Rabbie stares at three new outfits, laid out on his small cot. Presents from Belle.
Within the hour, he must change out of his familiar prison uniform and walk out of Barlinnie forever. The gut-clenching anxiety wouldn't allow him to keep down his bland breakfast this morning, nor his meager dinner the night before. His cannot stop his hands from shaking.
There was a special errand Belle needed to run, but she has promised to come and meet him when it's time to leave. He feels faint-headed, staring at his new clothing. There is a pair of jeans and a grey cotton tee. There's a soft pair of brown corduroy slacks with a checked, button down shirt. And there's a suit. A beautifully tailored wool suit complete with a brilliant blue shirt and matching tie. Belle has even brought him shoes: gleaming black dress shoes to match the suit and soft leather loafers to complete the other two outfits. He tries to imagine her in a posh store on Buchanan Street, fingering the cloth and deciding which clothes will suit him. None of this seems real. Tonight he will sleep in a proper bed in Belle's house. And tomorrow-tomorrow, after nearly ten years, his life begins again.
As for how he will ever repay her...well, he hasn't a clue.
He chooses the suit, because she obviously spent the most money on it and because he thinks it will surprise and delight her.
When at last Rabbie hears Belle's heels click down the cell block, accompanied by the heavier thud of a guard's boots, he nervously runs his hands through his long hair one, two, three times, then throws his shoulders back and anxiously waits for her reaction. He is rewarded with an astonished gasp.
Belle's lips part in a captivated smile when she sees his selection. The guard fumbles with his keys, but at last-at last!-the bars slide open, and she steps toward him, lifting a palm to his cheek and brushing back his shaggy hair with her other hand. "It is you," she teases in a soft voice, shaking her head at the transformation. "I've never seen a man so handsome, Rabbie." He blushes, and the faint feeling returns, but she slips her arm firmly through his, and then they are leaving his cell behind and walking out into the hallway.
"True Love." Mad Jefferson sits on his cot, watching them sagely. It's startling to hear his flat, hoarse voice. "True Love can break any curse," he informs Rabbie, then resumes staring at the ceiling.
"Be well, Jefferson," Belle says kindly. "I'll see you on Monday." Jefferson hums a tuneless melody but doesn't respond.
Belle stands close by his side while Rabbie sorts through the small plastic bag of personal belongings that were confiscated when he was first taken into custody. There is a food assistance card, an expired Scottish Citizen Card, a crumpled picture of Bal at five, and a battered nylon wallet. He keeps the picture of Balfour, tucking it into his suit pocket, and chucks the rest into a nearby trashcan.
"Are you ready?" she asks, taking his arm again. Rabbie swallows and nods, not feeling at all certain.
They walk out together into the warm spring sunshine. Snow is melting in slushy piles near the entrance to the prison. Green bulbs have begun to push their way up through the damp, loamy soil. The feel of a warm breeze upon his face and the smell of wet earth is heavenly. Just before they reach the front gate, Belle stops, turning to him.
"Rabbie, I've brought someone..." She feels his body stiffen against hers. "It's alright, truly. It just that...your son's name is uncommon. When I first heard it, I remembered a Balfour from the Academy. I didn't want to lead you to hope until I knew for certain. I spoke with his family, and the Darlings confirmed that he was adopted-that he's your son. I told them what a wonderful man you are. How it broke your heart to lose him..."
Rabbie's eyes widen, and he clutches her arm. "He's here? He's here now?" He swings around and takes a stumbling step towards the front gate, then freezes. A lanky, handsome teenage boy is standing between a well-dressed couple in the sunshine. His dark hair tumbles forward into his eyes much the same way Rabbie's does. His eyes are the same warm shade of brown.
"Da?" the boy asks, and then louder: "Da!" Balfour rushes past the gate to his father and throws his long arms around him.
