My Very Best Friend (57 page)

“They’re happy here, Charlotte. This is what she wanted.”

“It is. She did it.”

“Bridget had a vision and she took all of us along with her. She has left something that will last forever. One hundred years from now, more, this park will still be here. These young trees will grow along with these kids, those kids will grow up and have kids, and their kids will play here, too, as will the kids after that. The village will have to replace the castle, rebuild the gazebo if the winds blow it down, but it’s an everlasting gift to St. Ambrose.”

“It’s a forever gift from Bridget.”

“Yes, luv, it is. She will be here always.”

We smiled. He squeezed my hand. We got one another.

I watched teenagers run across the huge grassy area, laughing, chasing each other. Bridget had not felt that she belonged after Angus Cruickshank attacked her. She said she felt shameful, guilty, depressed, scared, her mind filled with debilitating flashbacks, but she had created a place so others could feel that they belonged.

Yes, people were happy here. It was safe, friendly, welcoming. It was a place for everyone.

A place for her daughter if she ever returned. A place for Legend.

I wiped the tears off my cheeks and snuggled into Toran as the Garden Gabbing Ladies descended with wine and glasses.

“Cheers!” Rowena shouted. “The Slut broke up with The Arse and told everyone he’s lousy in bed and has a small penis. Isn’t that the best news yet?”

“You will marry Toran when you come back over the ocean.”

“
Yuck, Grandma. Then he could kiss me.”

“You’ll like the kisses.”

“Gross.” I smiled back at her.

“They won’t be gross then, Charlotte.” She squinted her eyes. “I see the number eight.”

“Eight?”

“Yes. Eight. Eh. I don’t know why.”

I hugged her. We made soda bread, her mum’s recipe. I gave some to Toran with strawberry jam made from my father’s strawberries. He liked it. Then we played with the science beakers my mother bought us.

Toran left the next morning, the sun barely awake, to work on his farm. I would go in to the office in a couple of hours. I had found solace in numbers after Bridget’s death so was well caught up with everything.

When I finally rolled out of bed, naked, as Toran had stripped off yet another negligee, I wrapped myself in a robe, slipped on Bridget’s bunny slippers, and sat under the arc of the honeysuckle that Bridget had planted on one of her trips home. The blooms were gone, but the branches made a wood labyrinth above my head.

I drummed my fingers on the picnic table. Silver Cat leaped up onto my lap. I missed Teddy J, Daffodil, Dr. Jekyll, and Princess Marie. I had called Drew several times, and he told me they were all fine, and dealing with Dr. Jekyll’s mood disorder.

I wanted to be with Toran all the time. Well, not
all
the time. That sounded creepy and possessive. I liked being alone, too. I liked reading books and science articles, working in my mother’s garden, and cooking, but I loved being around him.

Toran was my soul mate. If we were apart again, I would be devastated. Life would feel dark, hopeless, loneliness assured. Those thoughts went against my independent, feminist leanings, but it was truth.

McKenzie Rae Dean had to live apart from her soul mate, from the man she had been married to for ten years but hadn’t seen in close to two hundred years.

She had a hole inside herself. She had loved other men, on her other time travel journeys—I did give her delectable men—but it was not the same. One can love other men, but the soul mate is different because he lives in your soul.

I realized then that I had not portrayed McKenzie Rae’s grief accurately. I hadn’t portrayed her emotions as rawly as I should have.

Book Nine left McKenzie Rae desperate to go back in time to her love. How would she get there? I stared at the ocean in the distance. I studied the cliffs.... Could she?

I grabbed my Marie Curie journal and started writing. I wrote and wrote.

The sun arched across the sky. The wind blew through from the Highlands. It grew colder. The dead, brown leaves rustled, fell off, and danced away into the countryside. The labyrinth of branches of the honeysuckle swayed.

I drank more coffee and grabbed my red coat and wrapped it around my robe and me.

I wrote.

In Marie Curie’s journal, I wrote. I hoped she would appreciate the creativity.

