Kiss of the Highlander

Page 115

It was hours before she managed to force herself up from the rocks and hike down to the village. Hours in which she sobbed as if her heart would break.
Once in the village, she’d gone to her room and checked in but wasn’t able to bear being alone, so she’d walked numbly down to the inn’s cozy restaurant, hoping to find Beatrice and Bertie. Not to talk—she could hardly talk about it—but to be buffered by their warm presence.
Now, standing in the doorway of the dining room, she blinked as she glanced around the brightly lit interior. I will not start crying again, Gwen told herself fiercely. She would weep later, after she’d returned home to Sante Fe. She would fall apart there.
The restaurant felt strange and modern to her after having been in the sixteenth century. The small fireplace on the south wall of the dining room seemed miniature compared to medieval hearths, the neon bar decorations garish after weeks of soft candlelight and oil globes. The dozens of tables, topped with vases of fresh wildflowers, seemed too small to seat guests with any degree of comfort. The modern world felt impersonal to her now, with everything churned out in mass, uniform shapes and styles.
Her gaze drifted over a cigarette vending machine in the corner. Dimly, she realized she’d passed through the worst of withdrawal in the sixteenth century.
Still, she felt an utterly self-destructive urge wash over her.
Her gaze was drawn to a yellowed calendar that hung behind the cash register. September 19.
It was the same day she’d left. But of course, she thought. No time would have passed. Perhaps a mere few moments had slipped by in the twenty-first century while she’d lived the happiest days of her life in sixteenth-century Scotland.
She sniffed, perilously close to tears again. Glancing around, thinking Bert’s rainbow ensemble should be easy to spot, she nearly missed the lone silver-haired woman huddled in one of the booths that lined a bank of windows, silhouetted against the gathering twilight. The gloaming cast Beatrice’s complexion in bruised shadows, and Gwen was struck by how old she looked. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes closed. Her wide-brimmed hat was crushed between her hands. As a car drove by outside the bank of windows, headlights illuminated the elderly woman’s face, revealing the shiny trails of tears on her cheeks.
Oh, God—Beatrice weeping? Why?
Stricken, Gwen rushed to the booth. What could make cheerful Beatrice weep, and where was Bertie? From what Gwen knew of the love-struck couple, the only way Bert would leave Bea’s side was if he was physically incapable of being there. A chill brushed her neck.
“Beatrice?” she said faintly.
Beatrice jerked, startled. The eyes she raised to Gwen’s were red-rimmed from crying, deep with grief.
“No,” Gwen breathed. “Tell me nothing has happened to Bert,” she insisted. “Tell me!” Suddenly limp, she slumped into the booth across from Beatrice and took the older woman’s hand in hers. “Please,” she begged.
“Oh, Gwen. My Bertie’s in the hospital.” The admission brought on a fresh bout of tears. Plucking another napkin from the dispenser, Beatrice wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then deposited the wadded napkin atop a substantial pile.
“What happened? He was fine just…er, this morning,” Gwen protested, having a difficult time keeping the date straight.
“He seemed fine to me too. We’d been shopping all morning after you left, laughing and having a fine time. He was even feeling…frisky,” she said with a pained smile. “Then it happened. He went absolutely still and just stood there with the most startled and angry look on his face.” Beatrice’s eyes filled with more tears as she relived the moment. “When he clutched his chest, I knew.” She wiped impatiently at her cheeks. “The damn man never takes care of himself. Wouldn’t get his cholesterol checked, wouldn’t get his blood pressure tested. A few days ago, I’d finally managed to wring a promise from him that once we got back home, he’d get a complete physical—” She broke off, wincing.
“But he’s alive, right?” Gwen asked faintly. “Tell me he’s alive.” She couldn’t bear any more tragedy today. Not one more ounce.
“He’s alive, but he had a stroke,” Beatrice whispered. “Although they’ve stabilized him, they don’t know how much damage was done. He’s still unconscious. I’m going back to the hospital in a few minutes. The nurses insisted I get a breath of fresh air.” She flushed. “I couldn’t stop crying. I guess I was pretty loud and the doctor was getting upset with me. I thought I’d get some soup and tea before I went back for the night, so here I am.” She waved a hand at the plastic container of soup and sandwich-to-go.