Duncan's Rose (17 page)

The doctor sighed heavily, then fell silent. “Read the diary,” he said.

Miranda’s throat was dry. She decided to leave all the research materials with Mac. She couldn’t expose something that would hurt him, and with that new information, there was no way now she would tell the world what happened. What should she write? The dysfunctional family of the un-dead Marcas Wardlaw?

 “Leave me!” Mac’s voice came out choked with rage.

Silence stretched between them. “What about Ken’s funeral?”

“I’ll arrange it tomorrow.”

“I’ll help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Heavy footsteps sounded toward the door. Miranda’s heart raced and she looked around for a place to hide. In order to get to her room, she would have to cross in front of the door. She started to walk quickly in the other direction, but stumbled as she tried to hide behind the corner of the office. Miranda closed her eyes, hoping Dr. Bradford wouldn’t see her.

The doctor spotted her and reached his hand for her. “Are you okay?”

Damn, too late.

“Sorry, I really don’t do that often. I was looking for Mac when I heard you two arguing,” she whispered, aware of the lameness of her excuse.

“I understand. For your book.”

“No, no, no! That’s not it.”

“Then what?” he asked, his voice matching her whisper as he helped her to stand.

“I just wanted to know—call it curiosity.” Miranda shrugged, embarrassed by her action.

The doctor rubbed his forehead with his hand, a frown twining his eyebrows.

“Don’t be sad, he’ll come around,” Miranda said, trying to assure him.

“Dunno about that, dear. He’s shaking with fury. I don’t blame him. And his uncle just passed away.”

“I heard. I am so sorry. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going home. The funeral will take place tomorrow.”

Miranda watched as he walked down the stairs and out the door. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the bag in her hand. Then she set the bag down, opened it, and looked for the floppy disks she had backed up her story on. She knew what she had to do next.

* * * *

A knock on the door drew Mac’s attention from the garden view. His gloomy, mingled thoughts about the new discovery and the upcoming funeral—which would be held with no one but him—pressed on his mind.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he said as he heard the door open. Miranda’s head peeked through. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t arrange the car to take you yet. My uncle…”

“I know…I heard.” She entered and closed the door behind her. Biting her lower lip, she kept her eyes averted from his. “Sorry, but I was coming to see you, and I heard…it…all.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t mean to. Sorry about your uncle.”

“That’s okay. Thank you for understanding. I mean about the car.”

Miranda held floppy disks in her hand; she walked to his desk and placed them there. “I am leaving these with the rest of my research materials. You can destroy them if you want.”

That was her goodbye? The “I’m doing you a favor” type of goodbye? If she thought he would just stand there and let her destroy everything they had shared, then she was damned wrong.

“Why?” Mac swallowed the dry lump in his throat, a headache building at his temples.

“I no longer wish to publish it.”

“I didn’t ask you to give it up. He’s dead now and I don’t care. Except for my mother’s diary, I don’t care what you publish.”

“Thank you, but I have no interest anymore.” Miranda’s voice had a determined tone to it.

“Miranda…” He paused. Fear and loathing for oneself were never a good mix. He couldn’t hold her here, and he couldn’t force her to feel what she didn’t. But he wondered how he was going to survive losing her.

“Yes?” She turned to face him.

His hand dived into his pocket and pulled out her necklace. As he looked at it, his heart tore with agony. “I got your necklace.”

Her eyes widened, and she reached for the necklace, but he pulled it away.

“I thought I’d lost it,” she breathed softly.

“I would like to keep it.”

“What? But…”

“When I first gave it to you…” His heart pounded so fast, he was afraid it would stop mid-sentence, so he took a deep breath. “Two hundred years ago when I…Duncan, gave it to you…to Rose, I thought it was meant for us to stay together. I was wrong.”

Miranda opened her mouth to comment but he pressed a finger against her parted lips, stopping her. “And when I found you and saw it, I thought we are among those people who were granted a second chance. But now...I think I was wrong again.” He paused. He looked at the necklace, which he held in one fist, as if he wished he could solve a puzzle, or find some answers to give him relief. Or cast a spell to make everything fine again.

