Chapter Forty One

Several hundred years later, somehow - and I am not in the least certain how - I manage to briefly achieve words again.

"Jesus. . . H. . . Roosevelt. . . Christ. . ." I say, just above a whisper.

Jamie stirs next to me, chuckling sleepily, "Feel nice, mo chridhe?"

"Nice?" I blink slowly, and roll the word around in my mind a bit, bouncing it off of the massive piles of cotton wool that have apparently temporarily replaced my brain. "Nice?" I grunt something that might be a laugh, "I cert'nly feel som' kinda way. Nice doesn' seem t'cover it." Languidly, I roll into his side, and drape my utterly boneless arms and legs over him, "Bu', s'no wrong. . ." I trail off into a deep, stretching yawn, so thoroughly exhausted I don't even care that the blankets are still on the other side of the room. . .

Or. . . on the floor? I can't seem to remember. . .

Well. They're somewhere. Somewhere that isn't here. Here on the bed. With Jamie.

My brain judders to a muzzy, endorphin-drunk halt.

Oh god. With Jamie.

I moan a little. I am here with Jamie. Oh yes. I may not recall what day of the week it is, but I know that much. . .

And he's just finished turning me into some sort of limp, used-up, wrung-out, worn and floppy dishcloth.

But. . . a nice one. . .

Here with Jamie. . .

I can feel his chest slowly rising and falling under my outstretched arm. I run my fingertips lightly over his ribs, and bask in the one thing my fluffy, floating consciousness can hold on to at the moment.

Whatever else is or is not true right now, he is. He is. He is.

"I love you, Jamie. . ." I murmur.

And it is a measure of just how tired out I am that I do not know if he answers me before I fall into deep, profound, endless oblivion. . .

I drift up through thick, heavy sleep, I do not know how much later, to the insistent buzzing of my phone next to my ear.

bzzt-bzzzt

It takes a long several seconds for me to orient myself.

I recognize the color on the walls, and the smell of the pillow, so I must be in my old apartment. . . but I am also well covered with blankets, and that was not the case, last I remember. . .

I think. . .

bzzt-bzzzt

Anyway, doesn't matter – blankets happened at some point last night. . .

Oh. . .

God.

Last night comes back to me in a sweet, overwhelming rush. I've never had a sex-hangover before, but now, a wide, foolish smile overtakes my face, and I shiver with all the memories.

Good lord, did we really. . . ? And then we. . . ? And then he. . . ?

Yes, he really had. And we really did.

Repeatedly.

bzzt-bzzzt

He must have brought me my phone. And put blankets over me. And one long sniff tells me why he's not in bed with me now.

Coffee. And bacon. And waffles, if I'm not mistaken. Which I rarely am when it comes to waffles. Walnut and banana. With salted caramel sauce. Homemade, I have no doubt at all.

At this point, why all girls everywhere aren't constantly being told they ought to marry chefs is entirely beyond me. . .

bzzt-bzzzt

I blink, and rub my eyes clear, and finally pick up my phone. There's a long string of texts in my chat app. . .

HQ – It is eight o'clock on a Sunday morning – do you know where your friends are?

HQ – You haven't texted or called for over two weeks, LJ. That's a whole seven days longer than normal.

HQ – You'd better not be dead, dying, or heartbroken.

HQ – You aren't allowed to be any of those things without telling me first.

HQ – I'm SERIOUS, Lady Jane – WHERE ARE YOU?

HQ – Don't MAKE me come over there.

HQ – I'll even ditch church if I have to.

HQ – You KNOW I mean it, Claire.

Despite my fingers still fumbling with the remnants of my pleasure-drunk sleep, I manage to type out a semi-coherent response.

LJ – jeeze joe dail it back kay? mfine

LJ – im the oppposit of hertbreopken

LJ – met a guy

LJ – nice guy

LJ – real nice not fake nice

LJ – an i kinda sorta lov him a lot

LJ – like really a lot

LJ – but i spose im kinda dieing right now

LJ – i gess

LJ – he jus totlly banged me silly

LJ – brian still wobbbly

LJ – hes the king of all men

LJ – an he makes GOOOD food

LJ – hel take care og me

LJ – so no needs to worry

LJ – il tell you mor later kay? need brkfest now

I switch my alerts to silent, push the phone onto my bedside table, and flop face-first into the pillows again. I really, really, really, really am not up to spilling the tea with Joe right now. Not while my blood is still singing with memories of last night. . .

Warmth blooms in my stomach again as I remember a few specifics. . .

Even our last night in Vegas hadn't been anywhere close to. . . to. . .

That.

I shiver again, roll over, and push myself up on my elbows. Very, very carefully, I maneuver myself out of bed, attempting, with great reluctance, to put some weight on my legs.

My brain isn't the only thing that's still wobbly, after all. . .

I manage to shuffle my way to the bathroom and back before Jamie appears, bearing two big trays of breakfast. He takes in the blanket I have haphazardly wrapped around me, my terminally disheveled hair, my love-bite marked skin, and my lazy, spaced-out expression, and grins.

"Good morning, Sorcha. Need a pick-me-up?"

He sets the trays down on my dressing table, and hands me a large, and very hot cup of coffee.

I suck what feels like half of it into me at one swallow, and revel in the feeling of dark, steaming hot caffeine restoring my soul.

"Ohhhh, that's good, Jamie." I moan a little, and sit back on the bed, "I don't know about doing everything all over again this morning, my love, I'm sorry. . ." I rearrange my pillows a bit, and lean back against the headboard, "I think you may have totally redefined the meaning of the term "love bombing" last night."

He chuckles as he sets a tray up over my lap, "Oh, aye?"

"Mmm. Yes," I take another long drink of coffee, "I'm not so much sore this morning as exploded into sixteen billion atom-sized pieces. I only seem to be able to exist in a sort of cloud-formation – I'm all hazy, and drifting, floating about in feelings and memories. Memories of last night, and. . ." my cheeks go warm, and I reach out, and run a finger up and down his arm, "Well, you."

He gets in bed next to me, and lifts the second tray over his own lap, "Aye, I find myself in much the same state this morning, Sorcha," he leans over and kisses me, briefly, "Dinna fash. Thirty two isnae twenty two. I canna imagine thirty six is twenty six either. I forgot that, in the heat of the moment last night."

"The heats of several moments, you mean?"

He grins, "Aye."

I grin back at him, and look down at the wonderful breakfast he's made us. I was right about everything, except there is a blueberry and apple fruit salad as well, and two more sauces besides salted caramel - honey yogurt, and fig balsamic, I discover after tasting them.

We enjoy our food in silence for quite a while. After the first sharp edges of my hunger are satisfied, I sigh, and lean against his shoulder, eating only choice bites, and more slowly, so I can talk to him.

"Jamie, my love?"

"Mm?" he hums around a mouthful of waffle and coffee.

"Are we still planning on attending the dinner we've scheduled with my parents and Lamb this week?"

"Mm," he swallows quickly, "Aye. I'm looking forward to it, Sorcha. It's been ages since I've had parents. Three all at once seems too good to be true."

I hum happily, "Lamb is going to love you, I know that for sure."

"An' yer mam an' da?"

"Well, it might take a few minutes longer for them to come around – but that's only natural, I think. And I'm certain they will."

He takes a contemplative bite of bacon, "Weel. I c'n deal wi' that, I think."

"I'm asking though, because Joe messaged me this morning."

"Your best friend, Joe?"

I nod, "Yes. He was worried about me. Normally we talk at least once a week. What with my new job requirements, and the girls, and the house, and the cats, and you, you you you, I just didn't get around to talking to him last week, or the week before. And now, once I tell him about you, I know he's going to want to meet you, so. . ."

He half smiles at me, prompting, "Aye?"

"Well, how would you feel if I invited him and Gail – that's his wife – to dinner at my parents' this week too?"

Jamie mulls it over for a minute or two. I finish my fruit salad, and sop up some yogurt sauce with a bite of waffle.

At last, he puts his hand in mine, and laces our fingers together.

"Weel Sassenach, it's like this. I made ye meet my three girls all at once, with Mrs. Bug an' Laoghaire an' the ghost of a dead wife inta the bargain. No' ta mention I have three restraining orders in my past. I haveta think that being introduced to three loving parents, and two good friends all at once is by far the better half of this bargain, Sorcha. I'll sort with the hand ye deal me. I owe ye that much, an' a lot more."

I smile softly at him, and kiss his chin, "Oh, you big sweetheart. You don't owe me." I forestall any comment with a hand on his wrist, "It's far too late to be thinking of this thing we have as a series of bargains, Jamie. Things may have started that way, but they haven't been like that for some time now. You know that."

He looks rueful for a minute, then takes a long drink of coffee, "Mebbe ye're right."

"Count on it, my love."

He's quiet for a long time.

I nibble the last bits of my bacon, and sigh, reclining back into my pillows, replete, and refreshed, and almost a solid human being again.

Without a word, he removes our empty trays, and then comes back to lounge in bed with me some more.

When he finally speaks, his voice is very quiet, and almost. . . small. . .

"Claire?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Could you. . . would you tell me that I'm enough?"

I have to blink a bit before I can answer, I am so stunned.

"Enough? Jamie! Have. . . have I not given you enough compliments, darling? I'm so sorry," I gather him to me, and start lavishing him with kisses, praising him between them, "It's only. . . because you're so wonderful, my dear. . . it's hard to know where to start. . ."

But, instead of melting into my embrace as I expect, he catches my hands, and stops my kisses, putting me gently away from him a little ways. He is in no way hard or unappreciative about it, it is only that the stunned confusion in his expression entirely dwarfs my own.

"Sorcha!" he says, voice rough with emotion, "This. This is your reaction to. . . My god. . ." he trails off, looking out into space, as though trying to encompass a world suddenly nothing like he thought it to be.

"What's wrong, Jamie?" I ask, baffled, "Whatever it is you need, I'll see you get it-"

He rounds on me, even more shocked now, "Need, Sorcha? D'ye ken how often in the past decade I've been allowed ta have needs?" The desperately pained look in his eyes softens a little, "I wasna fishin' for compliments, Sorcha. Honest I wasna. But you assumed I was, an' that was your response! I. . . I. . ." He puts his head in his hands, "I can hardly believe it, Sorcha. That's all. . ."

I take him into my arms again, more carefully this time, "Oh, Jamie, my lovely, sweet dear. You're just coming out of ten years of trauma and abuse. Like you say, you have a lot of needs that need seeing to." I stroke my hands up and down his back, "I know that. I accept that. In fact, I treasure that."

He looks up, disbelief still in his eyes.

"You see, my love, I am capable of helping you. I can give you a lot of what you need. Positive words. A safe place to be. A lot of love. A lot of lovemaking." I smile, and peck his cheek, "And yes, compliments. Buckets of them. If that's what you need, don't hesitate to ask, Jamie. I love giving to you. It has quickly become very nearly my most favoritest thing ever."

I pick up his hand and kiss his knuckles, just as he is so fond of doing to me.

Gently, he nods, and slowly, acceptance comes into his expression.

