its rumpled bedding.
“Can I do anything?” he asked, kneeling before her and taking her hands in his.
“No. Just give me a moment to pull myself together.”
He studied her with wondering eyes.
“I've heard you were a healer, Moira, but I thought they meant something else entirely. That you were, I don't know, like a holistic practitioner.”
Bertie smiled weakly.
“I am, actually. But sometimes more is needed until the real healers arrive. Mostly, I just buy them the extra time they need to do what they do.”
He squeezed her hands.
“I think you do more than that.” He shook his head. “It was the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life.”
She shrugged then took a deep breath before squeezing his hands in return.
“Thank you for bringing me, Erik.”
“You're welcome. Are you ready to go home?”
She nodded and he pulled her gently to her feet. Exhaustion continued to fill her and she didn't refuse when he put his arm around her and led her from the room. Once downstairs, he switched on the porch light and turned the lock on the front door knob before walking her to the car. She was asleep before they reached the end of the driveway.
It was almost a week before Bertie had completely recovered. She kept her shop open everyday but took care not to overtax herself. A healing such as Mattie's drained her of energy and she knew from experience made her vulnerable to illness. Word had gotten around town and now the little bell over the shop entrance rang more frequently as people stopped in, some out of concern and others out of curiosity.
Erik called and came by, sometimes several times a day, to make sure she was okay. He made her feel cherished, but the constant coddling was beginning to wear on her nerves. On the fifth day she'd finally had enough.
“No, Erik, I don't need to rest,” she insisted in exasperation after he'd commented that she was looking like she needed to take another break. “I need to work. I need for things to get back to normal.” She laid a gentle hand on his arm as she looked upward into his eyes. “I'm alright now. I promise.”
He held her gaze for a few moments before covering her hand with his own and smiling his surrender.
“Okay, I'll back off. But only if....”
One delicate feminine brow lifted inquiringly.
“If?”
“If you'll have dinner with me tonight.”
“So if you can't make me rest you'll feed me instead.”
“I've been feeding you all week,” he pointed out, reminding her of all the lunches he'd brought to the store. “This will be a celebratory meal.”
“And what will we be celebrating?”
“There are lots of things we can be celebrating.”
“Such as?”
“Your full recovery. Mattie's returning health.” He grinned. “The lilacs blooming.”
She chuckled.
“My, you are feeling romantic, aren't you?”
His grin faded though his eyes remained heated.
“You make me feel romantic,” he murmured huskily, making her blush. “I want to take you to this place I know. It's a bit of a drive but I promise you it will be worth it. It's a beautiful restaurant, the food is fantastic, and,” he leaned forward until his breath blew warmly against her ear, “there's dancing.”
A delicious shiver ran through her body.
“I hate to tell you this, Erik,” she whispered, “but contrary to how it may seem, I don't know the first thing about dancing.”
“Then we'll sit out the fast songs and dance only to the slow ones. All you have to do then is lean on me and sway back and forth.” He took her into his arms, pulling her close, and began to move gently side to side. “Just like last time.”
At that moment the door to the shop opened, causing the little bell to ring, and one of her regular customers came in.
“Oh!” the woman smiled knowingly, “I'm so sorry to interrupt.”
Erik let the blushing Bertie go with a warm chuckle.
“No problem. I was just leaving,” he said to the newcomer before turning back to Bertie. “Be ready at seven, and dress nice.”
An hour after he left, Bertie flipped the open sign to closed and locked up for the day. If he was taking her out to a nice restaurant then she had to find just the right dress since her entire wardrobe consisted of boho casual wear and was hardly suitable for any place fancier than Denny's. And while she was at it she'd pick up shoes to match and maybe a few pieces of complimentary jewelry. She grinned to herself. What girl didn't look forward to any excuse to splurge on herself?
Catching a glimpse of her reflection in a store window, she grimaced. And then there was her wayward hair. She'd definitely stop by her friend Giselle's salon and beg for her help.
Erik's knock came promptly at seven, causing Bertie's already racing heart to jump. Running her hands down the front of her dress, she took a last glance in the oval mirror above the sofa, quickly inspecting the loose updo of her hair, opened the door, and froze.
His suit was dark gray and obviously tailored to fit. His shirt was creamy white and his tie was an elegantly complementary color pattern. In his hands he held a trio of peach roses, each petal bearing a faint blush of pink, surrounded by baby's breath.
God, he was gorgeous!
Then she realized that he was looking at her with a similarly gobsmacked expression.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she again ran her hands down the front of her dress. She'd searched the stores for something suitable that suited her before finally finding the vintage, lacy Jessica McClintock in a retro boutique. Was it hopelessly out of fashion? Would she be an embarrassment to him?
“I'm sorry...” she began but he interrupted her.
“Moira, you are so beautiful,” he murmured, smiling appreciatively. The low timbre of his voice caused a delightful shiver to run through her.