Mac tried to keep a cold grip on his nerves so he wouldn’t shake as he continued. “Maybe we’re among the ones who don’t deserve a second chance,” he said, his voice choked. “This necklace means a lot to me, but for you…it’s just…a necklace.” Mac refused to look in her direction, fearing she would see his unshed tears. He had been holding back those tears since he’d seen the look she gave him in the ruined house.

“What makes you assume it’s not important to me?” Miranda’s lower lip trembled, her face flushed.

“Is it?”

“Yes!”

“Why, Miranda?”

She shrugged and cleared her throat. “It’s mine, and I do believe that Rose is part of me. I will not leave without the necklace.”

Maybe if he pressed on the necklace issue she would stay, Mac thought. Then maybe she would open up and confess she loved him, hated him, or anything that would clear the picture. Maybe he should be brave enough to stop beating around the bush and clear things up himself. It was time to lay it out.

“The necklace needs repair.”
Coward. Say it,
he scolded himself.

“Then I’ll stay until it’s fixed,” Miranda said, her eyes filled with determination. She turned to leave his office.

“It may take weeks…I’m very busy.” Mac walked over and stood in front of her, his eyes locked with hers. He knew he would be putting her on the spot by bringing up the issue of the way the guards attacked her, and her suspicions that he’d been involved in that assault. But he needed to know, somehow, how she felt about it--and about him.

“That’s fine, I’m not in a hurry,” Miranda said.

“I thought you were.”

“I would like to be at the funeral.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“After what you think I’ve done?”

She stared at him; crimson color claimed her from the neck to her temples. Her rosy lips, full and plump, needed to be reclaimed, and he wanted to devour every inch of them.

As much as he ached to beg her to forgive him for anything she thought he had done, he stood wordless. He also restrained his overwhelming urge to touch her. That tingling feeling that danced across his fingertips and crawled under his skin matched the vibrating fear in his thundering heart. The heat that rose to his eyeballs threatened to blow his head off. He longed to convince her with his lips, hands, and every muscle in his body that he loved her and he would never hurt her…ever.

Mac winced at the dull pain in his chest, and at the thought of her enduring that attack, and…damn it, the whole thing was his fault, although he never realized they planned to hurt her. Still, he should have suspected something. In fact, he had suspected something, but hadn’t known what. He cursed under his breath, soundlessly.

Just as he was on the verge of exploding from his inner turmoil, Miranda spoke up. “That…yes. I would like to talk about it after his funeral.”

“Very well, I have something to talk about as well.”

“Oh? What?” Miranda asked.

“It will have to wait till after the funeral,” Mac replied.

“Yes, but tell me at least what it concerns.”

He ambled to the door, leaving her standing in the center of the room with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed, her eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

As he reached for the doorknob, he said softly, “I’ll tell you why you need to stay.” 

Mac kneeled beside his parents’ graves as they lay in the shadow of what had once been their home. Their arched headstone read “Rest in peace, Aug. 06, 1981.” He sat on the fresh, wet, green grass next to his mother’s grave with her diary in his hand.

“Mother, I only have your book to explain why you did what you did. I love you and I wish you were here. Now I understand, Mother.” His eyes stung with unshed tears, with anger kept for many days in his heart. He hadn’t visited his parents for a long time, avoiding any memories of his pain. But today, relief poured like a balm over his heart as he spoke to his mother. Somehow he knew she was there listening to every word he said and smiling at him with a heart filled with love.

He opened the book and read from a page near the end.

July 30, 1981

Dear Dairy,

You’re the only one I can talk to about what’s in my heart. Ken visited the island today. He is scaring me. They are fighting all the time for money. Ken wants his share from their inheritance, but Alfred won’t let him have it because he knows what he would do with it. He’d waste some on gambling and women, but mostly, Ken wants to control this island. He wants to buy it and play God. Ken found out about my relationship with Elroy and my son, Marcas, and he threw it in Alfred’s face. God bless Alfred’s heart, he forgave me for my mistake. Alfred has decided to settle for what he has: me and my son, a son he couldn’t have in a million years and a wife he loves.

