Shattered Moments (37 page)

Epilogue

Cory Hazard shook out the contents of his backpack onto his bed. 
Where the heck was that student ID?  He was sure he’d thrown it into the pack, but then again, maybe he left it in the glove compartment.  Cory began to put everything back when he came across the odd watch.  He found it months ago while cleaning the women’s fitting room in T.J. Maxx and stuffed it into his pocket. 

He’d meant to give it to the manager, but had tossed it into his backpack that night and forgotten all about it.  God, how he hated that job.  It only paid for condoms and cigarettes, but still, it was better than nothing.  And he’d met Lindsay, hence the need for condoms.  Being with an older woman was an education, to say the least, and he smiled as he thought of her as she had been last night when he left her happy and satisfied
, sprawled naked on the bed.

Cory turned the watch over in his hand, really looking at it for the first time.  It was a strange thing, almost as if someone took several different watches apart and combined the different bits into one complicated device.  It didn’t even
show the time.  Cory pushed the “on” button and the little screen lit up.  He tapped it, but nothing happened, so he pressed a few numbers.  1,2,3,4.  Two choices flashed on the screen “BC” and “AD.”  Cory chose BC, then pressed a few more buttons just to see what would happen.  He stared at the little screen as it suddenly read: “Giza, Egypt, 1234 BC” before the world he knew faded and disappeared altogether. 

Cory opened his eyes to a brilliant blue sky awash with fierce sunlight.  He was stretched out on warm sand, the patch he was lying on thrown into shade by the huge structure that rose above him. 
It took him a few moments to understand what he was looking at before Cory’s mouth opened in a silent scream as he saw the stern face of the Sphinx directly above him, huge and frightening, and heard voices calling out in a language he didn’t understand.  Suddenly, he grew cold despite the blistering heat as a terrifying realization hit him
—
t
he Sphinx still had a nose.

The End

I hope you have enjoyed this last installment of
The Hands of Time Series
.  I tried to tie up all the loose ends to bring the series to a satisfying conclusion, and hope that I’ve succeeded.  I know some of you wish the series didn’t have to end, but I always think it’s best to quit while you’re ahead.  Having said that, I know that I will miss these characters for the rest of my life, as they have been living in my mind for several years and don’t really want to leave.  To me, they are as real as some people I know, and I hope they’ve become real to you as well.

I would like to thank all of you for your comments and encouragement, particularly Megan Ritz Willis and Inna Korman who’ve given me some great ideas and even suggested the title for this book.  Your comments are always welcome, as are reviews on Amazon.  If you like what you read, please share
your opinion with other readers. 

I love to hear from you, so please feel free to contact me at
www.irinashapiro.com
, and check out some of my other books
, if you haven’t done so already.

May 2010

I sat on the couch staring at the stack of papers to be graded and trying to think of an excuse to put them off, but I had to hand them back tomorrow, so I picked up my red pen and went to work.  I had been a teacher at the Wilton School for girls in Westchester, NY for the past three years, and at this moment, I couldn’t imagine doing it for another day. 

I had dreamed of being a teacher since I was a little girl.  The idea of inspiring young minds and introducing them to the magical world of classical literature was something that was always very appealing to me; young, eager faces looking up at me as I lectured them on the works of great writers like Shakespeare, Dickens and Jane Austen, shining with intelligence and insatiable curiosity.  Instead, what I got was twenty-five teenage girls chewing gum, giving me baleful, resentful stares out of their heavily made-up eyes, and papers that were copied almost word-for-word from some online source or Cliff notes.  To add insult to injury, I’d been given the nickname “Ophelia”, either because I was thought to be overly dramatic or simply mad. 

There were usually two or three students in the class who genuinely enjoyed the material and got caught up in the romance and the drama, and those few girls were the only thing standing between me and my resignation — other than the need to pay rent, of course. 

I was halfway through the third “masterpiece” when I was rescued by the ringing of the telephone.  I answered gratefully, hoping it was my friend Sophia and we could have a nice chat before I had to return to the ghastly writing of my students.  It was a man with a distinct Irish or Scottish accent.