He licks his lips, "I hear ye. An'. . . an' I thank ye. But, I still wasna asking for them jus' now, Sorcha."

"Alright. What were you asking for?"

"The words, Sassenach. You see. . ." he pauses a bit, and snuggles himself more comfortably against the pillows, "Eight years is a long time to be made ta feel small, mo chridhe."

I wince at the very thought, "I believe you."

"Aye. An' even though you nevar have, my heart still gets scared of it from time to time. No' that you will, specifically, jus' that. . . weel. . . When ye've been stabbed in the heart on the daily for so long, there's quite a habit of fear there tae overcome when it stops. Ye ken?"

I shake my head, ruefully, "I can hardly imagine, Jamie. But I know what you're saying."

"Aye. An' I jus' think. . . I think if I heard it, I might be able ta ken it better. An' I want ta hear it from you."

I take his head firmly in my hands, and look him right in the eyes.

"You, James Fraser, are a good man. You are honorable. You are lovable. You are praiseworthy. You are loyal. You are whole. And you are enough. You will always be enough."

Gently, I kiss him, and use my thumbs to smooth away the tears rolling down his cheeks. "And you can ask me to tell you whenever you want, Jamie. No questions asked, no excuses needed."

He hugs me to him so hard it is difficult for me to breathe for a minute.

"Ye're a rare one, Sorcha. A precious an' perfect one. The best of women. He tilts my head up to meet his eyes, "If I hadna married ye already, ye'd best believe I'd be begging ye ta marry me now."

"Twice."

He blinks. "What?"

"We've gotten married twice, Jamie. Once in Vegas, and once in my living room. If you hadn't married me twice already, you'd be asking me to marry you now."

And, through all his emotions, and tears, and ten years of baggage and pain and torture and loss, he laughs, and the brilliant, golden sunshine of his personality shines through once more.

I smile, turn over, and snuggle into him, ready to take a nice, lazy, mid-morning nap.

He spoons up behind me, and softly strokes my arm, and hip, and neck.

I am half-asleep when his small voice sounds again.

"Claire?"

"Yes love?"

"Tell me?"

I smile, "You are good. You are honorable. You are lovable. You are whole. . ."

Chapter Forty Two

It takes us a good hour longer to corral my small herd of cats than we expected it would.

Rabbie, the sweet thing, is totally predictable, taking his late morning nap in his cat carrier, and singing us the song of his people for several minutes after I close the door of it on him, but then settling down into slightly bewildered silence.

Adso, to my everlasting shock, is literally no trouble at all, walking directly into his carrier, curling up, and going to sleep without a sound, not even deigning to acknowledge that anything of import is happening.

No, against all previous experience, it is Stuart who turns out to be the drama king. We have just finished packing up all the toys and supplies we're taking from here when he takes it into his head to be difficult. Though, I don't know why – he watched us dismantle his favorite cat tree perfectly indifferently, and he didn't even raise his voice in solidarity with Rabbie two hours ago. And if this were any other injustice in his cat world, he would have, I'm sure.

I'm just about to scoop him into his carrier and call things job done when he decides he strenuously disagrees, and leaps wildly over my head with a yowl, and claws and scrambles his way to the very top of my wall-height bookshelf. He yowls some more when he looks around, and finds himself at least three feet higher up than he's been in his whole life before – yowls that quickly turn to whimpering squeaky whines when he also realizes he has no idea how to get himself down. . .

And twenty minutes later, when Jamie finally manages to extricate him, he twists in Jamie's hands, and with another leap, manages to get himself stuck behind the bookcase this time.

Jamie cusses him out – quite justifiably, I think – while disinfecting a long scratch on his finger. He spends the next half hour shifting books and boxes from the shelves, trying to get at the place where my poor baby is stuck.

"It wouldn't be such a production if he wasn't so scared," I say, taking yet another armload of books from Jamie, "But he keeps seeing you coming, and keeps moving away from you."

"Aye ye'er a bonnie beastie, Stuart, ye wee shite," Jamie grunts, thrusting his arm behind the shelves, all the way up to his shoulder, "Bu' ye'er also a right pain in the arse, an' nae mistakin'!"

There is a terrified, rolling growl, for a moment I am not entirely sure from which of them, but then Jamie finally extracts a flailing, spitting Stuart by a very firm fist on his scruff, and his hard, very Human cry of triumph drowns it out for a moment. He snaps something at him in the Gàidhlig, and then hustles him into his carrier with a victorious, "Thus to all tyrants! Mac na galla!"

Then he closes the door with a snap, and sighs in relief, even as Stuart gives one last, long howl, and finally subsides into sullen, furious silence.

We exchange a look, and a couple of rueful grins.

"Sorry about all that, Jamie."

He shrugs, "Acgh. Pets get allowances made for 'em. Same as weans. Except pets arna ever expected ta grow up, so they get double allowances."

I smile, and gather up the several bags of my own things that I am transferring today too, "You're a dear, my dear."

He picks up a big box of toys, and a bag of cat litter, and follows me down to the car.

The rest of the day's move is quite unremarkable. My load of personal items gets deposited in the master bedroom for me to unpack and arrange at will, and all of the cats and their goods get delivered to the big bathroom enclosure in my home office without further incident.

I set up a few of the basics for them, including food, water, toys and litter, and even a scratching post or two, and then open the carrier doors, to let them wander and explore, and get used to their new environment. I've been using some of Jamie's and the girls' used and unwashed towels as padding and covering for the carriers during the past week, so they've already been introduced to a good deal of the people-smells, and I know the presence of their own things will make the strange place-smells less scary than they might have been. I sit at the cozy little lounging place I've set up in the walk-in closet, and do a bit of work on my phone, while I wait for my wee Flerkens to emerge. I know they might not for a while, but I've done my best for them, and so I just relax, prepared to wait it out.

I've answered several e-mails before I decide to stop. It is Sunday, after all, and I am in my new husband's house, sitting all safe and comfy with my cats, listening to the distant sounds of the girls downstairs, as they enthusiastically re-enact some of the charging swordfights they saw yesterday.

I smile. Once everything was in from the car, Jamie left me to organize things however I liked, and went to play with the girls. They had been improvising claymores and broadswords out of plastic shovels and bamboo sticks before we arrived, but when Jamie saw them playing, he immediately went into full-on, pure-Scot, bladed-weapon-accuracy mode. It's an attitude I've seen many, many times from Scots while I've been working for Leoch Foods, and I don't try to fight it. They came up to the schoolroom for supplies about an hour ago, so I heard part of what they've been doing. By now he's commandeered just about every bit of cardboard in the house, and has been making historically-accurate, size-appropriate swords for the girls for the past two hours.

As the sounds of four small girls and one large man making yet another Highland Charge drift sweetly up to me, I scroll through a few ASMR shorts on Instagram, and some landscape ambiance videos on YouTube. I settle on an hour-long compilation of what is optimistically called "Highland ambiance" – drone footage of mountains, overlaid with the sounds of trickling streams and lightly sweeping wind.

I may have initially married Jamie specifically so he could stay in this country, and we might still be preparing for our Green Card interviews, but, suddenly, I want to go home. To Scotland.

I blink, surprised at myself.

Since when have I thought of Scotland as home? And why would I want to go there when everything and everyone I love is here?

I shrug, and push the feeling aside. No point in daydreaming, Beauchamp. Might as well face it now, while you have the time and solitude to do so.

Wait. . .

Face what now, voice in my head?

Oh, come on, Beauchamp. Don't play dumb. You know.

I sigh.

I do.

I open my chat app, to read the texts from Joe I know must be there, and have been so pointedly avoiding. . .

HQ – Oh good, you're alive.

HQ - . . . . .

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . .

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

HQ – A guy.

HQ – A GUY?

HQ – A

HQ – FREAKING

HQ – GUY?

HQ – YOU MET A V-CARD WORTHY GUY AND I AM JUST NOW HEARING ABOUT IT?

HQ – THAT ***IS*** THE KIND OF BANGING YOU MEANT, RIGHT?

HQ – DID YOU MISSPELL BRAIN OR IS HIS NAME BRIAN?

HQ – OH GOD IS THE KING OF MEN CALLED BRIAN?

HQ – JESUS H ROOSEVELT CHRIST, ****TALK**** TO ME!

I smile grimly. It's about the reaction I expected. . .

LJ – You on?

Sometimes he and Gail go out to lunch after church – he may or may not able to text right now. . .

I'm not entirely sure which I am hoping for at the moment. . .

HQ – GOD YES

Welp.

Here goes. . .

LJ – His name is James, but everyone calls him Jamie, and he TOTALLY reverses the stereotype about guys with the initial J. . .

HQ – He. . . I take exception to. . .

LJ – He's a chef. And I love him like crazy.

HQ - . . . . .

LJ – He works at R&D for Leoch. Head of the test kitchens.

HQ – Well, that's. . . . . . . . . . . . . . well. . . . . . . .

LJ – His "nom de cuisine" is Alex MacKenzie. THAT Alex MacKenzie.

HQ – THAT Alex MacKenzie?

LJ – Yep

HQ – Well, no wonder then. You've been crazy about his food for ages.

LJ – Yep

HQ – And ***apparently*** he serves up other things just as well, too. . .

LJ – Better

HQ – Seriously?

LJ – Much, MUCH better.

HQ – So you're telling me the man whose food is better than sex, actually bangs better than his food?

LJ – Yep

HQ – Wow

LJ – Love helps

HQ – I hear that one. . .

LJ – I'm mad about him, Joe. Like, legit crazy.

HQ – Tell me

LJ – He's perfect. Body and soul. Totally perfect.

HQ – Uh-oh.

LJ – I know. The problem is, he's SO perfect, he has flaws. But they're PERFECT flaws. I don't know how he does it.

HQ – For instance?

LJ – He's a widower. Pandemic.

HQ – Oof.

LJ – Yeah. And he's in therapy because she was emotionally and verbally abusive.

HQ – OOF.

LJ – Yeah. But he's IN THERAPY. See? It might be a red flag, but it's a GOOD red flag. See what I mean?

HQ - . . . . . . . . okay that's fair.

LJ – And he's SUCH a good father.

HQ – Wait. . . WHAT?

LJ – Yeah, he has four girls.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LJ – Yeah.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LJ – I know.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LJ – They're really great, actually. A handful. A DOUBLE handful. But great.

HQ – FOUR?

LJ – Yeah.

HQ – FOUR?

LJ – I can't make it any more or less true by repeating it, Joe.

HQ – How does a guy our age have FOUR kids already?

LJ – Well, the first two are twins, and his first wife just really liked having babies, so. . .

HQ – Ah.

HQ – Wait. . .

HQ – FIRST. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LJ – Oops. Was building up to that.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . Claire

HQ – Are you seriously telling me. . . . . .

HQ – Are you SERIOUSLY saying you not only met a guy, you met a v-card worthy guy, who is a widowed, father of four, domestic abuse survivor, chef sex god. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . AND YOU MARRIED HIM? WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE?

LJ – That about sums it up, yes.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

HQ – FOR FRICK SAKE WHY?

LJ – I can't say over text.