I can’t forget the anger, the rage in Alfred’s eyes when I confessed to him. I can’t blame him, but I also can’t blame myself for what happened. But losing me would be more of a challenge for him than I’d thought. His love is so great that, after the storm of his anger, he calmed down and forgave me. Sometimes now, I can see remnants of that rage buried underneath his calm features. Despite that, he has promised he will never harm Elroy or us.

It wouldn’t be fair to leave him now. I’ve decided it will remain a secret between us.

I talked to Elroy about cutting off the relationship. It was heart-breaking to let go of a love that filled my life and made me feel loved as a woman. I need his tender touch and soft words. But I won’t leave with him. I have decided to settle for a husband who is as cold as a stone when it comes to showing feelings. He has his own world and I have nothing, except Marcas, to live for.

Aug, 06 1981

Dear Diary,

Tonight I will leave you safe with Elroy, because I’m afraid someone might find you. Ken wants to renew that fire in my husband’s heart and turn him against me. He has always been jealous of us as a family. He wanted an empire of his own, but his dark heart never gave him the chance to accomplish any of his dreams. He has threatened to make us vanish off the face of the Earth. I know he is capable of doing harm, but my husband has always thought his brother was all talk.

Ken is a coward. But he is poisoning Alfred’s mind with hatred, and I’m becoming more afraid of my own husband. He has started to look at me from behind reddened eyes filled with anger, as if he is planning to slaughter me. He said he would never hurt me, but he has become so distant; he won’t talk to me or touch me at all now, and he even ignored Marcas when he asked him to play a baseball game with him.

I don’t know what to do anymore. All I wanted in this life was to be loved. Then I found Elroy and I lost him again. It’s as if we are destined to be together in another world, but not this one.

Today, I called our lawyer, Mr. Garret, and sent him signed papers to make him Marcas’ guardian, in case something happens to me. All my funds, once I am gone, will transfer to my son’s name. If something happens to Marcas before he turns twenty-one, it will all go to charity. This is how I will protect my son and his rights. I fear for his life more than for mine. And it’s not only Ken who worries me.

Mac’s tears fell freely as he read the last entry in the diary. It was written on the day his parents died. His mother had been trying to spare him from suffering for her mistake. He wiped his angry tears on the back of his hand and reached for his mother’s grave; his hand brushed it softly with his tears. “How sad, Mother. We all are looking for a lost love. I have yours right here under my roof. I wish to God you could come back and have him, live with him, enjoy being who you wanted to be.”

Mac stood and shoved the book in his pocket and dusted off his black trousers. A funeral was waiting for him, even if it was a funeral not many people would attend.

* * * *

A soft breeze ruffled Miranda’s short, black dress as she stood next to Dr. Bradford. Mac approached with slow steps and stood beside her. He made sure his uncle would not be buried in the family’s graveyard; he’d chosen a spot on a hill facing the beach. Ken’s final resting place was quiet, but far away from his sight or his parents.

The priest recited his words as the coffin was lowered down to rest in peace. The two guards, Thomas and Mathew, stood on the other side of the coffin, as quiet as the surroundings. Even the beach was silent, without a single wave to mar its smooth surface. William, the cook, and the nurse who had cared for his uncle stood beside his guards silently.

There were no others at his uncle’s funeral, and there wouldn’t be any if it weren’t for Mac. He appreciated them standing beside him at the funeral when he hadn’t asked for their support. Bitterness stung Mac’s heart. Being at the funeral of the one person who may or may not have killed his parents was an awkward situation for him.

As he watched the coffin, his jaw clenched.

“We are gathered here to say farewell to Mr. Kenneth Wardlaw, to commit him into the hands of God,” the priest said.

The priest let three handfuls of earth fall onto the coffin. “From dust you came, to dust you shall return. Let us pray for him.”