EPILOGUE
LIZZIE
The yard was teaming with people as the Highland games got started. I walked to the nursery to find Brochan standing over Brice’s crib. He was wrapping his son in the McIntyre plaid. He knew I was there when he said, “I had once thought I had brought about the extinction of my clan.” His eyes lifted to me. “Thanks to you, that isn’t true.”
He lifted his son, so tiny in his big hands. Brice looked liked his daddy, the same black hair and those beautiful pale blue eyes. I joined them. “I like seeing you wear my colors.”
He’d had a sash made for me out of the clan’s tartan. “I like wearing them.”
“Are you ready for this?” he asked. The Stewart clan was in the great hall. Brochan had the great idea of having the reunion during the Highland games. It took the pressure off conversation but still allowed for the dialog. Fenella had grown more and more quiet the closer the day came. I understand her nervousness. She and Finnegan had it in their power to bridge the distance between Brochan and the Stewarts, but they had opted to respect the wishes of their son. She was right, but I could understand her being hesitant coming face to face with the family who had been denied Abigail’s child.
“I am. Are you?”
“Yes. It is time to heal the wounds.”
We’d been doing a lot of that since Norah’s death. The town no longer treated Brochan like an outsider. He was still reserved and distant, that was his way, but like Cait’s wedding, he tolerated his peace being disturbed for me, for our son, for our growing family.
He reached for my hand, holding our son against his chest, and we headed downstairs. As soon as we hit the landing all heads turned to us. It was a sea of plaids. The sight was awesome. Fenella and Finnegan moved through the bodies to join us. The patriarch of the family and Brochan’s great uncle, Alastair Stewart, approached us. It wasn’t hard to pick him out because like Fergus, the man was huge. As he approached his focus was on Fenella and Finnegan.
I felt myself brace, I couldn’t image what Fenella was feeling. He then wrapped her into a hug. “Thank you.” There were tears in the man’s eyes. He was clearly not comfortable with showing affection because he awkwardly stepped back then offered his hand to Finnegan.
“Thank you for stepping in, for giving Abigail’s child a family, a home.”
It was like the whole room took a collective sigh. Alastair turned to Brochan. “’Tis so good to finally meet you.” His green eyes turned to me. “And you.” They settled on our son. “And who is the wee lad?”
“Brice Stewart McIntyre.”
Alastair’s head jerked up to Brochan, his eyes wet. “A strong name. May I have the pleasure of introducing you to the family?” Alastair asked.
Brochan replied with a soft, “Aye.”
After the introductions, some went off to join the games and others gathered to get caught up on what they’d missed since they’d last seen each other. Brochan and I were with Alastair. He had been sharing about the Stewart estate, a trip I definitely wanted to make. The conversation turned when he grew thoughtful before saying, “Abigail chose Finlay. We tried to talk her out of it, but she loved him.”
That was news. “Why did you try to talk her out of it?” I asked.
“He loved her, at least he believed he did, but it was too much, too consuming.”
I had thought that once myself, obsession not love.
“When we learned she died, we reached out to Finlay. We tried to bridge the distance, tried to be part of your life. He wouldn’t hear of it. At the time we thought he was bitter and angry that only after her death did we try for a reconciliation.”
He didn’t want to let go of Brochan because he needed an outlet for his madness. I took Brochan’s hand; he linked our fingers.
“I’m sorry, son. I wish we had done right by you.”
“That’s in the past. I think it’s time we think about the now.”
“I agree. Thank you for this, for bringing us all together.”
“I think my mother would have wanted it.”
“Aye, she would have.”
“Come.” Brochan handed me Brice before Bethany Stewart, the oldest living member of the Stewart clan and Abigail’s great grandmother, took his hand.
She led him to the sofa where someone handed her a photo album. Her delicate old hand lifted the heavy leather cover. I stood where I was, holding our son and watched; my heart so full it should have burst from my chest.
“This is Abigail. She loved pistachio ice cream. She would have eaten it for every meal. She liked the color blue.” She looked into his eyes. “Pale blue, just like your eyes. She never learned to ride a bike, but she sang like an angel.”