When the sun went down, amidst an artistic blast of purple, orange, and golden yellow, I went inside and wrote more in front of the fire. I was still in my robe and bunny slippers.

When Toran walked in, I said, “Hi, honey, I’ll be a minute,” and I kept writing. He brought me smoked haddock made with parsley and cream and kissed me good night. The kiss went longer and longer and he said, “Sweetheart, I don’t want to interrupt, I know you have to work,” and in response I unbuttoned his shirt. He knew what to do from there. After our naked tumble, and his, “I love you, baby,” he ambled upstairs.

At the end of Book Nine I had McKenzie Rae talking to her mother, telling her she had to get back to her one true love. But in the back of my mind I thought that I would have McKenzie Rae make attempt after attempt, and fail each time, ending up in a new time period, per book . . . until I was ready to end the series.

I was ready earlier than expected.

I knew where McKenzie Rae had to be at the end of Book Ten. Between Chapter One and the epilogue, she would be tossed and turned. She would have to take a literal leap and a metaphorical leap as she jumped through parallel times, catching a wormhole here, fighting gravity there, to get back to the right time period.

McKenzie Rae Dean was done. Done saving others, because she had to save herself. Done with time travelling through the centuries, the fear, the danger. Done with attempting the near impossible while her heart wilted.

I was done, too. I was done with this series. I would write again, probably, but not for a while.

I would get McKenzie Rae back to her man so she could be happy, like me, an odd, science-studying, garden-obsessed, cat-loving, time travel romance writing author who was going to go upstairs and hug Toran, my own soul mate.

Dear Ms. Ramsay,

My name is Gracie Taggart. I live in London, where I am a student at university. I am studying art, as I love to draw and paint.

Unless there are two Bridget Ramsays in St. Ambrose, I believe that you may be my biological mother. My parents only recently told me that I was adopted as a baby. I have always sensed a secret around my birth, but they wouldn’t answer my questions, so I thought I was imagining it. I do have an active imagination.

They had the legal papers and showed me your name and the village you were from.

I am sure that this letter comes as a shock. I want you to know that I do not want to upset you or your life or any of the lives of your family members and friends.

I would very much like to meet you, if you wish. I have left my contact information below.

Yours most sincerely,

Gracie Taggart

Toran and I read the letter together in front of his fireplace. He had piled on the wood to take away the winter chill, the rains abnormally torrential. I put my arm around his shoulders.

“Almost, Charlotte,” he choked out. “Gracie wrote almost in time.”

“Yes, she did.” I put my hand to my head. It was yet another tragedy. One more wrong, the timing yet another strike of lightning against a life that seemed to insist that Bridget should suffer. The unfairness was breathtaking.

“Ah, damn. I tried several times, for Bridget, to get the information from Our Lady of Peace. They said that the paperwork was gone, lost. One of the nuns told me to accept and let it be, that she thought Cruickshank had taken it.”

I held the letter as the flames crackled. “I can hardly believe this is happening now. Legend’s here. Gracie’s here.”

“Yes, she’s here, and Bridget, our sweet Bridget, is gone. It’s tragic.”

We watched the flames. The rain lashed the windows.

“What are you going to do about Gracie?”

A look of grief, and anger, for what Bridget had lost, crossed his face. “I am not going to let it be, that is for sure.”

Dear Gracie,

My name is Toran Ramsay. I am Bridget Ramsay’s older brother. I was very happy to receive your letter. Thank you for writing.

I would like to invite you to my home on Saturday at 1:00. You are welcome to bring your parents with you. I am afraid I have some unfortunate news about Bridget.

Sincerely,

Toran Ramsay

Gracie Taggart looked exactly like Bridget, with white-blond hair, her eyes pure blueberry. She was tall, like her mother, wispy, her frame thin, but strong, as Bridget’s used to be. She was shy and gangly, and had a huge smile.

“My Lord,” Toran breathed as she scrambled out of the car, all arms and legs. He made a strangled sound in his throat, then leaned over with his hands on his knees and took a harsh breath in. I tried to comfort him as Gracie stood, unsure of her reception, but I could hardly do a thing except pat Toran’s back.