HQ - . . . . . . . . what?

LJ – It's not a reason I am comfortable sharing over text. Only in person.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . Claire, are you SURE you're alright?

I smile. Dear Joe. He's always had my back, for all these years.

LJ – I've never been happier, Joe. He's the sweetest, dearest man. And extraordinarily easy on the eyes. And he has the nicest laugh. And he puts every ounce of himself into what he does. He's committed to me, HQ. Devoted. And I'm just as all-in. We are going to make this work, and raise our girls, and be the best of friends, and make each other happy. We just are.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . wow.

LJ – Yeah.

HQ – I don't know what to say.

LJ – I doubt that.

HQ – Smartass. When do we meet him?

LJ – This Wednesday. You and Gail are invited to the Big House

HQ – Monthly dinner with mom, dad and Lamb?

LJ – Yep. And I'll need you on my side, because I have to break it to them face-to-face.

HQ – LJ. . . . . .

LJ – Mum will be brought around by the idea of four instant grandkids, I'm sure, and Lamb always wanted to dig a Scottish broch, and Jamie's family owns one, so that'll be no problem, but I need you there with me, Joe, if I'm gonna face down my dad and carry it off. He'll understand in the end, I know he will, but I need your backup, okay?

HQ – You know I've always got you, Lady Jane.

LJ – I do.

LJ – But?

HQ – But this is a big one.

LJ – So is he.

HQ – Okay. . . TMI?

LJ – XD

HQ – But seriously, LJ, this is. . . this is a lot.

LJ – I know.

HQ – You ****sure**** you're okay?

LJ – Yep. Just brought a big load of my stuff over to his house, and Rabbie just poked his nose out of his cat-carrier, so I think my boys will be comfortable here too.

HQ – You *moved in*?

LJ – He has four girls, HQ. It's hard to be a stepmom long-distance.

HQ - . . . . I. . . . . I guess so. . .

LJ – But Colum gave me a promotion, so work is easier to deal with, at least.

HQ – High time. You earned that much after the lawsuit last year.

LJ – No, I earned the settlement. I WAS fighting specifically to KEEP my job, after all. Promoting me out of it at that point would have been counterproductive.

HQ – Point taken. Hey look, I'll see you Wednesday, yeah? Nichelle just woke up from her nap. . .

LJ – The joys of parenthood.

HQ - . . . . . . . . indeed.

LJ – See you Wednesday.

An icon pops up to show he's logged off. I close my end too.

Well.

That went significantly better than I feared it would. . .

I'm just getting up to get a toy and try to coax Rabbie a little further out of his carrier when I hear a light knock on the big sliding bathroom door. I close the walk-in closet door behind me before going to open it.

Two pairs of big blue and brown eyes greet me. Both Brianna and Marsali are looking up at me, intently pleading.

"Can we see the kitties, please, Wumma?" asks Bree. Sally nods in agreement.

I smile, and let them in the bathroom. I direct them towards the boxes of cat toys.

"They might be too scared to come out to see you, but you can try, and you can help me give them wet food tonight. Okay?"

"Okay!" they both answer cheerfully, and select a catnip mouse apiece.

I spend the rest of the afternoon introducing my boys and my girls.

Chapter Forty Three

"Wumma?"

Bree looks across at me while helping to clear up from today's lunch. I take the last small stack of cups and plates from her, to start rinsing them before putting them in the dishwasher.

"Yes Bee-bee?"

"Do ye love Da?"

She asks quite dispassionately, and without any hint of slyness or malice. It doesn't sound like a non-sequitur either – she's clearly been thinking about this question a lot.

"Yes. I do," I answer, matching her tone, "Very much."

"And he loves ye?" She hangs off the side of the counter, and looks up at me matter-of-factly.

"He tells me so quite a lot, and his actions tell me he's telling the truth, yes."

"So that's how ye know someone loves you? They tell you so, and then they do it?"

I hand her some coffee mugs for her to arrange on the top shelf of the dishwasher, like I know she likes to do, "It's one way, certainly."

"And what if they do it but don't tell ye?"

"That can be another way, sometimes."

I give her handfuls of silverware, and she sorts them into the basket compartments – spoons, forks, knives, and cooking/serving utensils.

"But what if they say it but don't do it?"

I hesitate just a little before answering, "Well, that usually means something other than love, in the end."

"Ye mean it's lying?"

I hand her the detergent and let her pour it. She does, and then closes the door with a click, and pushes all the buttons to start the dishwasher.

"It. . . can be a lie, if things happen that way, yes." I grab some paper towels, and start wiping up the counter, "But people are complicated, Bee. And so are feelings. That's why we look at actions in the first place. What people do matters. What people say. . ." I shrug, "Well. . . it can be hard to tell, sometimes, what people mean when they say things. But actions are much much clearer, most of the time."

I finish wiping up, and she goes to get two tangerines from the fruit bowl. Then she comes back to me, and raises her arms, "Can I sit on the counter, Wumma?"

"Of course dear."

I lift her up, and then bring over a couple more paper towels, for the tangerine peelings. She digs her thumb in near the stem-scar of one, and very, very carefully and precisely, starts pulling the rind off in as perfect a spiral as she can manage. She notices me watching her.

"Fay likes perfect spiral peels. We try and see who c'n get a better one every time."

"Oh. I see," I fold the peeling carefully in one of the towels, "Very nicely done."

She grins at the praise, pulls the fruit into segments, and offers me one, "Does sharing mean I love ye?"

I chew my segment slowly for a few seconds, "It can."

"What about helping in the kitchen?"

"That too."

"Is that why ye help Da in the kitchen sa much?"

"It's one reason."

"An' that's why he kisses ye all the time?"

"Yes."

She tilts her head, and thinks hard for a minute.

"He kisses us too."

"Yes, he does."

"But no' the same way he kisses ye."

"No."

"Bu' he does love us, and ye too?"

"Yes. Just differently."

She takes this in for a long few minutes, chewing her fruit stolidly. She finishes the one tangerine, and starts to peel the second.

"Do you love us, Wumma?"

I smile at her, a little sadly, "Very much, Bree darling. That's why I call you all by your nicknames, and call you dear and darling and sweetheart too – that's how I say it."

She unfolds the paper towel, and carefully places the second peeling next to the first, "An' that's why ye play with us, and eat with us, and read ta us, and serve the salad at dinner, and let us play wi' the cheeties?"

I smile, "Or try to. It's only been two days – I know they haven't been much fun yet."

"Yes – but that's how ye do it? Ye say it with our nicknames, and that's how ye do it?"

"It's a big part of how I do it, yes."

"It's how Da does it too."

I shrug a little, "He does it mostly similarly, true. It was by watching him that I figured out what would be the nicest ways to be with you, of course, so that's probably why."

She hands me another segment, "It isna how our mama did it, though."

I freeze with the fruit halfway to my mouth, "Oh?"

She shakes her head, so hard her curls fly out crazily, "No. Mama bought us stuff. Clothes. Dresses, and shoos, an' liked ta see us wear 'em. But. . ." She trails off, and looks down seriously at her last two segments.

"Yes, that is one way some people do it," I say, gently, trying not to prompt her at all.

She stuffs the last of her fruit into her mouth at one go, and chews and swallows with a surprisingly defiant look in her eyes. I just shrug a little bit, and eat my bite along with her. The longer I am unbothered, the more the defiance drains out of her. In a minute, she is back to her contemplative, chatty mood.

"Mama never said it. An' ye dinna do it like she did. So I wasna sure."

I nod at her, and grab us both some kitchen wipes, so we can clean our hands.

"But I guess she did love us."

This time I can't keep my jaw from dropping, or my eyes from going wide.

"She? You weren't sure if she loved you?"

Bree only shrugs, and wipes her hands like it's nothing, "Nae."

"But you are sure I do?"

She shrugs again, "Aye. Ye do it like Da."

I lean heavily against the counter, my heart pounding, my head in a whirl. . .

"Fay misses her," she says, her voice coming as though from far away, "But. . . I don't."

It takes a long, long few heartbeats for the meaning of this to fully register with me.

I turn, and meet her eyes, and defiance is back in them, but mixed with sorrow this time. A strange, almost adult sorrow, terrible to see on the face of a child.

"But. . ." I say, slowly, and gently, "You are still sad she's gone?"

With a suddenness that shocks us both, tears come up in her eyes, her lips quiver, and she nods. I pull her to me, and hug her tight, "It's okay to feel like that, Bree Bee. It is absolutely, one-hundred percent okay."

She clutches at me, not so much hugging as hanging on, as the sorrow tears out of her with long, shuddering sobs. I hold her close, and rock her just a little, like the baby I know she isn't. I am suddenly, horribly, ragingly jealous that I never got to hold her as a baby. . . I desperately shake off the feeling, and make the hushing sounds Lamb used to make when I skinned my knees – not in any attempt at actually hushing, only as a soothing set of things to say -

"Shhh, shh, it's alright, Bee-bee, love. It's all perfectly alright. You're okay, darling. I know it hurts, but everything is going to be just fine. . . sh, sh, sh. . ."

The next ten minutes take several thousand years, but in the end, she is okay, only more emotionally drained than any nine year old should ever rightfully be. . .

I hand her paper towels for her eyes and nose, and slowly, she cleans herself up.

"Would you like to take a nap until Da comes home, sweetheart?"

She nods, terribly forlornly.

I settle her on the couch with a big tartan throw blanket, and her favorite stuffed bunny rabbit, and sit with her, lightly stroking her hair, until she falls asleep.

When her breathing is finally deep and regular, I go back through the kitchen to grab something, and make my way into the master bathroom. I snatch up one of the extra pillows from the closet there, and lift the steak knife to it with a growl. I've never been angry like this before. I didn't know it was possible to get this angry. . .

"You damned filthy French bitch!" I hiss, and stab, and stab, and rip at the pillow, as though it is the very concept of abuse itself, and the more I try, the harder I can kill it.

Wads of stuffing and shreds of pillow covering are everywhere, and my face is streaked with furious tears when Jamie finds me there, who knows how long later, the knife only loosely held in my fist, the worst of my anger spent.

His jaw drops, and he blinks dubiously at me, "Sae what is all this then, Sorcha?"

I snort and sigh at the same time, "Ohhh. . . nothing!"

"This," he holds up the shredded pillow, gaping at it, "Is hardly nothing, Sassenach."

I cross my arms, petulantly, "Oh, I just wish I was Dante, that's all." I slap the knife down on the counter.

He raises his eyebrows, "Dante?"

I grab the pillow from him, and slam it into the garbage, "Yes. Because if I was, I'd travel to Hell and back, down to the ninth circle itself, just to make sure that woman paid!"

His face clears, but other than that, Jamie doesn't respond. He only draws me gently to him, and holds me close, until the last remnants of my anger subside. . .

But I've only bottled it away. I haven't dealt with it yet. It isn't the sort of thing that can be dealt with all at once. . .

And he, of all people, knows that.

He kisses me softly, helps me brush off all the polyester fluff and cotton scraps, and takes me downstairs to start dinner.

I don't know what part of his reactions sicken me more – the fact that he never asks for an explanation. . .