Blushing, she returned his smile and frankly replied, “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.”
“Men aren't supposed to be beautiful.”
“I was thinking more like gorgeous.”
Her blush deepened at her temerity and his answering grin. Shifting their focus, she glanced pointedly at the roses.
“Are those for me?”
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
“Actually they were for Miss Agatha upstairs, but as roses are such discerning flowers, I believe they would appreciate my giving them to you more.”
Charmed by his whimsy, she accepted the flowers and opened the door further.
“Thank you. Please come in while I find a vase.”
He watched her disappear into the kitchen then looked around the room. The traditional-style furnishings were vintage and obviously chosen more for comfort than fashion. She'd concentrated on earthy tones for her pallet, with splashes of brighter colors in the throw across the back of the sofa, the needlework pillows on the chairs, and the artwork on the walls. Plants were everywhere with an occasional knick-knack peeping from beneath the foliage. The air was softly scented with the aroma of herbs and potpourri.
A very large, long-haired black feline was staring at him from a well-worn cat tree in front of the window, its bored expression belied by its twitching tail.
Bertie returned to the living room with the flowers now contained in a simple clear vase half filled with water. She found man and beast eyeing one another across the expanse of the room.
“I see you've met Cosmo.”
“Is that its name?”
She grinned as she set the vase on a bookshelf crammed with old books and newer romance novels.
“His full name is Cosmic Creepers, but I just call him Cosmo.”
“He's a big kitty.”
She nodded.
“He's part Maine Coon, at least that's what I was told by the rescue. And a big baby.”
She retrieved a cream-color clutch from atop a roll top desk.
“Well, I'm ready if you are.”
With a last glance at Cosmo, Erik rested his hand lightly on the small of her back as she led him out the door.
The restaurant he had chosen was several miles from town and secluded, set back off the road and surrounded by old growth trees. The elegant interior was softly lit. The air was filled with smooth jazz playing quietly from hidden speakers, and mouthwatering aromas were light upon the air. Bertie grimaced when her belly growled in anticipation.
“I take it you haven't eaten in a while,” Erik commented as they followed the maitre d' to a curved booth in a corner. Several people greeted him with smiles as they passed, which he returned without pausing to chat.
Once seated, Bertie was surprised when,rather than presenting them with menus, the maitre d' was replaced by a young waiter in a crisp black and white uniform who began reciting the choices for the evening. Feeling self-conscious and a bit boggled by all the information, she settled on something she was familiar with, chicken cordon bleu, while Erik chose a New York strip steak, medium rare. When asked what wine she'd like, she refused, saying she preferred ice water. Erik nodded and ordered himself a fine vintage Merlot, waiting for the young man to walk away before returning his full attention to Bertie. His expression was mild, though his eyes gleamed heatedly in the subdued lighting and her pulse, which had never fully settled, once again began to race.
“You're a rare woman, Moira.”
“Am I?” she asked, after taking a nervous sip of water.
“You're a successful business woman, a popular herbalist, and you obviously possess a god-given gift for healing. But I can't help wondering why you haven't pursued your true passion.”
“And what passion is that?”
“Music. It's well known how much you love it, and I have it on good authority that you have an exceptional voice. Dorian tells me that you were offered scholarships to some pretty prestigious schools to develop those talent. Why did you not follow that path?”
She shrugged self-consciously.
“Life got in the way.”
“How?”
“I'm the only child and was needed at home,” she responded matter-of-factly, “I took care of my Mom during her last two years as her cancer progressed, using what I'd learned growing up at my granny's knee about natural healing to ease the effects that chemo had on her. Granny was also a well known touch healer and I guess I inherited that talent from her.” She shrugged again. “Anyway, after she passed I had already become established as her successor and by that time I felt it was too late to try to go to school. People relied on me in the same way they had relied on her, and I found I enjoyed being able to help them. I realized that I had a-a calling, I guess you can say.”
“Do you regret it?”
Her smile was gentle as she shook her head.
“No, not really. Though I sometimes wonder what would have happened had I accepted those scholarships.”
“I suppose most of us wonder what would have happened had we made different decisions about our life's direction.”
She cocked her head to one side in curiosity.
“What else did you think of doing?
“You mean besides running away to join the circus when I was ten?”
She chuckled.
“Yes, besides that.”
“I wanted to make a career out of the military.”
“Really? That surprises me. I hadn't realized you'd served.”
“For a few years after high school.”
“What branch?”
“Air Force.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Like you, I was needed at home. Dad died, then my brother, Richard, passed on, and Mother didn't feel she was able to manage the family's business interests alone, so I came home when my enlistment was up. I had taken college courses while I was an airman so I put those credits and my experience as a team leader to good use, finishing my degree while working in various levels of Tipton Enterprises. By the time I graduated Mother had taken a back seat and left me to it.”
