Lucas

ONE MONTH LATER…

England’s green and pleasant land stretches before me, a blanket of verdant growth over rolling hills and sparkling streams. The nation’s unofficial national anthem, “Jerusalem,” springs to mind, threatening to drown me in nostalgia for my public school days.

The camp can be seen from the motorway, and as I approach in my rental, my heart beats to a junky rhythm. Deciding it’s probably safer for the car, I park at a distance and walk the last third of a mile. Rusty motor homes dot the landscape, no doubt considered a blight on the countryside’s beauty by the locals who live here all year around. Grime-faced kids, their eyes wide and wary, view me with suspicion. My dark-wash jeans and button-down don’t exactly help me fit in.

But then I never did.

“I’m looking for Millie Wright,” I say to a tall kid who seems to be in charge. My accent is rougher, so as not to give away the journey I’ve taken from where they are now to the stellar heights of designer hats and business-class flights.

“Never ’eard of her.”

“Starshine,” I amend. “She about?”

“Down the end, ’round the corner.”

I nod my thanks and continue on my way with the kids following at a safe distance. Safe for me, that is. They could beat, strip, and rob me in twenty seconds if given the go-ahead. Cool stares of supposedly responsible adults flank my journey, and while I don’t acknowledge any of them, I don’t avert my eyes, either.

I turn a corner, and my breath traps in my throat. There she is, dear old Ma, sitting on the steps to a van, a fat spliff between nicotine-stained fingers. Her hair is matted, a muted (for her) mix of pink and green. Seeing her in the flesh, I realize that a part of me expected she’d be dead. I sent her money a year ago, but I haven’t heard from her since.

“ ’Allo, Mum.”

She turns her head, her eyes betraying no surprise at seeing me. I’m expected.

“Moonbeam.”

That stupid fucking name. I could protest, but I’m not here to argue. “Okay to sit?”

“If you don’t mind getting your fancy trousers dirty.”

Ignoring the jibe, I take a seat. She offers the spliff, halfheartedly, knowing I won’t indulge. That I’m too straight edge for that.

“They said you weren’t having a funeral,” she mutters. “No service. Nothing.”

“Made it easy for you, didn’t I?”

She snorts, like I’m in the wrong here. “She was already gone. Years ago.”

Perhaps. Perhaps I’m to blame for holding on—to Lizzie, to that chip on my shoulder, to that old version of me floundering in self-pity and righteous indignation.

Some people don’t “family” well, and I include myself in there. I could blame her forever or I could take Trinity’s advice: free my heart and let it all go.

“I forgive you, Mum.”

She turns those eyes on me, same as mine, same as Lizzie’s.

“You were never meant to be out here in the open, Lucas. Not everyone can hack it. Not everyone understands the Mother.”

She doesn’t mean herself. She means the earth, the giver of life. Taker of it, too.

Yeah, but you didn’t give us a choice, Mum. You let your id rule and your selfishness be your compass.

“I s’pose not,” I merely say, not taking her bait. “Tell me how you’ve been.”

We talk for a while, with surprising ease, skirting hard topics and painful memories. I could call her out, air every grievance, but it won’t change a thing. All my bitterness died with Lizzie.

“You need anything?”

“Jake’s back has him laid up. Can’t work.” Jake’s the man she’s been living with for the last few years. They subsist on poached game, society handouts, and willful ignorance.

I put my hand in my pocket and contribute to the cause.

As I stand, she peers up at me, her hand shading her eyes like she’s getting a good look at me for one last time. She thinks I won’t be back, though who knows? Time might give me the distance I need. Regardless, I’ll continue to send her money as long as she asks for it.

“Got summat for you.” Thirty seconds later, she’s back from inside the trailer with a hardcover book. I recognize it immediately: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, the American version. But this one has a plastic cover on it. A library book.

Millie hands it over. “She thought you’d be coming.”

She? I look more closely at the binding. The spine has the library call number but doesn’t say where it’s from. I open to the front page, but I already know what I’ll find there.

Chicago Public Library. Harold Washington branch.

“Pretty girl,” Millie says. “Knew to bring a gift unlike some people. Good quality whiskey.”

Which didn’t last long, I imagine. There’s an inscription in the book, one I recognize as Dumbledore’s advice to his young protégé.

And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.

That flighty temptress knew I’d be here. Knew I wouldn’t give up. Knows me better than I know myself because damn, I didn’t know where I’d be until I woke up this morning.

“She had a long lifeline, too,” Mum says. “Couple of kids in her future, though I told her she needed to get a move on. None of us are getting any younger. Or wiser.”

Never a truer word. Every day I get older, but definitely not wiser. I’m such an idiot.

Every day I’m here is a day away from Trinity.

“Did you want to keep it?” I ask, holding out the book.

She snorts. “What would I want with a library book?”

What, indeed.

Trinity

The ache in my heart can’t be filled by whiskey but I’m doing my best to try.

After Lizzie’s death, Lucas took some time away from Chicago, from life, from me. I can’t be the man you need right now, he said. I could have tried to persuade him, but we both needed to figure things out. If it’s meant to be, we’ll make our way back to each other.

I’ve taken some space for myself—a solo tour of whiskey distilleries in the motherland. Today I’m on the shores of Dornoch Firth checking out one of my favorites, the Glenmorangie. Pops would have loved it here. A crisp salt-tinged breeze stings my eyes, though that could just as easily be tears.

I miss my guy.

Our tour guide is an old coot with a Scottish burr so thick you could slice a claymore through it. I know the spiel, but I enjoy it all the same. After the tour, I take a moment to wander among the casks, marveling at the history.