Or the fact that I know he doesn't need one.

I take a firm hold on my sudden nausea, and bottle it away too. There will be a time and a place. Several, probably. This is not one of them.

I plaster a smile on my face, and force myself to focus on Jamie's cooking lesson.

Chapter Forty Four

"So is there anything else I need ta ken?" Jamie asks, as he fastens his plaid's shoulder brooch with slightly trembling fingers, "Anythin' at all?"

I hang small amber dangles from my ears, and study the effect, "I'm not sure, Jamie, love." I take them off, and go with some pearl studs that match his cufflinks, "We're just meeting Joe and Gail for drinks before we go to my parents' for dinner. I'm not sure how much you need to know for that. You already know he's my best friend, I met him at college, he owns Street Wise Books-"

"That city-wide fleet of mini pop-ups? The combination secondhand bookstore and coffee-shop food truck ones?"

I nod, "Yes. I thought for sure I said?"

"You probably did, at some point Sorcha," he straightens the folds of his kilt around him with a highly jittery few gestures, "I'm only nervous, ye ken."

I smile, and go to him, straightening his collar and tie and giving him a few encouraging noises. He calms visibly at my touch. I shake my head, slightly bemused, "You weren't this nervous to marry me, Jamie! This can't be worse than that, can it?"

His lips quirk up briefly before he bends his head and kisses me softly on the lips, "No' exactly worse, Sorcha. More complicated. More things that c'n go wrong. More elements I canna control." He shrugs, "An' more people involved. Marrying ye was ye an' me. An' I kent we both wanted ta be there. Now. . ." he gestures expansively.

"I understand." I smooth his lapels, and peck his chin, then turn away to do one final check in the mirror.

My long sleeveless sheath dress of sparkly beaded black is sitting just right on my hips and shoulders, the slit in the side just high enough, showing off just enough bare leg and spike-heeled black leather boot as to be tantalizingly daring. It is not in the least a conservative business look, and I love it. It's been ages since I've had a worthy excuse to wear this outfit. . .

And, of course, I've never had such delicious arm-candy to wear it with before.

I run my eyes over his reflection in the mirror. He's standing just behind me, slightly shadowed, his hair glowing deep, almost scarlet red in the soft, cool light of our bedroom lamps. All dressed up, he's impressive, mysterious, alluring, and every kind of sexy.

I can't wait to show him off to my best friends. . .

As I lean forward to apply the final touch-ups to my makeup, I smile reminiscently over all the long talks Joe and Gail and I have had over drinks at Rupert's Corner Bar. We're headed there tonight, for a strategic early meetup. A nice, simple double-whammy, before we face down the triple-whammy of my mother, my father, and Lamb. Hopefully with Joe and Gail as our allies by then. . .

I suddenly realize the only reason I am not nervous is because I already know them, and I am certain just how quickly they will be charmed by the wonderful man beside me.

I grab my clutch purse, and turn back to him, "Joe's a nerd, if that helps."

He takes my arm with a little huff, "Well, what with yer funny little nicknames for each other, I had assumed-"

"No, I mean a nerd, nerd," I shake my head, "A big-time, card-carrying nerd. Gail is too, but in her case that's mostly because she's a Trekkie."

He smirks teasingly at me, "ToS, Next Gen, or NuTrek?"

"Yes," I grin back, "But mostly ToS. They met at a convention, when they both dressed as Andorians." I shake my head wonderingly, remembering Joe's hardcore LARPing phase. He still does sometimes, on weekends, I know, but he's had less time for it in recent years. "He's a Whovian too, and a Browncoat."

Jamie's brow furrows briefly, "Browncoat?"

"Firefly."

"Ah."

"Plus, he loves Lord Of The Rings, Star Wars, Farscape, Transformers, Gargoyles, Batman, Justice League, Superman, Spiderman, Supernatural, The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, The Dark Crystal and Willow. And several and various anime things I can never remember the names of and have a hard time distinguishing from one another other than some have big robots in them and some have big boobies in them, and some have both."

"Wow."

"Yeah. He and Gail named their kids Leonard and Nichelle, because calling them Spock and Uhura would have been playing too much to stereotype."

"I'm surprised they didn't call them Madmartigan and Elora, or somesuch, at this point. . ."

I laugh, "You'd be shocked how close they came."

He gapes a little at me, "Truly, Sorcha?"

I nod, "Oh yes. And I wouldn't have been surprised if they had. Bruce and Diana were in the running too. And Victor and Raven."

"Those arenae bad, though."

"No. But I also happen to know they considered calling Leonard "John J'onn Jon" after Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, and the son of Superman."

"The whole Justice League all at once, eh?"

"Something like that." Suddenly, I remember something actually important I haven't told him yet, "Oh, by the way – your chef-brain might like to know that Gail is alcohol-free. Her favorite mocktail is a virgin Manhattan, followed closely by a craft root beer Old Fashioned, and a spicy ginger ale martini, with pickled jalapeños instead of olives."

"Noted," he nods, eyes brightening up at the information.

"Also, sometimes I drink non in solidarity with her. I like root beer Old Fashioned's too, but my favorite is a virgin strawberry mojito with extra mint. Strawberries only when they're in season, of course. And you can't beat a classic Shirley Temple, but I like mine with a twist of lemon, and three cherries."

He smiles widely at me, completely relaxed now, "Understood. Thank you, Sassenach."

We go downstairs to kiss the girls goodnight, since they'll be in bed by the time we get home. They're in the middle of one of the many Cinderella sequels I had no idea existed until last week, and in no mind to pay much attention to us. All except for Sally, who stares at the sparkly effect of my dress with wide-eyed fascination. . . We kiss and hug them all anyway, and Mrs. Bug gives us a big reassuring smile and a quiet, "Have a good evening dearies," and then we're in the car, and on our way to Rupert's.

"Isn't it funny?" I ask, a few minutes later.

"What is, Sorcha?"

"This is the first time I've been in your car. We used mine to move the cats last week, and when it's the two of us, it's been Ubers in every other case."

He frowns in thought, "Huh. Suppose it has."

"You'd better let me DD tonight then. That way you can drink, and I'll have a chance to get familiar with driving your car."

He gestures at the gear lever as he shifts into second, "Ye c'n drive a stick?"

I snort, a little incredulously, "Lamb taught me to drive one summer in Istanbul. Stick shift was the only option."

His lips twist ruefully, "I stand corrected."

There is something strangely tense in his tone. . .

"You stand informed, Jamie." I pat his wrist, "Asking the question wasn't wrong, and I'm sorry if I made you feel like it was. It wasn't. Not unless you were also assuming I'm incapable of such a thing."

He smiles at me, and his voice relaxes again, "Never, Sorcha."

"And I know that, but it doesn't change the fact that most people do assume just that. I'm very used to being underestimated, Jamie."

This time he snorts, righteously indignant, "Idjits, the lot of them. No, it's jus' that I remain continually stunned at how much we still have ta discover about each other, Sorcha."

I smile too, and lean back against the comfortable leather, "Me too, my love."

We pull in to the almost empty parking lot of Rupert's a short time later. Joe and I have always liked coming here at off times of day, for the cool, quiet ambiance of the place. Everything is upholstered in green, and all the fittings and trim are polished or antique brass. The ceilings are high, the light is low, and somehow everything feels both open and private at the same time.

Geordie is behind the bar tonight, and he greets me with a smile.

"Evenin' Claire. Been a while." He nods welcomingly at Jamie, "First time here, sir?"

"Aye," says Jamie, seating me at the bar, and sliding onto the stool next to mine, "A virgin mojito with extra mint for the lady, an' I'll have a whisky sour – Japanese bourbon, egg, no ice, yuzu bitters if you have them."

Geordie smiles appreciatively, "Comin' right up. . ."

"An' we're waiting for two to join us. A virgin Manhattan and-" Jamie looks at me for what to order for Joe.

"A Dark 'n Stormy, substitute orange twist. You know how Joe likes them."

"That I do," Geordie nods, and gets to work.

Jamie picks up the little filigree picture frame that holds the bar food menu, and scans it with professional interest, "What appetizers should we get, Sassenach?"

"The tasting fries, full spread, and the mini baked ginger-apple dumplings."

"Oh, aye?" he murmurs, still scanning.

"Yes. And if you want more than that, the mini nacho cups with salsa verde, or the chicken avocado salad wraps with grilled serrano cream cheese."

"Right then." He puts the menu down, "I'll order when we get our drinks."

He does, and we are halfway through our plateful crispy little nacho scoops when I finally hear a familiar voice that I haven't heard in far too long -

"Ahh, now there's my Lady Jane!"

Chapter Forty Five

Watching my wife joyfully hug another man is a moment of incredibly mixed emotions for me.

On the one hand – they are longstanding friends, in a healthy, publicly acknowledged relationship, openly approved of by her family, and his wife too. She has been looking forward to tonight so much, and the look of happiness in her eyes when she sees him, and the sound of joy in her voice when she greets them are both so wonderful. . . I would never do anything to deny my Light such a friendship, not when it makes her look and sound like that. Her fulfillment fulfills me, in ways I do not know how to describe.

But on the other hand. . .

When a man has been cheated on to the point of raising the offspring of two other men as his own, it changes his perspective on things. Not some things. Not most things. Everything.

I know Claire isn't planning on cheating on me, and certainly not with Joe Abernathy. That does not stop me from fearing it.

I know her peck to Joe's cheek is only her sweet affectionate personality, and their close, longtime connection. That does not stop me wondering if she has ever kissed him in any other way. Or even just wanted to.

I know the rapt attention she is giving him and Gail at this moment is nothing but the natural reaction of good friends that have been too long apart.

That does not stop my wild desire to grab her attention back to me, all of it, at once, and fix it upon myself alone, any way I can.

I am not jealous. That does not stop me from feeling jealous.

I know all this is a trauma response. That doesn't make it any less of a shite experience.

I am anxious. And all the knowing in the world cannot stop it.

I diligently fight against my traitorous feelings, and stand to greet my wife's friends as charmingly as I can.

If my smile is somewhat flat as Claire introduces me, I don't think anyone notices. I shake hands with the both of them, taking note that Joe's tie matches with Gail's hijab, and that they are both of a sky-blue silk, stamped all over with the Starfleet logo from Star Trek, in a subtly lighter blue.

Nerds indeed. And now I understand Gail's reason for not drinking alcohol. Well, one of the reasons anyway, I think I can safely assume. . .

After handing them their drinks, I lead us all to a booth instead of the bar, and call out the second half of our appetizers order.

I know Claire has no idea how much of a boost she's already given me tonight, just by telling me things she thinks I might need to know. Simply being able to confidently make orders for everyone is huge. Going into a situation like this, with so little I can control, taking charge in one thing at least is an anchor and a comfort like nothing else.

As I settle in next to her at our booth, she slips her hand into mine, and weaves our fingers together.

No. I was wrong. This is an anchor and a comfort like nothing else. . .

I did think to warn her about my anxiety over hands, and now I am so unfathomably thankful I did. She was incredibly scrupulous in greeting her friends, not to let her hands linger, even on shoulders while hugging them, and she hasn't let either of them shake her hand, or hold it, or, worst of all, kiss her fingers.

All of which were things Annalise would do, or let other people do, when she was about to start withdrawing from me again, and blaming me for not being enough of a provider to be given her love, or interesting enough to keep her attention, or cultured enough to earn her respect, or educated enough to. . .

Firmly, I stop my spiral of negative thoughts and memories, and grip Claire's hand a little tighter. This woman's love is unconditional, and she has already sacrificed so much for me I can hardly wrap my mind around it. I owe it to the both of us to find joy and fulfillment in the other people she has deemed worthy of her love.

"So. Joe," I say, leaning forward seriously, "An important question. . ."

I must look and sound a good deal more serious than I intended, because both Claire and Gail stop chatting, and lean forward a little too.

"Yes?" says Joe, eyes tightening.

This is much more of an effect then I was trying to make. . .

Ah well. I shrug internally, and decide to roll with it. They're nerds. They'll forgive me.

I deepen my voice, and give him a look like I give to my line when none of the day's test recipes worked properly. . .

"In your opinion. . . Miles Morales, or Peter Parker?"

The tension collapses into warm, easy laughter.

Ten minutes of lighthearted discussion later, and I don't wonder this man has made and kept Claire's friendship for so long. He's incredibly easy to talk to, just as much of a listener as a talker himself, and while he is always ready and willing to see the funny side of things, there is a core seriousness to him that is wonderfully reassuring. The way he sees to Gail is to me especially poignant. I don't know how long they've been together, but I know the signs of a man smitten with the woman beside him – I have seen them in my own mirror every day since I met Claire – and Joe is in love with his wife. She responds to it beautifully, never interrupting her chatting to Claire, but always sparing just a little attention for him – with a touch, with a gesture, with a glance.

I hold Claire's hand a little closer, so thankful for her, even as I tamp down an instinctive surge of anger at being robbed of eight years of such a connection.

Ever since Claire has learned the full truth of what Annalise was, not a day has gone by that I haven't been some level of furious. At myself for not escaping sooner, yes, but also at all the wrongness, all the insanity, all the. . . evil. . .

I push the feelings very firmly back. Moving on is the best revenge, after all. . .

The four of us get on to talking about our children soon enough, and how we think the pandemic has impacted their educations, and what plans we've made to counteract/support the changes we see.

From there, we talk about travel – where we all have been, and some places we hope to go some day. My Scottish antecedents are discussed, very positively, and Uncle Lamb's many international adventures are talked over at length. Claire and Joe discuss some of their shared challenges in managing a food-service industry in these unprecedented times, and Gail and I discover a shared love of American Women's soccer. It's the only sport other than shinty I don't find myself unbearably sleepy while watching. . . We discuss the current season for a little while, and then Claire speaks up, saying we ought to leave soon, if we want to get to the Big House on time.

She and Gail get up to go to the ladies room, leaving Joe and I alone at our booth. I settle up the bill, and then turn to him, regarding him silently for a long couple of minutes. He does the same to me, not with any hostility, but with a quite justifiable wariness, and what I find to be an admirable curiosity.

"I've never seen Claire so happy," he says at last, "I. . . hope you appreciate that."

I nod solemnly, "She's my guiding Light. My heart and soul."

He considers for a minute, running a knuckle back and forth across his lips.

"Alright then. So long as you're all-in, I've got your back," he holds out a hand, "Welcome to the family." He catches my gaze as I grip his hand, "This is your only chance. Don't waste it."

I smile, more than a little grimly, "Nae fear."

The women come back then, each of them gracing the one of us they love with a soft, happy smile. We get up, and walk companionably out to our cars. I toss Claire the keys, and settle into the passenger seat – after adjusting it further back than it's ever had to go before, of course. . .

She takes a few minutes to learn my car's controls, then starts us up, and gets us on the road to her parents' house. I don't speak, letting her concentrate.

When we pull up at a stop a few minutes later, she turns to me, and takes my hand.

"Two down, three to go. How are you holding up, my love?"

I run my thumb across her knuckles, and kiss her fingertips, "I'll think I'll be alright, Sorcha."

"Good."

She smiles, and gets back to driving.

Chapter Forty Six

We pull up to my parents' house a few minutes early. I am glad, since it gives us time for a brief council of war. We meet up around Joe's car, parked in the little covered space next to the Big House's garage exit.

"So, how much have you told them, LJ?"

"Not a lot. I met a guy, his name is Jamie, I'm bringing him to meet them tonight."

"So nothing about your promotion? Nothing about the girls? Nothing about you moving in?"

"No."

"Nothing about. . ." Joe gestures at my left hand.

I look down at my ring, "Oh! No. . ." I hold out my hand to Jamie, giving him a significant look.

If he's willing to let tonight's revelations happen at any sort of manageable pace, then he has to be willing to let me remove the sign of our marriage for a little while. But I won't do it unless he is willing. . .

He clenches his teeth, and his face is solemn, but eventually he makes the decision, and takes off the ring he put there nearly three weeks ago. He tucks it away into his breast pocket, a look of both promise and determination in his eyes.

Then, he takes my arm, and the four of us walk slowly past the thick street-facing hedge, and up into my parents' front garden.

"The Big House" is called that for good reason. My parents are what is known - rather snobbishly, I've always thought - as "old money". Everything about them shows it, including their house. It is in fact two old Neoclassical era houses thrown into one, with a charming little Romanesque section showing the join between them – and the fact that I am even aware of the building styles proves the old money point rather nicely, I think.

I run my eyes over the grand façade, with its barrage of columns meant to impress, and yet, I feel nothing but the warmth of familiar, everyday memories.

. . . Mum and I scattering wildflower seeds in all the beds surrounding the lawns, and waiting for the sweet, many-coloured display through spring and summer, then picking the flowers and pressing them, and embedding them into homemade paper greeting cards, which we would then decorate with fancy lettering, and hand-gild the edges. . .

. . . Dad and I setting out Halloween decorations, and then sitting with a bucket of candy to give out to all who came Trick-or-treating – the pair of us dressed as Thor and Mjolnir, perhaps, or Farmer Giles and the dragon Chrysophylax, or Mr. Darling and Wendy, or even Aslan and Lucy, one year – dad always entrusting the candy distribution to me. . .

. . . Lamb and I returning home, tired and dusty after a long summer in fascinating foreign trenches, to our traditional welcome of warm baths, clean cotton shirts, and cool lemonade on the back porch, mum and dad all agog to hear about our months of adventures. . .

In fact, one whole sprawling wing is devoted to Lamb, with his libraries and labs full of sketches and notes, photos and equipment, and crates upon crates of artifacts and other finds. Some rooms are wonderfully well organized, almost to a professionally curated museum's standards, and others are deliciously haphazard, inviting visitors to rummage and explore – usually while Lamb cheerfully narrates some story related to every random thing you bring to light, hopping easily from how early Anatolian cookware was probably made, to some truly revolutionary theories regarding Jordanian roofing tiles, to the fantastically mundane things often found on ancient Egyptian shopping lists, to some scandalous old ideas about Middle Stone Age Iberian marriage rituals, to the most recent pollen analyses of deep mud-core samples around the Sea of Galilee, and back again, never losing your interest, and always surprising you with his breadth of knowledge.

The other wing is where I grew up. Though, I was far more often among Lamb's books and brushes and beakers, and ancient, storied objects than I was my parents' conventional sitting and dining rooms. Which I know says a lot about me. . .

If there was one place in the Big House I was going to learn to think unconventional thoughts, ask hard questions, hear hard answers, and have no fear regardless, it was in Lamb's libraries.

As I reset my grip on Jamie's arm, and ring the front doorbell, I can't help but think my entire history with this place is probably about to stand me in good stead. . .

Old Alec answers the door – my parents' chauffeur-valet, and man-of-all-work. He is, in fact, a distant cousin of my mother's, but he's worked for us so long it is history that binds us together, not genealogy. His hair is almost fully white now, the old dear – he must be nearing eighty, at least – but he is still rather spry, all things considered, and more than capable of training up his grandson, Young Alec, to take his place in the next year or two, or so I understand it. . .

"Good evening, Alec," I say, with a grin.

"Evening Miss Claire," he says, pale blue eyes darting between the four of us, and twinkling knowingly, "And company."

He takes our shawls and jackets, and then begins to lead us to the far dining room - the one in my parents' wing. Gail and Joe step up to walk nearest him, so they might ask him about his most recent competition. Old Alec breeds roses – some of the best in the county – and it being April, the flower fairs have started up again, and he has two blue ribbons already.

Jamie and I hang back a little, his steps slowing and eyes widening the more rooms we pass. Eventually, he leans over and whispers in my ear,

"I feel like ye ought ta introduce me as Laird Broch Tuarach in a place like this."

I whisper back, "I will if you want me to."

"Seriously?"

"Of course, my love."

"But. . . Sassenach. . ." he blinks, and looks around us with an incredulous half-smile, "When ye said yer da was a student, an' yer mam offered ta buy a house wi' him, ta "make the best of it", this isn't a'tal what I pictured."

"No?" I grin at him, "Perhaps I ought to have said he was Henry Beauchamp, of the Oxfordshire Beauchamps, over from England on a rowing scholarship, and she was Julia Moriston, of the Oxford, Mississippi Moristons, in Boston solely to escape having to go to Ole Miss, and become a Southern Belle."

"So she became a Northern one instead?"

I dig a finger into his ribs as I desperately hold back a snort, "Hush, you. We want them to like you, darling, not toss you out on your ear for inveterate Scottish impertinence."

"Mmph. Ye seem ta like some bits of my inveterate Scottis-"

I poke him again, harder this time.

"Quiet. I did say I grew up rich, didn't I? At some point? I'm sure I mentioned it. I must have. . ."

"Aye, "wi' every advantage" was how ye phrased it, if I recall correctly."

"Well then?"

"Weel," he rolls his eyes expressively, "When I think of advantages, I dinna exactly think of sixteen drawing rooms, three swimming pools, two tennis courts an' a planetarium, Sorcha. No' first thing, annyway."

"No?"

"No."

I shrug, "It's only five drawing rooms. If you only count the formal ones, at least. Two in each wing and one in the transitional house. And there are only two pools. Unless you count the hot tubs, I suppose. Or the self-cleaning pond. But we only swim in that during the summer. And either way, we use the Turkish bath more often. And the sauna. And it's a combination observatory and planetarium, by the way. That's in Lamb's wing. He had it built because he was always having astronomers over and wanted a place to entertain them prop. . ."

I trail off as Jamie stares at me, open-mouthed.

"I was imagining advantages more along the lines of dance tutors, music classes, art teachers, horses, a Lexus or two, a cabin in Maine, an' a mini fridge in yer room growin' up, Sorcha."

"I had those too."

He blinks, "You had?"

"Yes. At various times, I've learned polo, impasto, piano voce, and the polka. I can't say I cared for any of them much. Dad sold the cabin in Maine seven years ago, and bought land in Alaska instead. I traded the Lexus they got me for graduating high school in for my first Audi ages ago, and I have no idea if my mini fridge is still kicking around, but I imagine it is. Mum never throws anything away, and neither does Lamb."

He shakes his head, still wide-eyed, "Nae wonder a promotion an' few job perks dinna impress ye. . ."

I don't have time to respond, seeing as we have finally reached the dining room.

Dad is over by the sideboard, mixing drinks, and so mum is the one who greets us first.

"Joe! Gail!" she shakes their hands, and pecks Gail's cheek like usual, "Henry's just made a whole pitcher of virgin frozen Manhattans just for you!"

My friends make the requisite appreciative noises, and part around mum to get to the sideboard.

Leaving her line of sight clear to me and Jamie.

Her eyes brighten as her gaze passes over me, but then her entire expression freezes when she reaches my husband. He is quite a sight to see - tall and broad and impressive in his boots and plaid, his red curls glowing, his posture almost instinctively heroic - every inch of him a Scot.

Dad turns towards us in the sudden silence, his gaze hardening as his eyes make the same journey my mother's just did. . .

I cough, just a little, "Mum, dad, I would like to introduce James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. The Laird Broch Tuarach. My. . . boyfriend."

Joe turns around at that, though if it is the Laird or the boyfriend that surprises him I do not know. Mum and dad don't notice him, still absorbed in taking Jamie in.

Mum comes to herself first, and puts out a gracious hand, "Well, you are most welcome, James Fraser. Laird Broch Tuarach."

Jamie takes her hand, and bows over it like the gentleman he is, "My friends call me Jamie, ma'am."

At that my father harrumphs, like the pompous windbag I know he isn't, not usually. . . "And just who said we were friends of yours, young man?"

This time, the entire room halts, stunned.

I blink, not knowing at all what to say. . .

The almost insanely awkward silence is broken by a clattering entrance, and the voice which, for me, this entire exercise as been building towards -

"Well well well, here we all are then, and here am I, late, when we have such distinguished guests! And I don't even have an excuse to offer – I simply lost track of time. I'm sorry, mia familia. Mea culpa."

My heart swells, as it always does around my favorite and only uncle. After all, it's his approval I am really hoping for tonight. . .

I turn, and go to him, my hands stretched out.

"Lamb! Oh, I've missed you. . ." I kiss him gratefully, on both cheeks, as though we have been apart far longer than our normal four or five weeks or so. So much has happened, it feels like years. . . "Come have a drink, my dear old sweet, and meet Jamie. . ."

Chapter Forty Seven

For the second time in three hours, I watch as my wife happily embraces another man.

This time is nothing like the last, of course, and I am neither anxious nor jealous at the sight, only deeply, sorrowfully longing. I lost my father and older brother Willie in a car accident more than two decades ago, and that kind of loss never leaves you. Seeing Claire greet her uncle so lovingly only reminds me I can never see my father and my brother again.

Except. . .

Funny, how a few weeks with Claire have not in any way revived the religious feelings I was brought up with, but they have made me want to pray again, and somehow, back behind it all, I also feel a germ of belief beginning to grow. Belief, not in god, or gods, or goddesses, or any such thing, but, very simply, in more. I cannot put it any clearer than that, not yet, even to myself. More. There is something more, or we ourselves are something more, perhaps. There is more. More than we can see, more than we can know.

It is a long way from believing in an afterlife of any kind, but, suddenly, a good bit of the sting is gone from my sorrow.

Da and Willie aren't fully gone. They were more than physical beings, and their physical ending did not change that. . .

I blink at the bowl of soup in front of me, almost entirely unaware of how it got here, or anything that has been said or done for the past fifteen minutes or so.

Mechanically, I pick up my spoon, and rigorously focus on my eating, trying to get back inside my head.

I haven't dissociated like that for years. . .

It must be the overload of information, coupled with how little control I feel over my environment at the moment.

I scroll quickly through what I can remember, and note that both Joe and Lamb have been cheerful and accommodating, taking up the burden of active conversation, giving both myself and Claire a respite.

Claire. . .

I glance at my wife, and see a great deal of hidden tension in her. Not surprising. Neither of us had much of an idea how to properly prepare for tonight, and so this confrontation sort of snuck up on us, I suppose. The past few weeks have been so crammed full of so many changes, and so much growth, so fast, that my soul aches with it all. I would not have anything different, but it is so much more than I ever thought I could take. . .

I reach a hand towards Claire under the table. She reaches back, and I see a huge weight lift from her shoulders.

My dear woman. . .

A great deal of my mind is still back in her apartment the first night we retuned from Vegas, luxuriating in each other, alone in her bed. No one knows about us, no one cares what we are doing – it is as if the entire outside world does not exist. I feel as though nearly all of our time since then has been spent in a desperate game of catch-up.

And if my mind is like that, how must hers be? I still have my job, and my home. I am still living with mostly the same people as I was three weeks ago. I have no older generation I must answer to for my choices, nor social expectation of perfection hanging over me. I still have most of my life-anchors, while she has given most of hers up.

And even in the midst of all that, I can tell that most of her tension tonight, far from being about herself, is worry over me.

Her wedding ring burns in my pocket. I know she must have some kind of plan, even it is a vague, loosely constructed one, because she would never have asked me to remove it if she hadn't, and that goes double for introducing me as her boyfriend, but every molecule of my self, every glimmer of my manhood, is screaming to give her the stability, the grounding of our wedding vows. To see her so at sea, so unmoored, for want of the one thing I can give her tonight, is nearly worse than the powerless frustration I feel for myself.

Surreptitiously, her fingers slip into mine, and give my hand a brief, hard squeeze.

Something about the touch grounds us both, and all at once, my mind is clear enough for me to take some notice of the conversation around the table.

The subject of flower fairs has been thoroughly discussed, and also the springtime horse-racing season. Mr. Beauchamp held forth for some time about the upcoming exclusive amateur golf tournament to be held next week at one of the local country clubs, and now Lamb and Joe and Claire are discussing the similarities and differences between campsites at archaeological digs, and dorm rooms at colleges.

The empty soup plates are taken away, and the cold meat course is brought. It is a fine charcuterie board, accompanied with an even finer wine. . .

I take a long few sniffs before I taste it, and savor the sip once I do. I must sigh, or make some other sound as well, for suddenly Mr. Beauchamp addresses me directly.

"Is there something wrong with the wine, Mr. Fraser?"

I give a small smile at the thought, "Far from it. It is merely that I have only tasted the '82 Lafite-Rothschild Pauillic once before now, and it was not so much like the '59 then." I roll the stem of my glass between my fingers, "It's gotten better, even in five years. I do hope you've put down a good supply. This is one that will only get more magnificent as it ages."

I take another small, slow sip, and enjoy the mostly embarrassed silence around the table. Of course, it's patently obvious that I am not the sort of person who regularly has the ability - or desire, thank goodness! - to drink two-and-a-half-thousand-dollars-per-bottle wine with my pre-dinner cold cuts, but it is also just as obvious that I'm bang on the money with my identification, and this has flipped nearly every brain at the table, and impressed the ones it hasn't.

I see an extremely small smirk on Claire's face – one mirrored almost identically by Lamb – but everyone else is some mixture of shocked, disbelieving, incredulous, or. . . scared?

Huh. That's one to keep in my back pocket. . .

Gently, Mrs. Beauchamp breaks the silence.

"So, you are a Laird, Mr. Fraser?"

I shrug, and take a bite of prosciutto, "Weel, that's a bit of a odds-and-ends title anymore. I'm heir to a piece of land in Scotland with tenants living on it. That's about all that c'n be said these days. It's been in my family a long time, but even that doesna mean what it usedta. It isnae a job – no' annymore. An' certainly not a livin'."

"I understand," she smiles demurely, "So what do you do?"

"I'm a chef, and head meal designer for Leoch Foods."

Mr. Beauchamp's eyebrows raise a little at that, but he says nothing.

Claire nudges Lamb a little, "Never mind that, ask him what his estate in Scotland is called, Lamb."

He turns to face me, an expectant look in his eyes.

I smile flatly, "It's called Lallybroch."

Lamb inhales sharply, "Lallybroch? – is there a broch?"

"Aye. Still standing – or mostly. It's a decided ruin now, a'course."

"Well, of course. Has it ever been dug?"

"Not that I ken. It is a registered monument, though, so I doubt it."

Lamb nods contemplatively, "Any known henges nearby? Or ancient burial sites? Or standing stones?"

"Aye, a few. They're a good ways off, though. None on the property itself, I don' think. Why?"

"Nothing much. Just a silly crackpot theory of mine."

"Oh aye? An' what's that?"

His lip twists a little, "Well. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be something in the old ley line hypothesis?"

I try to look as though I know at all what that might be, "No. I cannae say it has."

"Well, I posit that there are some places on the Earth's surface that show a concentrated energetic flow, and that those places seem to coincide dramatically with the positions of important buildings and structures."

"Ye might be right, but what does that have ta do with anything?"

"Well, for one, it might go some ways towards explaining legends of visual and energetic phenomena, or visions, or even physical translations or miraculous healings. Resurrections, perhaps. Even. . . time travel."

I knit my brows together, as the charcuterie board is removed, and an exquisitely poached sole with beurre blanc and chives arrives on the table, "I dinnae ken about all that," I say carefully, "It sounds an interesting theory, though, and I would be fascinated to see what evidence ye would put forward, but in my own mind, I cannae help but think that time travel, at least, is. . . well. . . already possible."

It isn't the answer he was expecting. He raises an encouraging eyebrow.

"Isn't that all archaeology is, sir? Paleontology too. Entomology. Geology. Even astronomy. In fact most of science is exploring the past as though it were a foreign country, isn't it? What is that but time travel?"

Lamb shrugs, "An interesting perspective."

"And may be useful to you," says Claire.

"Oh really my dear? How do you think?"

Claire's eyes light up with memories, "Well do you know how you always used to say that history had history? That even people in the Old Stone Age saw the signs of people older than them, and investigated, reverenced and probably worshiped them?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Well, what if those legends, and visions and phenomena and such, what if they are real in the same way Jamie says time travel might be? Visions might be people experimenting with drugs, or suffering from head trauma, and myths might just be a particularly imaginative storyteller plying his craft. One hunter tells a really good story one night, and everyone likes it so much it gets passed down, and embellished, and retold, and embellished some more, and they add theatrics and sound effects, and costumes, and eat the strange looking mushrooms while they tell it, and soon enough, an indigenous tribal story bears an uncanny likeness to Transformers Dark Of The Moon. It doesn't mean Micheal Bay is a Cherokee medicine man, or whatever, it means that history has history, and people back then were probably very much like people are today."

Lamb shrugs again, "Very likely, my dear. Like I said – it is only a crackpot theory. There probably isn't anything in it. But you never know. . . And in either case, I do wish I'd had a chance to dig a broch, back when I was working – that and a Manx keeill. But, you can't have everything."

"No sir. No, ye surely cannot," I say, slowly, and tense silence falls again.

Claire finishes her sole, and wipes her mouth delicately before speaking up, in a quiet, but very determined voice.

"Dad?"

Mr. Beauchamp blinks at her, "Yes, Claire?"

"Would you tell my birthday story?"

"Over dinner?"

"Why not? It's your best story, and you know how much I love it."

"No one wants to hear me ramble on-"

"But-"

"Tell the story, Henry," Lamb cuts in, his voice very quiet, and suddenly dangerous, "Tell your daughter her favorite story. Or I will."

Chapter Forty Eight

Lamb doesn't use his "I Am The Oldest Person In This Room And By Jingo You Young Whipper-Snapper Will Do What You Are Told For Once Goddamn It" voice very often, and even less frequently on my father, but when he does, you can bet shit just got real.

Adrenaline fires to the very tips of my fingers. If anything is going to work, this is it. . .

Dad stares Lamb down for all of half a second before he capitulates.

"Oh, very well," he sighs, and tosses his napkin down beside his plate before leaning back in his chair, and looking dreamily off into space – his usual attitude for storytelling.

"I was over from Oxford on a student visa – this was in '74, you understand – and I was young, and full of vim and vigor, and very foolish – as we all are in our twenties, I rather think."

I see Jamie smirk ruefully in agreement.

"And I was going along, enjoying life when – and I forget exactly how, now – I discovered my visa was about to expire. I had neglected to renew it at the proper time, and like the thoughtless boy I was, hadn't even considered the consequences."

He glances at mum, and a soft smile comes into his eyes, "I was lucky though, because the college librarian and I had started dating a couple of months before, and she was enamored enough with me by then to take the biggest chance of her life. I, of course, had been smitten after the first ten minutes, and wasn't taking the least chance at all." Dad takes a sip from his glass of ice water, then resumes his storytelling posture, "A few days and a trip to the courthouse later, and a Green Card was in the offing."

He pauses, as Old and Young Alec make the round of the table, removing the fish plates and serving up grilled asparagus and quail stuffed with morel mushrooms and wild rice.

"I very soon learned that there is a great deal of difference between a fool and an idiot, of course," he continues when they've retreated once again, "I had been a fool – I own that, and easily, now – but Julia had still rescued me, and only an idiot would then proceed to lose such a woman. But there were several impediments – chief among them being that both our parents had other plans for us. Plans that both of us were extremely frightened to upset entirely, at least for a time. So, other than the authorities, of course, we didn't tell anyone we were married."

Dad takes a few bites of his dinner and a couple sips of wine before continuing, "Naturally, that only made us two fools together. But we were happy enough, just so long as we were together. And eventually our parents accepted the situation, even unblessed as they thought it was, and we graduated school, and moved into this place, and Lamb set up his home base here, and all seemed right under heaven for, well, quite a long time."

He gives a long sigh, "We had both been wild for children, of course, especially in the first few years. But nothing ever happened. And then eventually, things settled down, and. . . well. . ." he gestures noncommittally, "Your thirties aren't like your twenties, if you're at all wise about them."

Jamie smirks in agreement again.

"And then suddenly, out of a clear blue sky, Julia discovers she's expecting. And wouldn't you know it, her due date is two days after our anniversary."

Dad glances between mum and me, "It was quite a hectic nine months after that. We'd told Lamb about us by then, of course, but no one else in our family or friend circle knew we were legally married. We'd gotten into such a habit of not telling, you see. And, really, for a decade it didn't much matter. But now, with a child on the way, the legal aspect of the thing reared its head again – or that was what everyone told us. We knew everything was fine. But it's difficult to reassure someone you've been lying to by omission for eleven years, especially when it's not just one someone, but dozens of someones."

Dad addresses his quail for a minute, then looks over to me and smiles, "And then there was the aspect you brought to it, my dear. We weren't planning for one minute on lying to you. So we had to tell people. But how? It was something of a dilemma."

I take a sip of wine, and surreptitiously touch Jamie's hand under the table. His mouth quirks up at the touch. I wonder if he has twigged to what I am planning by now. . .

"In the end it was absurdly easy. You came three days early, my dear. And so the next night, the night of our anniversary, I gathered all our local friends, and the family who had flown in to be with us for your birth, took them to the country club, ordered all the champagne they had in stock, and nearly all the brandy too, and got up and made a speech."

He clears his throat, and holds his arm out like a Greek orator, "Thank you all for being here, to celebrate the birth of my daughter, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp," - there was great applause, of course, and I had quite a time getting everyone to listen again – "But before we begin the festivities in earnest, I must make AN ANNOUNCEMENT."

Dad chuckles, "And, do you know, it was just like that scene at Bilbo's birthday party – everyone was laughing and joking and spoiling for a good time, but the very idea of an announcement made everyone suddenly tense and quiet. So I grabbed a flute of champagne, and stood up on a chair so everyone could see me, "In justice to my daughter, I wish to inform you all that I have married her mother, Julia Moriston."

"Everyone went even more quiet then. And I raised my glass high, and said -"

"And, in justice to my wife, I must also tell you all that I married her, eleven years ago."

"Well. That took quite a while to sink in. I had plenty of time to take a long drink of champagne in total silence. I even manged to start speaking again before the questions could begin."

"I know this is a surprise to you all, and may be a shock to some. Rest assured both Julia and I have spent much time and worry these past eleven years, wondering what other people think of us. But now we have a girl," I said, "A great, golden-eyed eaglet of a girl – worth fifty sons – and we are not afraid of what anyone thinks anymor-"

Dad always chokes up at this point, and he does so now, but he pushes past it quicker than I've ever seen him do before,

"We nearly drank the bar dry that night – for a birth, a marriage, and an anniversary do not commonly happen all at once like that. It was some days before I was any good to Julie at all, but at least I stayed out of her hair all that time."

There is another long pause as the table is cleared again, and pinwheel steaks, with carrot and caper salad is put in front of us.

"So, my dear," says dad, solemnly, "Now, will you please tell me why you insisted I tell the story I always nearly cry while telling in front of a young man who, by tradition, I am supposed to be nothing but gruff to, and stoic in front of, and hard to impress?"

I swallow a bite of salad, and take a sip of wine before answering, "Well, you know how I've always loved that story, right dad?"

"Yes, I know it's the one you ask for the most often."

"And that's because I've always wanted to be able to tell a story as good as that to my own children, one day."

Dad shrugs a little, "Not perhaps the grandest of aspirations, but worthy enough, most certainly."

"I'm glad you think so."

I reach over to Jamie, and gently touch his breast pocket. He blinks at me for just a second, and then digs out my silver wedding band. I present my left hand to him, and he slips it back onto my finger.

"I hope Jamie and I won't have to wait eleven years to tell it to them."

Chapter Forty Nine

I kiss Claire's restored wedding ring, and give her a long, loving look before turning to the rest of the table. Everyone is some level of stunned.

Joe and Gail I think because they knew most of the story, but did not know why Claire married me, and in now, without either of us actually saying it, it has been made clear I was in similar need as her father had been. Though if they are shocked because I needed help in that way, or that Claire was willing to render that help, I do not know them well enough to judge.

Mrs. Beauchamp somehow looks just as shocked at her own husband as she does that I am now her daughter's husband. Seeing how emotional he got while telling his story, I can only assume this is in response to how unfeelingly he was treating me before telling it. It is clear now he was only doing so in accordance to the look of the thing, as the traditional Disapproving Father, and, it is just as clear that she had no idea he was going to take that angle on matters.

And Lamb. . .

Lamb looks far more impressed than stunned. And his look is split equally between me and Claire, not focused upon Claire alone. I understand now why it is his opinion Claire most values, among all the opinions on offer here at the Big House. He is not only the most insightful among her three parents, he also has the most flexible, resilient way of thinking, the most upbeat, welcoming philosophy, and the gentlest, kindest heart. Not that his brother or sister-in-law are at all dour or heartless, but Lamb, as an individual, as a man, has more parent-craft in his left thumb than most people ever will in their whole souls. He isn't Claire's second father, he is utterly and in all ways her uncle. An uncle who helped raise her. And in doing so, he has also raised the title of uncle into the ranks of honoured, venerated parenthood. Ask Claire who her parents are, and Lamb will always be mentioned.

I will never again wonder how Claire has been able to come into my home, so easily, so naturally, and become a third parent to children who need her, without in any way defacing the memory of what they have lost, or blaming the children for what they now need from her. How she has been able to not only walk that tightrope, but make a place of her own in their hearts, without any malice that it is a secondary place.

I myself ought to know that secondary places are just as important as primary ones, and sometimes better, in many ways. . .

At last, I bring myself to look at her father. The stunned look in his eyes is not one of malice, nor of opposition of any kind, but of strained, long-awaited, distant but present. . . fear. He has been afraid of this day, for much longer than most men with a beautiful, capable daughter ever are. He has fought against the feeling, as any good man would, and with far more resources than afforded to many. But no amount of privilege can insulate a child from their own heart, and no good parent ever tries. He hasn't. He has feared and fought in silence, and now. . .

Now, here I am.

I do not know if I am everything he expected, or nothing he could have imagined.

Perhaps I am both.

I give him a respectful nod.

"We're no' in violation of any laws, sir. The fault – if fault there be – lies with unknown data entry personnel. I just didnae catch their mistakes right away. I am at fault for that, if ye like, but I do have somethin' of an excuse in that my. . ." irony, regret, shame and bitter bewilderment rise up in me, as they always do when I think of Annalise, ". . . my first wife had jus' died."

There is a room-wide stir at that. I cannot blame them. I am not only a stranger suddenly promoted to son-in-law, I am damaged goods. . . "That was over two years ago now, sir, an' it's been a rough road for me since. Details like making sure my passport had no errors in it were verrah far down the list of my priorities for a verrah long time."

I interlace my fingers with Claire's, and very deliberately put our clasped hands on the table between us, "A Green Card is the least part of the rescue Claire has brought me, sir, an' that's a fact. I daresay you understand – an' better than most."

He nods, very slowly, "I do."

I turn back to my steak and salad, "We didnae come here tanight ta demand your approval, sir – nor demand anything else. We're here only to inform, an' explain. An' neither of us is likely ta hold aught against ye if ye'er solid angry at that. I'm a father myself sir, an' if one of my girls came ta me wi' a strange man, the very least I'd do is deny him the house. Granted, that's mostly because the eldest two are still only nine, but the sentiment is understood an' appreciated."

There is another, longer stir, less awkward, but more intense.

I take a bite of my dinner, and wait for the barrage of questions I know are coming.

Her father leads with perhaps the most obvious.

"You aren't going to try and convince me you're in love with each other, then?"

I briefly tighten my grip on Claire's hand to stop her saying anything, "No, sir."

He blinks, and raises his eyebrows, "No?"

"No, sir," I shake my head, "Even the most sincere love sounds cheesy and fake when ye're trying ta convince someone of it, sir, an' besides – there arenae words for what Claire an' I have." I turn, and quickly, run my eyes over my wife - and then stop. . . and slowly do it again.

"I. . . I cannae even look at her wi'out getting caught in her spell."

She raises her eyes to mine, and I quickly look away. Much more of that, and I will do something neither of us want her parents to see. . .

"I daresay there have been men throughout the ages that have felt as I do, sir, an' women who have felt as she does, but if so, none have made the words for it. None that have lasted, anyway. I might go so far as ta say the feeling is stronger than words, but even that sounds mocking and dumb when said out loud." I slide my hand free of our entwined grasp, to gently brush one of her long curls back behind her shoulder. While I am there, I touch one fingertip gently to her jawbone, and caress very lightly down her neck. . . and then stop, pushing aside distraction again, "No sir. There are things far better left unsaid."

He grunts, a little dubiously, and takes a bite of steak.

Into the ensuing silence, Mrs. Beauchamp finally speaks up again,

"How many children do you have, Mr. Frase. . . Jamie?"

I half smile at her artfully clumsy use of my familiar name. She's quite a cunning diplomat, this woman. Lamb is certainly not the only parent Claire has learned from. . .

"Four, ma'am. Four girls. Faith, Brianna, Marsali and Joan. Known affectionately amongst us all as Fay, Bree, Sally and Jo. Sal will be six next month, Joanie's three and a half, and Fay an' Bree are twins. Would ye care ta see pictures?"

Those are exactly the right words. Claire's mother's eyes light up, and she nods eagerly. Of course, I have never met a middle-aged women who did not want to see pictures of children, much less pictures of children she has any prospect of calling her grandchildren. I bring up the proper folder on my phone, and hand it to her. Joe and Gail get up to stand behind her, and the three of them very quickly descend into soft laughter and cooing noises.

Mr. Beauchamp observes them for a minute, a small smile on his face at the sight of them, and then turns to Claire.

"How are you coping, my dear? A husband and four children all at once. I can hardly imagine. . ."

She smiles, and glances briefly at me, "Better than might be expected. Colum promoted me at work, and gave me a remote-working position, so my hours are much more flexible now."

He nods solemnly, "And I assume you'll be moving in together? I can't think co-parenting would work too well otherwise."

"We already did. Two weeks ago."

"And the house goblins?"

She chuckles, "Just a few days ago."

He smiles broadly, "Was Adso a holy terror?"

"No! It was the most shocking thing!"

"No?"

"Nope. It was Stuart!"

He laughs, long and steadily, "Ah, I might have known! The bonny princeling! Of course he turned out to be far more trouble than anyone had planned for. He would!"

Claire snorts, then joins her father in laughing over her cats.

They quiet down gradually, and while they do, he gives her a long, very serious looking over.

"Are you happy, Claire?"

There is worry in his eyes now, and his voice is a little unsteady.

She takes my hand again, and speaks with the most lovely quiet conviction.

"Very. Almost incandescently." She meets my eyes briefly, "Perfectly."

He nods slowly, and shares a long look with Lamb. Then he gives the trio still looking at pictures another soft, appreciative smile.

"So," he says turning to me, almost casually, "When does my Julie get to meet our granddaughters?"

Chapter Fifty

I know the night has been a success when dad brings out the brandy. The good old French brandy. The really good old French brandy. He brings five of the big balloon glasses back to the table with it, and calls for the Criollo chocolate truffles, and some of the cook's homemade black current and lemon verbena cordial for Gail and I.

Jamie and I are toasted then, several times, and so are each of the girls, and Joe, and even Colum, "for being a good sport".

All in all, it is the most perfect, most intimate wedding reception we could have hoped for, and with Jamie's hand clasping my own nearly all night, for me, it is almost idyllic.

We finally manage to pull ourselves away, after promising to come back, girls in tow, just as soon as physically possible.

Our drive home is quiet, not entirely comfortably so, but I am still on too much of a high to parse out exactly why. . .

I pull us into our driveway, and let us sit for bit, knowing Jamie will tell me what is on his mind if I just give him a chance.

Slowly, he runs a hand across his face, "Why didn't you tell me, Sorcha? Why didn't you say you were a blasted Rockefeller?"

I blink, and suddenly completely understand.

"Why didn't you tell me you were a sommelier?"

He gives me an angry look.

I shake my head, "No, I'm not trying to derail the conversation – it's relevant – why, Jamie, did you never go completely textbook on me whenever I offered you wine? And I'm a totally uneducated lump in regards to wine too – I know it comes in red, white and pink, and if you drink enough of it, you wake up with a hangover. Everything else I know about any wine comes from reading the label. Why did you never pull the same trick on me that you did on dad at dinner tonight? Why, Jamie?"

He sighs exasperatedly, "Because being a sommelier is just a thing, Sorcha! It doesn't really matter. It doesna change who I am, and there's nae reason to be showing off all the ti-"

He breaks off as the point hits him.

"I. . . I get what you're saying, Sorcha, but. . . but. . .

"Yes?"

"All the same, I. . . it's just that. . . I'll. . . I'll never be able ta give ye-"

"No." I interrupt, "You won't. And do you know why? Because if you were the sort of man who could, I wouldn't have married you."

He freezes at that.

What. . .

"Ye mean ye married me out of charit-"

"No, Jamie!" I gasp, horrified, "No! I did not condescend to marry you! And I didn't do it because Dougal asked me to either. I didn't even go to Leoch that first night because he asked me to. I insisted on that part, quite emphatically, because. . ." I sigh deeply, and shake my head at myself, "Jamie, I went to Leoch that first night fully intending to turn you down."

Jamie's mouth opens, but he does not speak.

"All the guff I'd fed Dougal up to that point was just that – guff. To get him off my back. I wanted to deal with you, and I wanted to give you the courtesy of my saying no in person," I nod firmly, "Just that. Only that. But then I actually met you and. . ." I reach to him, and grip his wrist, "Jamie darling, before that moment, I didn't know falling in love at first sight was real. Lust yes. But not "I-have-an-instantaneous-and-extremely-strong-connection-to-this-person", love. And yet. . . there you were. Like a miracle, Jamie. Like. . . like an angel. Like a thunderclap and soft spring rain all mixed together. Like wild honey on fresh-baked bread. Like wind from the snows that reaches the valley in summer. Like the smell of home. I saw you, I loved you, I chose you. And I will go on choosing you, Jamie - you're my heart, my love, and my other soul. Until the end of time. I've vowed to do it – twice – and I will."

He takes that in for a long minute or two, staring down at my hand on his wrist. Gently, he puts his hand on mine.

"But. . . but ta go from all that to. . . to. . ."

I sigh, "Do you know what being raised like that taught me, Jamie?"

"What?"

"That in this life, I had better know what I want. Because just as certainly as money alone can't make you happy, it most certainly does buy you the privilege to choose what will. So. Did I want more money? Or perhaps fame? Or maybe power? Or fun? Adventure? A career? My choice of lovers? Clothes? Chocolate? Shoes? A pile of drugs? A life of crime? I learned I'd better figure myself out, and know what the hell I want, and pretty fast too. In that tax bracket, it doesn't matter how good your parents are – you don't get a prolonged childhood. Well, sometimes you do, but the choices are either to grow up fast or never grow up at all. And being a perpetual half-baked little snot didn't appeal to me. So I chose a quiet, modest career, doing something I find worthwhile and fulfilling, in a service based industry. I chose that, Jamie, every step of the way. Because I had the privilege to choose."

I let the deep silence settle around us for a minute, and then continue.

"And then. . . Dougal entered the picture."

He inhales sharply, but I forestall him, "Do you know why I fought him so hard, my love? Fought him tooth and nail, and so publicly, for so little monetary profit? Do you know why?"

He shakes his head.

"It was because I knew I wasn't the first woman he harassed. No way in hell. I was only the latest. Who knows how many women, how many girls? Who knows if they were married or not, or even experienced or not, or what they were coerced into doing to protect themselves? Who knows how many couldn't fight back?" I swallow thickly, "And so I did. I fought for all of them, however many there were, stretching back however long. I fought like my life depended on it, because theirs very well might have. I fought because I had the power to fight – I had money, and support, and status, and time, and, in the end, absolutely nothing to fear. I had the privilege to choose. And so I chose to fight him. Because it was the right thing to do."

Silence settles around us again.

"And then. . ." I smile, dreamily, "Then, there was you. I wasn't exaggerating when I said it was like a miracle, Jamie. I loved you from the very first moment I saw you, obstacles be damned. The rest of the world be damned. I had influence, and money, and status, and time, and I wanted you. And so everything else became secondary, Jamie. I am not giving anything up by being with you, my love. Marrying you isn't counter to the way I was raised. Quite the opposite. By choosing you, I am fulfilling how I was raised to be. I know what I want, and I am choosing it, day by day, because I have the privilege to choose. And you, and the girls, and our life together, are exactly what I want. I want it, Jamie. I want you, I want them, I want us, and I want our life, just as it is. If you were the sort of man who was more interested in procuring genuine Chinese cloisonné vases for our bedsides than in making sure there are fresh, cat-friendly flowers in them every day, I would not have married you. Alright? You are wonderful, Jamie, and your love and trust and respect are far more valuable to me than any collection of things in all the world throughout history. I'd choose you over the Colossus of Rhodes, the hanging gardens of Babylon, and the Library of Alexandria, and let me tell you, for a girl raised by Q. Lambert Beauchamp, that is saying something."

He smiles, a little shakily, and leans over to kiss me, long, and deeply, and with great relief.

I look up at him when he finally releases me, "I don't want a hundred million dollars, Jamie. I don't want a million dollars. I don't want any of the fancy things millions of dollars can buy. Give me a living wage and you for a million years. Everything else is frosting."

"A little frosting is nice."

"Of course it is. No one is disputing that. And between us, I think we can afford sufficient sugar and butter to make our own, don't you? Enough to give the girls a beautiful childhood, and ourselves some nice fun times too. With Grandma and Grandpa Beauchamp, and good old Uncle Lamb there in the background, ready and willing to take the pressure off when we ask them to." I run a finger across his chin, "I'm sorry I didn't prepare you well enough for tonight, Jamie. I can only tell you it wasn't intentional, and reassure you that I love you, our family, and our life."

He smiles again, more confidently now, and lowers his voice to a deep, dark purr, "Soo. . . does this mean ye owe me, Sassenach?"

Delicious tingles bloom in my stomach.

"I suppose it does."

His eyes flash with mischief, and he gets us out of the car and inside the house in record time. His mouth is on mine, and his hand is caressing my bare thigh up the slit in my skirt almost before I know it.

"This damn dress has been teasing me all night, Sassenach."

"Oho, has it now?"

"Mmm. It has." He slides his hand even higher, and takes a handful of my backside, "An' now it's time for ye ta pay, Sorcha."

I giggle, utterly intoxicated with this lovely, gorgeous man, "On one condition."

"Mmm. Anything, Sassenach."

I giggle playfully again, and slide a hand daringly up his thigh, "You leave the kilt on. . ."

His eyes darken, and he pounces on me, throwing me casually over his shoulder, and carrying me up the stairs. Then he presses me up against our bedroom door, even as he closes it behind us.

I grope for the handle, and manage to both lock and bolt the door before he shoves my skirt out of his way, and tries to muffle our sighs and moans by kissing me deeply again. . .

We do make it to the bed. . . eventually.