Brochan had given them the link to Abigail and for the rest of the afternoon they gave him his mother.
That night Fenella and I dropped onto the sofa. Finnegan fed the fire and Brochan got the whisky, and water for me since I was nursing. Fergus and my father were getting something to snack on. The house was filled with Stewarts, all of whom were sleeping.
“I’m exhausted, but what a good day,” Fenella said as she took her glass from Brochan.
“It was. All those stories and the pictures…we have more to add to our walls, Brochan,” I said.
He stood near the fire, swirling the whisky in his glass. He was lost in thought and after everything he had learned today, I wasn’t surprised. “Aye.” He took a sip of his drink then added, “She liked pistachio ice cream.” His pale eyes turned on me. “So do I.”
My heart swelled.
Fenella reached for one of the books Bethany had brought. I moved closer as we paged through it. “All the history.”
Fergus and my father entered, carrying a tray of shortbread. “Good choice,” I offered.
Fenella froze at my side; her hand even shook a little. I glanced over and her face was pale. “Fenella, what’s wrong?”
“I think I’m more tired than I realize.”
“Why?”
“Because that looks…no it couldn’t be.”
“What?” I asked.
Her wide eyes of wonder lifted to me. “That looks an awful lot like Brianna.”
I glanced down at the very old photograph. “That’s not possible.”
Fergus was behind us in a heartbeat, his booming voice as incredulous as mine. “No, that’s impossible, but…” His eyes grew bright. “Bri.”
“Maybe she wasn’t kidding about appearing on the moors,” I whispered. My eyes met Fergus’. “I think you might see her again.”
My focus shifted back to the woman standing in the back of the photo, not dressed in the Stewart colors, but someone close to the family like a nanny, a photo taken in 1886. A chill moved through me.
“She would have been over a hundred and fifty years old when she died,” my dad said.
The only one not surprised was Brochan. He chuckled then kicked back his whisky. “I knew it.” His eyes met mine and he smiled. “I fucking knew it.”
FIVE YEARS LATER…
I stood with Fenella as we watched Brochan teaching Brice how to ride a bike. Every time the bike started to shake, Brochan was there to sweep our son up before he could fall. He wouldn’t always be there to catch him, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
My dad and Finnegan were with our two-year-old daughter, Bri, chasing butterflies. Her little legs were wobbly, but she was determined.“I can’t tell you what joy it brings me to be standing here witnessing this beautiful scene.” Fenella’s focus turned to me. “You gave us back our son.” She wiped at her eyes. “You saved him.”
I pressed a kiss on her cheek. “We saved each other.”
“Grammie, look!” Brice called.
“Oh, sweetie, look at you go,” she called as she hurried after him.
I headed to Brochan who shifted his attention from our son to me, his eyes taking a leisurely study, settling on my stomach that was just beginning to show. When I was close enough, he had me pressed right up against him.
“He’s a natural.”
“He has a good teacher.”
He curled his spine to look me in the eyes. “I love it here.”
My heart filled hearing him say that because here was the surprise he had been working on, the one he refused to share with me. He had turned the McIntyre land into the Brianna Calhoun/Abigail Stewart-McIntyre memorial park. It was the town’s center with birthday parties and weddings being held practically every week; even the festivals, including the Highland games Brochan hosted, were held there. A place that had been a painful and bitter reminder of how ugly humans could be was now a place of great joy and beauty.
“I love it too. So do the kids.”
He looked wicked. “Speaking of the kids. They’re busy with our parents, which means you and I have some free time.”
Five years of marriage and an extremely healthy sex life and the man could still make me burn.
“First one to the car eats last,” he said but then he lifted me into his arms and carried me to the car. “On second thought, no reason we can’t eat at the same time.”
My whole body felt those words. “You’re a wicked man.”
“A beast.” He bit my lower lip. “And he wants to play.”
We had found our own fairy tale; it was dark and twisted at times, but we had found our happily ever after or rather we had found happy at last.