“Whiskey woman, aye?”

I turn to find our tour guide—Mr. McGonagall—standing there, a puckish gleam in his eye.

“I’m a fan, yes.”

“More than a fan, I wager. A woman versed in the mysteries of uisge beatha.” Water of life, the Scottish Gaelic term for whiskey.

“Do I have that look?”

He grins, revealing a gap tooth. “He said you’d come. Told me to look for a goddess among us.”

Clearly this guy has been drinking too much of his product. “I should check out ye olde shoppe,” I say, backing away.

He’s still grinning as he pulls a hand from behind his back and unfurls his fist, palm up.

My gasp echoes among the oak casks. “But—but?” I whip around, my heart frantic and seeking. “Where?”

“He told me you’d be here, lass.” Reverently, he places the gift in my hand.

A Cadbury Crème Egg.

“But it’s September.”

“No matter to a man in love.”

Dazed, I wander out of the cask house, wanting to run, afraid of hoping too much. The late afternoon sun fills my eyes, blinding me to the possibilities. But not for long.

The possibilities stand before me. Of life and love and a future I’ve only dreamed of.

“Hullo, love.”

He’s lost weight but it looks good on him. Highlights those cheekbones. Stubble blankets his jaw and my fingers itch to touch. My body craves but I hold back.

“Trinity, I’m so—”

I capture his words with a kiss. Seems my body has the better of my brain. It always has where this man is concerned.

Our tears mingle and sustain our connection. He pulls away an excruciating inch. “Let me speak.”

“As if I could stop you.” I kiss him again to do just that. His presence is a salve, but I worry as I always have done. That he’s here to get closure—and that closure will leave me behind.

“How’s that flighty temptress, adventure, treating you?” he asks.

“Good. Terrible. All I hoped for. I’ve missed you so fucking much.” I can’t stop talking, spilling what’s in my heart. “I know that you’re here, so it’s a good sign. But you might still be on your journey and I need to hold on to you, just a little longer.”

“Ever the worrywart, Trinity Jones. I’m glad you managed to make it here after all this time. That you took this moment for you.” There are little lines around his eyes and a streak of gray in his hair. I’m jealous of the time it took to grow, of the weeks I wasn’t around to see it bloom.

“I got your message,” he adds. “A stolen library book, love?”

“I sent them a donation.” I wanted to visit the woman who shaped the man I love, but mostly I wanted to let Lucas know I’m here in his life no matter how he chooses to grieve. “How did it go with your mom?”

“Okay. Now that Lizzie is gone, my feelings for her are more…neutral, I suppose. I don’t think she was meant to be a mother. I can’t hate her for something that refused to come naturally to her. I told her I forgave her, but I’m not sure I meant it or that she even understood.” He gives a rueful shake of his head. “Still, I felt better. Lighter.”

“And now? How do you feel now?”

“Ready to begin. Here. With you.”

I kiss the corner of his mouth in gratitude and hold him tight.

“For the last few days, I’ve been doing my own tour with Lizzie. Taking her ashes to see the Harry Potter sights. We saw Ron Weasley’s car. And Hedwig’s brothers at the Scottish Owl Center. And the place they filmed Hagrid’s hut.”

“What did she think?”

“Not as good as the books!”

We both laugh at that. I’ve missed this feeling, this warmth.

“I’ve one more trip to take, and I’m hoping you might come with me.”

Anywhere. “Name it,” I whisper.

“There’s a train journey between Fort William and Mallaig on a steam engine—”

“Like the Hogwarts Express?”

“Yes. And I thought when we go over a bridge or something, I could give Lizzie the send-off she deserves.” He looks at me hopefully, testing his idea.

“I think she’d love that.”

His eyes close, as if that’s the answer to a prayer. I want to be the answer to that and every question he ever has. “I’m sorry I went away for a while. I didn’t want you to see me like that, but all this time without you has made me realize something.”

Hope is a fluttering bird in my chest. “Yes?”

“That these sides I try to hide—sad Lucas, mad Lucas—are part of me. I need you to see all of them, Trinity. I need your hand over my flayed flesh, your touch on my soul.” He places my palm over his chest. “Your footprint is already tattooed on my heart. You’ve made your mark. What’s mine is yours, if you still want it. If you still want me, warts and all.”

“Lucas, you crazy fool,” I murmur through hiccupping tears. “I’ve wanted you from the beginning. When I shouldn’t have. When I should. When it was wrong and when it was right. I will want you when the sun rises and when it falls below the horizon. In good times and in bad. In the days of Cadbury Crème Egg feasts and of grilled cheese famine.”

“Best vows ever.”

I laugh, because they are. “I have a confession, though. I don’t even like Cadbury Crème Eggs!”

He blinks. “What?”

“I did when I was a kid, but when you brought that one over when I was sick, I realized my tastes have changed. It’s just not my thing anymore. I’ve matured.”

His grin is huge. “Maturity. Sounds boring.”

“God, it is, but it has its advantages.”

“Such as?”

“Knowing what you’re about. Who you are and who you’re meant to be. What your heart is made of. Who it belongs to. I love you, Lucas.”

“About bloody time!” He inclines his forehead to mine. “And I love you, Trinity.”

On the shores of a Scottish loch we commit our hearts to each other, knowing that at last, we’ve found the person who completes us, deep and to the bone.

He will catch me when I fall.

I will soothe him when he aches.

We won’t take this adventure for granted, but I know that with Lucas, there’ll never be a dull moment.