“Is this Miss Katherine Price?” asked the pleasant voice.

“Yes,” I answered, wondering if he were about to offer me some amazing deal on a credit card or a vacuum cleaner that would leave me speechless with wonder. 

“Oh, good.  I’ve had a heck of a time locating you.  My name is Daniel Ogilvy from Ogilvy and Ogilvy in Edinburgh, Scotland.  I’m calling about your late grandfather’s Will.”

“Mr. Ogilvy, you must be mistaken.  I didn’t have a grandfather in Scotland.  I mean, I did, but he died during the war.”  I guess his quest for Katherine Price wasn’t over.  I obviously wasn’t the right one.

“Are you the daughter of Ellen McBride and Michael Price?”

“Yes, I am.” 

“Then I have the right one, indeed.  Your grandfather, Angus McBride, died two weeks ago at his home, Kilmaron Castle, and he has left you his entire estate, which is sizable if I might add.  If you give me your fax number, I would be happy to send you the copy of the Will and the list of assets.  You can peruse the documents at your leisure, and then give me a ring so we can discuss the arrangements.”

“The arrangements?” I asked bemused.

“There is a stipulation in the Will that you must come to Scotland to claim your inheritance before making a decision on how to dispose of it.  Your grandfather was hoping you wouldn’t sell.”

“I see,” I said, although I really didn’t.  I had always been told that my grandfather, James, had died a hero at the end of World War II.  He had been with the Gordon Highlanders in Singapore and was taken prisoner.  He’d died at Changi Prison of malnourishment and disease in 1944. 

Who was this man Angus McBride, and what was his relationship to my family?  I gave Mr. Ogilvy my fax number, thanked him for his call and hung up.  My fax machine began to make fussing noises a few moments later as a lengthy document came over the wire. 

Half an hour later, I was completely baffled by its contents and wondering how to approach my mother about this without giving her a coronary.  It’s not every day someone tells you that the father you thought had been dead for over forty years, had actually just died two weeks ago and left your daughter a castle, among other things.  I sent a text to my mom telling her I’d come over for lunch on Saturday; calling would have given her the chance to ask too many questions. 

I sat back down and looked over the list of assets.  Of course, my imagination had been captured by the thought of the castle, but there were also stocks and bonds, thousands of pounds in various accounts at the Royal Bank of Scotland, and a whiskey distillery that seemed to be holding its own against stout competitors like Glenfiddich and Johnny Walker.   I’d been extremely close with my gran, and she told me stories of her childhood in the Scottish Highlands, but there was never any mention of anyone named Angus. 

She’d come to New York in 1945 after the death of her husband, with my five-year-old mother in tow.  Gran said that everything at home reminded her of her beloved James, and she just wanted a fresh start.  There was an aunt in Brooklyn who took them in, and watched my mother while Gran completed her degree in early-childhood education at Brooklyn College, and got a position as a teacher at a local elementary school.  She eventually married the assistant principal, who was also a widower, and continued to live in Brooklyn until her death of cancer two years ago.  Her husband, Ned, died shortly after.  I still thought of her every single day, and I would have given anything at this moment to be able to talk to her and ask her the questions burning in my mind.

I was still pondering this odd turn of events as I took the Q train to Brooklyn on Saturday to visit my parents.  They lived in the little house on Bedford Avenue where I grew up, and I always felt as if I were coming home when I went there.  I got off at the Ave U station, descended the stairs praying that one of the pigeons overhead didn’t have digestive issues, and walked in the direction of Bedford Avenue.  The area seemed to change more and more with each visit.  Most of the stores now had Chinese or Korean writing, and very few people that I passed on the street actually spoke English. 

I looked at the mountains of fresh fruit, plastic bowls with oriental patterns and Chinese slippers on display as I walked on.  It had been a different world when we moved here in the ‘80s.

My mom was waiting for me, and had lunch prepared.  “Let’s eat outside; it’s such a beautiful day,” she suggested, heading into the kitchen to get the food.

“Okay.  Where’s Dad?”