"My boy! My Boy!" Rabbie is weeping as he clutches Bal, not caring who sees it, and there are tears in Belle's eyes as well. Mr. and Mrs. Darling walk over to stand beside her, and, despite their innate poise and self-possession, Belle can see that they are also moved by this tender scene.
"I was wrong to keep Bal from visiting; I see that now," Mrs. Darling says in a low voice. "We have other adopted children, and some of Balfour's brothers come from families that have caused them nothing but heartache. He was hurting so badly when he came to us, and nothing we did seemed to help it. I thought he needed a clean break from his past, but I can see that I was mistaken..." Mrs. Darling discreetly brushes away wetness from the corners of her eyes with her gloved fingertips.
"I told Balfour I would mail his letters," Mr. Darling confesses quietly, "And I promised he could see his father again when he turned eighteen. But...I didn't mail them, and I never intended for him to..." He breaks off, looking at his polished shoes, steadying himself. "We just wanted what was best for him," Mr. Darling says at last.
"I know it," Belle reassures them, "And I also know that you gave Bal a loving home when he needed one. What's done cannot be undone, but look..." She gestures to father and son. Rabbie has laid his hands on either side of Bal's face, drinking in the sight of him. "They're together now. They've found their way back to one another. I think we should be thankful for that and leave them to it."
The Darlings agree, and Belle takes her leave: "Bal has my phone number," she tells Rabbie. "He wants to take you out for breakfast and show you his house and neighborhood and school. Just call when you're ready to come home and get settled in. Take as long as you like. I'll be waiting."
"Thank you, Miss Ferguson!" Bal leaves off hugging his Da and grins at Belle. "We miss you at school. The new librarian never has a laugh with us the way you used to."
Balfour proudly leads his father to a scratched and dented yellow car, one he obviously saved for and purchased himself. "Do you want to drive, Da?" he asks, but Rabbie just shakes his head 'no,' entirely overwhelmed. The old car sputters to life, and then they are gone.
Belle spends the rest of her day off reading and readying the house. She cannot stop herself from smiling as she makes up the guestroom bed with fresh linens, reliving the joyous reunion again and again. She laughs out loud as she pulls a tray of muffins from her oven, remembering the wonderstruck look Rabbie had thrown back over his shoulder as the yellow car left the prison parking lot. Nothing has ever delighted her like making this unassuming, unbearably sweet man happy.
At last, when the sun has just set, Belle's phone rings, and it's him on the other end. "I'm ready!" Rabbie tells her. "We're at the pub on Kirkintilloch Road-what's it called again, Bal? We're at Quinn's, Belle!" He sounds just the slightest bit tipsy, and wonderfully merry.
"I'm on my way!" The thought of him enjoying chips and a pint after so many years of prison meals on plastic trays is delightful.
Quinn's is a charming pub. A welcoming rush of warm air greets Belle as she pushes open the glass door. The dark wood paneling and bright brass accents give it an intimate, old world atmosphere. She finds father and son in the back, their heads almost touching as they lean together over a scratched wooden table. The remains of a pub dinner is spread out in front of them: empty pint glasses, burgers, chips, a half-eaten haggis and fish cakes. The suit coat hangs from the back of Rabbie's chair, and his tie is tucked neatly into the front pocket. When Rabbie notices her approach, he gives her the crinkly smile she's grown very, very fond of and rises so quickly from the table that he bangs his knee. He curses under his breath, rubbing at his hurt leg, but the smile never leaves his face.
"Are you okay, love?" Belle asks, also rubbing his leg, not noticing the way his cheeks flush at her brisk touch and at the offhand endearment. "Are you sure you're ready to go? Balfour, would you like to come back with us and see your father settled in?"
"Thank you, but no, Miss Ferguson. I have a date with my girlfriend later tonight. Da understands." Bal exchanges a private smile with Rabbie. "And he and I have made plans to see each other Sunday."
Rabbie limps beside her across the parking lot, holding onto her arm, and Belle opens his car door and helps to ease him into his seat. He'll have quite the bruise on his knee come morning, but he doesn't seem particularly perturbed. Rabbie talks more during the long drive back to Belle's home than he ever has in one sitting before. He tells her of Bal's life: how Bal never forgot about him, how Bal was planning to visit him as soon as he turned 18, how Bal went through a rough patch in early adolescence but came out of it okay. His son has a good life in Bishopbriggs-his own room, an excellent secondary school, a large, happy family, and a girlfriend who loves him.
"And it's the same girl, Belle! There was a blond lass in the Gorbals who stole his heart when he was only seven, and he ran into her again in the city. What are the chances of that? He says he wants to marry her someday..."
When at last Belle's car rolls to a stop in front of her little cottage on the bank of the River Clyde, he is still talking.
Her home is a good distance from Glasgow and the Barlinnie Prison. Rabbie hadn't noticed how far they had come until he stepped out of the car and sees, for the first time in nine years, starlight. Belle's cottage is tranquil and remote. It lies on two untamed acres that edge up to the river. This far upstream, the slow moving water is clean and clear. It shimmers and babbles beneath the full moon.
He exhales slowly as he walks inside. Watercolors and oil paintings hang on every wall. Paintings are also propped against the bases of over-stuffed bookcases: landscapes and portraits and still-lifes. It's deliciously snug, and Belle makes it even more so when she hurries over to light a peat fire in the iron stove.
In a corner by a south-facing window is an easel with an artist's smock hung up to dry. "Are all of these yours?" Rabbie asks, marveling over the paintings.
"Yes, nearly all of them. Would you like to see your room? Or would you rather start with a tour of the rest of the house?" Her eyes are aglow, and she reaches out and takes him by the hand.
They tour the house first: there's a homey country kitchen with a plate of muffins set out for snacking. There's a den with overstuffed chairs and even more bookselves. There is Belle's bedroom, with its antique writing desk, a second easel, and an inviting, four poster bed. There is a tiny room for doing laundry and storing dry goods.
And then they arrive at Rabbie's room. It's everything he's ever wished for. There's a properly made up bed with goose down pillows, soft flannel sheets, and blue patchwork quilt. Belle's landscapes are hung up on the walls, and there is a small bookcase with empty picture frames, waiting to be filled. There's even an adjoining bathroom, all his own, with sweet smelling soaps and a new razor blade for shaving. Belle shows him his pajamas and robe, carefully folded inside one of the dresser drawers.
"Your shirts are here, and your socks are here..." She shows him, drawer by drawer, his new life. His fresh start. When at last Belle finishes, she asks, "Are you hungry, Rabbie? Can I get you anything?"
He shakes his head 'no.' "I don't know what to say to all this, Belle-how to thank you for...my boy...this room...the clothes...everything..."
She stops him, laying a hand on his chest. His heart beats hard against it. "It gives me so much pleasure to do this. You're such a wonderful man. You've become one of my closest friends. Someday you'll be in the position to repay the favor to someone who needs your help, and I know you won't hesitate." She steps back, withdrawing her hand, and Rabbie suppresses the powerful need to snatch it back and press his lips to her palm.
"I'll let you get settled in," Belle says softly, "I was thinking of making us crepes tomorrow morning. And then walking over the property? Would you like that?"
Rabbie swallows, not knowing how to ask her to stay. Please stay. He doesn't want to be without her.
"Yes, that sounds wonderful," he replies, as evenly as he can manage, and then she is shutting his door with a soft click, and her footsteps are fading away to somewhere else in the house.
He changes into his new cotton pajamas and wraps himself in the warm robe. He washes his face. He brushes his teeth. He paces. He sits on the soft feather guest bed. He turns off his lamp and lies down. He turns on his lamp and sits up.
At last, Rabbie opens his bedroom door and pads out into the dimly lit living room. Belle, thank God, is still awake. She is reading on the couch in her nightgown, wrapped in a throw blanket.
"You couldn't sleep?" she asks kindly, moving her feet to make room for him. Rabbie sits as close to Belle as he dares, staring at the floor. He feels a gentle hand laid upon his lower back, moving in slow, soothing circles. He feels another hand come up to stroke his rough cheek. He leans against it. He needs this. He needs her. He doesn't know how to ask for what he needs. Then he feels himself pulled by her strong, slender arms to rest against her neck and shoulder. Belle wraps her warm blanket around him as well, and he smells her sweet, inviting scent. He feels her soft body pressed against his through the thin cotton nightgown. He cannot move. He cannot breathe. He cannot speak.
Belle lifts her book into the lamp light, and Rabbie recognizes the tartan cover and the markings from the prison library. It's the same slim volume of poetry from before. All at once, he remembers to breathe. Belle brushes her lips over the crown of his head, then murmurs into the shell of his ear: "Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear/ And the rocks melt wi' the sun/ O I will love thee still, my dear/ While the sands o' life shall run." He closes his eyes, memorizing the feel of her arm wrapped securely around him, the feel of her fingers stroking his hair with infinite tenderness. He feels...adored. Beloved. Safe. He feels like he's come home after a long ramble in the cold.
Rabbie swallows, opening his eyes and marshalling his courage. He takes the book from her hand and reads the final passage: "And fare thee well, my only Love/ And fare thee well, a while!/ And I will come again, my Love/ Tho' it were ten thousand mile." The hand stroking his hair stills, and he feels his cheeks flush hot.
"Rabbie, did you memorize, or..."
"No, I-I learned it from your tapes and your book, Belle. Look..." He opens to another page and reads, his finger trailing beneath the words: "But to see her was to love her/ Love but her, and love for ever..." He pauses, remembering her margin note. "This one was your favorite, although it wasn't as famous as the rose poem. It's my favorite, too."
"That's extraordinary! You're extraordinary!" Belle exclaims, and he feels the press of her lips against his hair once more. Her nose and mouth linger there, and Rabbie again closes his eyes, letting the book gently drop to the floor. He aches for this. He aches to belong to her and only her, to have her possess and mark him with her kisses everywhere, everywhere.
He tilts his chin up, begging shamelessly for the touch of Belle's lips against his. He doesn't dare open his eyes, but he feels her hand cradling the back of his head, urging him to close the distance between them. When at last her soft mouth brushes over his, he moans-a needy, embarassing sound-and he parts his lips, desperate for the feel of her tongue against his. He is desperate to taste her. Without realizing it, he has begun to rock against her, trying the ease the ache of his straining erection by pressing and softly thrusting against her hip. Belle deepens the kiss, pulling him closer and flickering her tongue into Rabbie's mouth, sending little jolts of electricity through him. Her hand travels from the back of his head, down his back, lightly tracing his spine, lower, lower, until she is cupping his arse, encouraging him to find his rhythm and rut harder against her.
He breaks away, cursing, his breath coming in shallow little pants. "Belle, I'm-I'm in love with you," Rabbie confesses, opening his eyes so she can see the truth written there. "I've loved you since the first day I saw you. I'll always love you. Please tell me if you don't feel the same way. It would break my heart to have-this, and then to have it taken away. I've lost so much already..." His eyes are wet, and his body is shaking with the effort to be still, but Rabbie waits, watching her, breathing hard.
Belle's blue eyes are wide and dark, and he can feel her heart racing beneath him. "I adore you, Rabbie. That very first day, the first time we spoke, I had the strangest feeling, as if I had known you for years, and we had only just found our way back to one another. I love you, too. Your heart is safe with me. I'll keep it safe."
He groans his relief and captures her mouth for a greedy, messy kiss, his tongue running over her lips, her teeth, her tongue. Rabbie feels her fingers hurry to undo the small buttons of his pajama shirt, easing it off his shoulders, before they return to graze lightly over his sensitive, pebbled nipples. He sucks in his breath, then fists her nightgown, rutting desperately at her hip, moaning into Belle's mouth as her hand travels lower. The moment her fingers breach the waistband of his pajama pants, Rabbie cries out, jerking himself upwards by the back of the couch so that she can cradle his aching cock in her palm. Her fingers close mercifully around him, and for a few blissful moments he is lost to everything but the soft encouragements she croons in his ear and the steady, pleasurable rhythm she sets with her hot, tight hand. Nearing his release, Rabbie scrambles for some last shred of control: "Belle, I'm close!" he pants, "Please, I won't be able to last...I want so much to please you...please...wait..."
Her hand slows between his legs, yet Belle whispers fiercely, "I don't want you to last for me, Rabbie. I want you to fall apart for me. It's what I've imagined every night after I've come home from work: what it would be like to watch you come for me. I promise I'll show you everything I like afterwards, but right now I want you to come for me."
He whimpers when she takes her hand from his cock and moves from beneath him, but then-Belle is standing in front of the couch, lifting her thin cotton nightgown over her head, and then-she is naked before him, her lovely brown curls spilling over her pale shoulders, not quite long enough to cover her beautiful, rose-tipped breasts. Between her white thighs is a thicket of dark curls that he longs to bury his face in. He reaches out for her with a wordless cry, and she straddles him, covering his pleading mouth with her own, grinding against him. "Tell me what you imagined in your cell, Rabbie," Belle urges, between kisses. "Tell me what you saw when you closed your eyes at night. I imagined you so often..."
He cannot say it, cannot put it into words, so he shows her, dipping his head to lap and suckle one of Belle's perfect breasts, whimpering when he feels her arch against him. Rabbie's fingers dig into her back, and he tugs greedily upon her nipple with quick, hard little sucks, his other hand moving without his awareness to free his erection. Belle's fingers follow his, tugging down his pajama pants beneath her thighs and then-Oh God!-easing onto him slowly, slowly until he is buried within her wet warmth.
His head falls back against the couch cushions, his lips parting, and the sounds he is making as Belle rocks against him aren't human. He's gasping and keening, begging her unintelligibly for the release he needs, and Belle is leaning forward, her breasts pressing against his bare chest, raking her fingers through his hair and whispering, "Just like that? Yes, just like that. Oh baby, I know. It's been so long, hasn't it? Let go for me, Rabbie. I want you to let go, love. I can feel how close you are...fall apart for me, Rabbie. You're almost there, love..."
Belle riding hard against him and whispering his name sends him falling over the edge, and he yells and jerks beneath her as she gathers him close, praising him, whispering how wonderful he is, how good that made her feel. When he has control of his limbs once more, Rabbie wraps his arms around her, burying his face against her throat. "I love you, I love you-so much, Belle. So much." They rest together, their breathing slowing and their hearts beating in tandem.
Later that night, Belle keeps her promise to show him everything she likes. She helps him curve his fingers just so and cup her between her wet thighs. She comes against his eager fingers, and then against his eager tongue, and then he is hard for her again. They make love slowly with their eyes open, and it is everything he imagined. The early hours before dawn find them tangled together in Belle's four poster bed. He twines his fingers in her hair and whispers everything he wishes for their future: a fresh start, a large family, time to make things right with his boy.
Epilogue
As it turns out, Rabbie Gold was never meant for city life.
He spends long, happy days tending the modest farm he has coaxed to life from two acres he shares with his wife on the River Clyde. Their property is no longer overgrown. It's bursting with life: three children that he lovingly cares for during the day while Belle teaches prisoners to read, a large vegetable garden, a small orchard, even some woolly sheep and a sheepdog. Balfour comes round for supper every Sunday with his wife Emma and their son, Henry, and the children play together in the fields while the adults enjoy an after dinner drink.
Rabbie still twines his fingers in Belle's soft curls at night, whispering his dreams into the darkness: a good growing season, a weekend at the coast, and, someday, a cottage full of grandchildren.