“You've done very well from all I've seen.”
“Not too badly,” he responded, then with a wry smile, “though I think I gave our share holders a few gray hairs with some of my early decisions.”
She returned his smile.
“I remember Richard. He died of an aneurysm, didn't he?” She paused as he nodded. “And don't you have two older sisters?”
He nodded again.
“Yes, Darla became a nurse midwife and married a doctor, and now they work with Doctors Without Borders. Jessie and her wife work with inner city youth in Chicago.”
“Then you came along.”
Erik grinned.
“I was a total surprise to both of my parents. They had thought their baby days were over.”
“Lucky for you they weren't.”
His gray eyes met hers and his voice deepened.
“Yes, or I might have missed out on an evening spent with you.”
Feeling flustered, she was relieved when their dinner arrived at that moment and saved her from trying to make any kind of a reply.
Later, after an extravagant dessert of Baked Alaska, he led her into the restaurant lounge where they joined a few other couples in dancing to standards. As the evening passed, their bodies brushed, nearly melding at times, speaking little as their awareness of one another grew. Finally, about midnight, they drew apart.
His voice was rough, his hands gentle where they touched her arms in a light grasp.
“Let's get out of here.”
The ride back to the cozy cottage where she lived was made in silence. After they were on the main road, he reached down and took her hand, holding it until he parked outside her house. Once the engine was turned off, the night settled around them as they sat, with Erik holding her hand. After a few moments, he looked down at her.
“Can I come inside?”
Bertie was staring at the front porch, where the light she had left on illuminated the plants and swing that hung there. He gave her hand a light squeeze.
“Moira?”
Taking a deep breath, she glanced up at him then away again.
“I-I'm not very good at this, Erik.”
“At what? Saying no?”
She shook her head.
“At saying yes.”
He paused as her meaning sank in.
“Have you ever said yes before?”
“No.”
For long moments there was silence between them before he raised her hand and placed a soft kiss on her fingers.
“Let's go inside.”
Opening the door, he climbed out and circled the car. There he opened her door and extended his hand. She paused for a few seconds before placing her hand in his.
Cosmo met them at the door. Erik wasn't certain if he was meowing in welcome or impatience as the cat seemed to try to trip him midstep.
“I'm sorry,” Bertie whispered, lifting Cosmo in her arms,“I usually feed him when I first get in.”
Impatience, amusement, and resignation all filled Erik. He smiled wryly.
“Then you better feed him,” he paused and eyed the cat who was eyeing him in return, its eyes glowing gold in the dim light of the lamp she had left shining beside the sofa, “or he might decide to take his frustration out of me.”
Bertie chuckled nervously as she carried the cat into the kitchen, leaving Erik to once again look around the living room in appreciation. It was a far cry from the formality with which his mother had chosen to furnish the showcase that was her home. He found he much preferred the homey, comfortable appeal of this small house. Bertie's unique stamp was on every plant, knick-knack, and piece of furniture. It was the only place he wanted to be.
He made his decision.
When she returned to the living room, it was to find him standing relaxed before the leaded glass front windows, staring out at the dark. His jacket and tie were across the back of a chair. Unsure of herself, not sure what to do, she merely crossed her arms as if she was cold and watched him in silence. Finally he glanced around at her and extended one arm invitingly.
“Come here, Moira.”
She walked to him and was drawn against his warm length. He lifted her face with his free hand and smiled tenderly down into her eyes.
“I've waited a long time for you,” he murmured quietly, “I can wait a little longer.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?”
“You're not ready for me. Not yet. And I'm not going to rush things with us.” He bent and pressed a gentle kiss on her lips. “We have plenty of time.”
“But...”
He caressed her face with the back of his hand.
“Why don't we just sit and enjoy the silence and each other's company for a while?”
With that, he led her to the sofa and drew her down beside him. He could feel the confusion of relief and disappointment that filled her and smiled as he pulled her close against his side.
“There,” he whispered as she nestled her head against his shoulder, one arm slipping shyly around his waist, “now just relax and let me hold you for a while.”
After a few minutes he felt the tension leave her with a sigh. A few minutes later he heard her light snore and grinned.
“Not exactly what I had in mind,” he whispered then started when the cat suddenly jumped up on the sofa arm beside him. Once again man and beast had their stare down, cool gray eyes into gold.
“Get used to me, cat,” Erik warned,”I love her, and you're going to have to learn to share.”
You have returned to your romance roots. And once again I think you channeled yourself as Bertie. And what better partner to find them the son of the elegant queen of the small town that seemed to have everything.
Real romances aren't like that, but I'm sure that you are right in the groove for romance readers.
Psychic wiccan Deja Hamilton pulls shapeshifter Lincoln McCabe from the lake, and the two form an alliance against the covetous older brother who wants Lincoln dead.