“Fishing with Walter.  Sometimes I think he’s married to that man.”  Walter was my father’s best friend who had lived down the street for the past twenty years.  They regularly went fishing on the boats that left from Sheepshead Bay.  They never seemed to catch much, but they came home happy and at peace with the world.  My mom only pretended to be annoyed.  She wanted to see my father happy, and enjoyed her time alone puttering in the garden or going to her book club meetings.  

I took some utensils and napkins and stepped out onto the deck.  My parents had a nice chunk of land behind the house, and my mother had turned it into a little paradise with her gardening skills.  On this lovely May afternoon the backyard was a riot of color, and I took a deep breath inhaling the smell of lilac that was wafting from the bush by the fence.  The round table on the deck was already set with plates, a bottle of wine and a vase full of fresh-cut flowers from the garden.  My mother came out of the house carrying a bowl of salad and something that smelled amazing, but wasn’t instantly recognizable. 

“Moroccan lamb stew with couscous,” she announced proudly.  “Hope you like it.”  My mom was an avid fan of the cooking shows, and managed to whip up some new and exotic dish every time I came home.  Luckily, both my father and I were adventurous eaters and enjoyed most of her efforts, but some were a bit much even for us.

              We settled down and I poured us some wine.  I figured it would be best to wait until she was on her second glass to bring up her now twice-dead father.  I thoroughly enjoyed my salad, although I would never have imagined putting some of those ingredients together, and then moved on to the stew.  It was delicious.  I could taste cumin and cinnamon in the sauce, and there were cranberries and almonds in the couscous.

              “Mom, this is awesome.  Please email me the recipe.  I’ll dazzle my friends next time I have a dinner party.”  Mom seemed pleased, and this was as good a time as any to bring up the Will.  I told her about the phone call from the lawyer and pulled out the paperwork from my bag.  She didn’t say anything until she looked everything over carefully, and then put the papers next to her empty plate and picked up her wine glass looking thoughtful.

 
              “My father’s name was James, not Angus, but this Will definitely means you.  It’s clear enough.  This is very odd.”

“Maybe James was his middle name, and he used it instead of Angus. I know I would,” I added with a smile.

“No, his middle name was Malcolm.  This is very puzzling.  So, what are you going to do with your castle?” Mom asked with a mischievous grin.  “It’s not every day a girl inherits a castle in the wilds of Scotland.  Pretty exciting.”

“The Will states that I must come to Scotland and claim the inheritance in person.  I’m not allowed to put up anything for sale for at least thirty days.  I guess the old man was hoping that I would fall in love with the place and stay.  Come with
me, Mom.  The school year is almost over and I’m off for the whole summer.  It’s your history as well.  This could be an adventure for us.”

“Oh, I would love to, honey, but your father has found some terrific deal on a cruise online and I’ve already put in for my vacation.  We’re going at the end of June.”

Mom had been a pediatric nurse for the past thirty years, and although she had accumulated a month of vacation time she only took a week every three months, so as not to leave the doctor shorthanded.  She had worked with Dr. Shulman for nearly eighteen years and they were more friends than colleagues. 

“Guess I’ll have to go alone then,” I said with a deep pretend sigh.  “I might meet some dashing Highlander and never come back, you know.”

“Can’t you find a nice local boy?” my mother asked me with an indulgent smile.  I’ve always had a penchant for foreign men, especially ones with a sexy accent.  My last boyfriend, Xavier, was from Madrid.  He taught art history at City College and had left me for a student six months ago.  I’d been heartbroken and hadn’t been on a single date since then.  My self-esteem was in shreds.  How could I compete with a nineteen-year-old Shakira look-alike?

“You like exotic food, I like exotic men,” I answered with a grin.  “We all have our vices.”

“I’m too old for exotic men.  Want some baklava?  I made it myself, and you’ve got to have some before your father gets his hands on it. It will be gone in ten seconds.”

“Bring it on!!! Nothing cures the blues like baklava,” I said laughing as I started clearing the lunch dishes, and Mom disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee.