A/N: Got the rest of the story! Thanks for your patience and enjoy!
§ § § -- May 7, 1995
Barry Lorimer, drifting in that half-awake, half-asleep state of confusion, smelled wood smoke and frowned in perplexity. Where was he? Opening his eyes, he peered around him and then scowled with remembrance. Oh yeah…stuck in 1720s Virginia. Last night's fire had been banked to glowing embers; across the room on a crude pallet, Greta Gail still slept. He himself had slept on the floor with a rough blanket for covers and his velvet shirt for a pillow; as he sat up, he groaned loudly when a large assortment of muscles protested the sleeping accommodations.
Greta Gail blinked awake and popped into a sitting position. "You okay?"
"Nothing a long hot bath wouldn't fix," Lorimer muttered wistfully. He eyed her in curiosity. "Don't you miss stuff like that? Running water, clean bathrooms, microwave ovens, interstate highways, Entertainment Tonight?"
She grinned. "Well, I admit to wishing I could have a nice modern bathroom sometimes, but I've learned to live without the other stuff. How about some breakfast?"
"Depends on what it is," Lorimer said warily. "I hear all they ever ate in the colonies was gruel. Watery, tasteless stuff."
"Well, you're in luck. I have some real old-fashioned oatmeal here. And are you ready for this? Mrs. Fearghal sells it. It's my understanding there are ten kids in the family, and she grows her own oats…apparently a holdover from feeding thirteen brothers back in dear old Ireland. She keeps some to feed her kids, and sells what's left. She rolls the oats and packages them in little bags made out of scrap fabric. I always have to get into town and grab my share, because it sells in no time flat." Greta Gail stoked up the fire all the while she was talking, and now went to a shelf nailed on the wall and opened a box that sat thereupon. She withdrew a small bag and displayed it at him. "Mrs. Fearghal's Own Oats."
Lorimer grinned. "Sounds a heck of a lot better than watery gruel. Say, don't you even know Mrs. Fearghal's first name? I mean, after all, she is your great-great-great-et-cetera grandmother. Or was that lost to history?"
"No, it's a huge unpronounceable monster. I don't know how to say it, but I can spell it. Her name was C-A-O-I-L-F-H-I-O-N-N." Greta Gail smirked. "Say that five times fast."
"No wonder you call her Mrs. Fearghal. Well, let's see if her oatmeal's easier on the mouth than her name." Lorimer grinned again, pleased when Greta Gail laughed, and they had a companionable breakfast together.
They were almost finished when there came a knock on the door, and Greta Gail and Lorimer looked at each other in surprise. "You get many visitors?" Lorimer asked.
"It's probably Andrew," said Greta Gail a bit wearily, getting to her feet. "I'll send him packing post-haste." She cleared her throat and lifted the bar across the door, then pulled it open just enough to peer through the gap. "Oh!" An astonished look crossed her face, and she stepped back to admit Roarke and Leslie, both clad in period clothing. Leslie's straight hair had somehow been gathered into a topknot of frothy dark-gold ringlets, and she looked ready for a formal ball; Roarke was no less elegant in ascot and tails, with a top hat completing the outfit.
"Mr. Roarke?" Lorimer blurted, staring at them.
"Oh…I see you're having breakfast," Roarke said, noting the meal laid out on the crude wooden table. "I do apologize…but there is a matter of some urgency that I must ask your help in resolving. We received a rather strident telephone call this morning, and the caller simply would not back down until I promised to get you to speak with him." This he addressed to Greta Gail, who had been admiring Leslie's dress.
Greta Gail stared at him. "You're joking. Who is it?"
"Your father," Leslie said with a rueful look.
Greta Gail's startled eyes shifted to her. "Is he on the phone right now? I mean, as you're standing here? I mean—"
Roarke chuckled. "We know what you mean, Miss O'Donahue," he assured her. "No, he isn't on the line at the moment, but he did insist that we call him back within fifteen minutes and allow him to speak with you. He hasn't received a progress report from Mr. Lorimer in long enough that he has become decidedly impatient, and he is convinced that I am hiding something."