I felt faint, too. I felt unsteady. There’s Bridget, I thought. There’s your best friend, Bridget!

I heard Toran sucking in air beside me, still bent over.

I felt myself sway, the tears burning my eyes, then spilling over.

Here was Bridget’s daughter. The baby she adored who was taken from her, literally ripped from her arms. The baby she had never forgotten, never recovered from losing. The loss was a throbbing scar on her soul as deep and cutting as if an ax had dragged itself across it.

The horrid abuse Bridget suffered under Angus Cruickshank’s criminal hands would have always been a debilitating wound to live with, but losing Gracie, her Legend, this was what made Bridget lose her mind.

They should have been together, but they were not, and time had raced on mercilessly until it had shredded and eaten Bridget, cutting at her bit by bit.

Toran stood up. He sighed. He wiped his face. I put an arm around him and leaned in. He was trying to be strong, and I was trying to get control of myself.

Gracie had come with her parents. While she was tall, they were short. While she was thin, they were plump. While she was fair, her father’s straight black hair was shot through with white, and her mother was a brunette.

But what they all seemed to have in common was kindness and decency. I could see it on their faces, within their worry. They smiled tentatively. Gracie beamed at us, waved, and said, “Hello there! I’m Gracie!”

Toran, his walk unsteady, went right up to Gracie and hugged her. For a second, Gracie was surprised, but then her face crumbled, and she wrapped her arms around Toran, and hugged him tight.

Poor Toran. He did not make a sound, but the tears rolled. “I cannot begin to tell you, lass, how much your mother loved you. . . .”

I wrapped my arms around the two of them, wondering if the tears in my life would ever stop. I looked up at the sky, at the heavens, at the scoopable blue and said to myself, to Bridget, “She’s here, my friend. Your daughter, Legend. She’s here. I will tell her you love her.”

Bridget’s death was too early. Gracie had known about the adoption too late.

But Bridget’s love endured.

We gave Gracie the letter Bridget had written her, which explained to her why she had been forced to give Legend up, who her father was, what had happened to her with Cruickshank, and why she had been committed to an insane asylum. She enclosed the newspaper article written by Carston Chit. She gave her the three photos that the nuns had taken.

Silver Cat immediately jumped on Gracie’s lap when she sat on Toran’s couch, and Gracie petted her.

I don’t want you to live with secrets. What you need to know, above all else, is that I loved you. I didn’t want to give you up. I was forced to. I have thought of you my whole life, hoped you were healthy and well. Missing you has been an ache in my heart that has never gone away. I love you, Legend.

Bridget had made one drawing a year for Gracie, 16 by 18, eighteen in all, the eighteenth finished a week before she died. Each drawing was exquisitely rendered, down to the finest detail. She had used watercolors and colored pencils, sometimes a black pen to outline here and there. They were her best work.

Bridget had mailed the drawings home as she traveled, as her life disintegrated, “for safe keeping, for my daughter. For Legend.”

The first drawings, when Gracie was young, were filled with huge, smiling flowers. She later drew spring flowers, daffodils, tulips, and crocuses with tiny fairies hiding within the petals and stems. She drew a miniature village surrounded by lilies, pink cherry trees, honeysuckle and clematis, bluebells and roses. She drew a log home by a river, a girl with blond hair in front of an easel drawing the same picture we were looking at. She drew a Snow White–type house with a waterfall to the side. She drew wildflowers around a meandering river, deer, raccoon, and rabbits hidden in the grasses.

The last drawing, which I had watched her draw, was a garden design for her daughter.

A pond shimmered, with a fountain in the shape of an angel, wings outstretched, in the middle of it. Tall trees shaded an expanse of grass. A trellis, hung with both red and pink flowers, covered a yellow bench. A thriving vegetable garden in the corner seemed tasty enough to eat off the paper.

There were colorful clay pots attached to the fence and filled with flowers, a bridge across a stream, and silver watering cans attached ten feet high to a pole, as my mother had done.