"I was gonna call the guy as soon as I got back with Greta Gail," Lorimer broke in, standing up, balancing his bowl in one palm.
Greta Gail rolled her eyes. "This whole thing is getting positively ridiculous. I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke—I didn't mean for you and Leslie to be inconvenienced by my need to get away from my family. Tell you what, I'll come with you, at least long enough to tell him to get off my back once and for all. Then I'll come back and just keep plugging."
"Have you had much success?" Leslie asked curiously.
Greta Gail met her gaze sheepishly. "No, I have to admit, I haven't convinced one single person not to smoke…never mind getting old Fearghal to quit the tobacco business. But I can't stop trying, you see? If I can get just one person to stop…"
"Would you come back if you did?" Lorimer asked. "I mean, back to the twentieth century where you should be?"
Greta Gail cast him a look and picked up her own bowl. "You don't mind if we finish breakfast, do you? We're almost done. Would you two like some? There's plenty here."
"No, thank you, we've eaten already," Roarke declined graciously.
"Actually, I'd like a little," Leslie said hopefully. "That oatmeal smells really good."
Roarke eyed her in disapproving surprise. "Really, Leslie Susan…"
Greta Gail giggled. "That's perfectly okay, Mr. Roarke, no trouble at all. Here." She dished up a small bowl for Leslie, who took a taste and blinked.
"Wow," she said, "this is really good! And I thought everything they ate in this era was bland and tasteless." She turned to Roarke. "Are you sure you don't want any, Father? Come on, just a taste." She offered him the bowl, and he sighed, glanced at the ceiling and gave in. They watched as he sampled the oatmeal and nodded, impressed.
"Very good!" he said, handing the bowl back to Leslie. "Quite unusual for this time period, I must say. How did you acquire this, Miss O'Donahue?"
Greta Gail told him the story of her great-grandmother's little business, and Roarke and Leslie both studied her with interest. "How funny that bit of your family history never seemed to come up," Leslie commented.
"Yeah…" Greta Gail agreed, musing. "I wonder if anybody else in my family ever knew about it."
"It's too bad you couldn't convince her to expand the business," Leslie said, finishing the oatmeal and setting the bowl aside. "With something that good, it'd be practically a guaranteed success."
Which was when Greta Gail gasped loudly. "Leslie Hamilton, how'd you ever think that up?" she shouted, startling the others. "That's exactly it! Mr. Roarke, do you think that return call could wait a little while? I have an idea, thanks to Leslie, and I've just gotta try it and see if it works." She turned to Lorimer. "You could always go back and give Dad a progress report," she suggested.
Lorimer set his now-empty bowl onto the table with a loud clack. "What the hell'm I supposed to tell him?" he demanded incredulously. " 'Sorry, Mr. O'Donahue, Greta Gail's trying out this idea back in 1720-whatever, and she'll be back in a couple hundred years or so'? Is that what you think I oughta say?"
"Say what you want," Greta Gail told him jauntily. "If you want me back badly enough, and if you want that reward you say Dad's offering, you'll think of something to tell him. Unless, of course, you feel like waiting till I get back here."
"Hold your horses," Lorimer ordered, grabbing her arm before she could run out the door. "You're just gonna go flying out that door to tell Mrs. Fearghal that she should expand her business? You said they'd go ballistic if they ever saw you, seeing as you're a dead ringer for Mrs. Fearghal. If that's your idea, how do you plan to talk her into it?"
Greta Gail looked around at Roarke, Leslie, and then Lorimer again, and slowly a grin spread across her face. "If you three are willing to help me out, there's a chance I might be able to do it," she said. "After all, you're all already dressed for the parts."
Lorimer thought about it, while Roarke and Leslie watched with interest. "If you do succeed, then will you come back to the twentieth century?"
Greta Gail stared at him for a long moment. "We'll see," she said guardedly. "Right now, let's just concentrate on developing this idea."