Immortal Mine (24 page)

“
You...”

His smile is
grim.

“
I do’na like
livin’ alone,” he explains. “Yer a eejit, true enough, but I’ll
stick with ye.”

Relief floods through me. He’s right, this might be the most
idiotic idea I’ve had. But I can no longer lie to her, hide who I
am. If I want to be with her—
truly
be with her—it’s time to tell her.

“
You called me Sorley,” I say, pulling my American accent back
together. “You haven’t called me by my real name in over a
century.” I grin at him. “You must be
really
mad at me.”

Shane throws the
hammer toward my head, which I catch neatly before it meets its
target.

“
I do’na
remember when I’ve e’er thought ye a bigger fool,” he says. “I also
don’ remember when I’ve admired ye more.”

“
Admired
me?”

“
Aye,” he
confirms. “It takes a great deal o’ courage ta do wha’ ye propose.
Be sure ye know wha’ yer doin’.”

He
pulls me into a bear hug, then leaves the barn, done for today. I
watch him go, fear suddenly taking up residence in my gut. I
don’t
know what I’m doing. All of my hope
lays in Niahm’s love. What if I’m wrong?

I sit at the kitchen table, doing my
homework. Normally, Sam would be with me, but he said he had some
things Shane needed him for, so he’d see me in the morning when he
picked me up for school. Besides the powerful wish to be with him
every possible moment comes the realization that when he’s here,
Jean makes herself scarce.

Tonight she sits at the desk with the
laptop, too close for comfort. Since the discovery of the
letters—of which I’ve read all by now, both Jeans and my
mom’s—there’s been a sort of calm in the house. That doesn’t mean
I’m ready to have a grandma. She’s still an unwelcome intruder.

The letters were a revelation. The
correspondence between Jean and her daughter made it seem clear, to
me at least, that she suspected it was her mother she was
exchanging letters with. She’d asked for advice, which Jean gave.
The letters my mom had written and kept were something else. In
them, she poured out her anger, frustration, and betrayal. In them,
I read her reasons for the constant searching. Yet, as frustrated
and hurt as I was by being left behind by her searching quest, I
couldn’t blame her.

Jean, whose back is to me,
stretches and tips her head back. I literally do a double take at
what I see—her roots are
dark
. I blink a couple of times as
she returns to her upright position. That can’t be right. Roots are
gray to one’s dark dyed hair, not the other way around.

I stand up and she turns my way, a small
smile directed to me. I normally would just say goodnight and go
upstairs, but I’ve got to know what’s going on with her hair. I
don’t know what expression is on my face as I look at her, but her
smile drops and she rises with some alarm.

“Everything okay, Niahm?” she asks
warily.

“I don’t...” As I see her
now, standing, her hair looking perfectly gray, I suddenly feel
silly at my imagination. What am I going to say,
Do you dye your hair gray? Are you a young
imposter pretending to by my grandmother?
It’s ridiculous, of course. To what end would she do that?
The entire inheritance is irrevocably mine. Besides, I saw her
grief—it was real.

“Um, nothing,” I finally say. “I just
remembered... uh, I have this big test tomorrow. And, um, I should
have been studying for it. So I guess I’ll go up to my room and do
that now.”

Her eyes narrow
suspiciously, but I hurry and gather my books, jogging up the
stairs. It’s stupid to have imagined the dark roots. Why would I
even think I had seen such a strange thing? I flop down on my bed,
covering my eyes with my arm. I must be exhausted. I mean, of all
things to hallucinate—
dark
roots
? Definite lack of imagination,
there. I laugh at myself, rolling toward the window, listening to
the wind howl.

A tightness resides in my gut, no matter how
silly I tell myself I’m being. Something isn’t right.



“How’s your arm?” I ask Sam as we throw hay.
This is one of my least favorite activities during the summer, but
during the cold winter, I don’t mind it at all.

“Good,” he says, not turning my way.

“Stitches out yet?”

“Uh...”

“Can I see?” I tease.

“No. It’s... I still have stitches.”

I stop moving, and tip my head at him. He
barely glances at me, definitely acting strange.

“But it’s been a month. Shouldn’t they be
out?”

“No. I mean, they were, but now...”

“Sam,” I say firmly, and he finally turns my
way, refusing to meet my eyes. I suddenly have an idea of just what
happened. I’ve watched him and Shane often enough to know how they
are together. “Did you reopen the wound?” He looks at me, but
doesn’t answer.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You and Shane
wrestling, right?” He shrugs, and I walk over to him. “You didn’t
want to tell me? Thought I’d be mad?”

He swallows, looking slightly miserable. “I
don’t want you to have to worry about me,” he says.

I rise up and kiss him, which he doesn’t
seem to mind, throwing his rake to the side to put both arms around
me.

“I always worry about you, silly,” I tell
him. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell me things. I’m not that
fragile, you know.”

Even as I say the words, I realize how true
they are. The grief and pain are still lodged in my chest, as I
suspect they will be for the rest of my life, but I’m learning to
live around that. I’m dealing with what was left behind by my
parents, including an unwanted grandma. I’m getting up each day,
and if my first thoughts are of them and how much I miss them, at
least I’m smiling and laughing—and not falsely.

He looks conflicted as he gazes down at me.
I know he’s still worried about me, that I’m going to fall apart
again at any moment. It’s kind of nice having someone besides Stacy
worry so deeply about me.

“Christmas is next week,” he says,
immediately derailing all my thoughts as the pain breaks loose and
shafts through me.

“I know,” I murmur, tears rising in my eyes.
“Think there’s any chance to avoid it?”

Sam squeezes me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
that to come out so abruptly. I wanted to talk to you about it,
find out what your plans are.”

I grimace. Thanksgiving had been a lonely
affair, even though Jean and I had spent the day at Stacy’s house.
Like that wasn’t completely uncomfortable spending the day with a
stranger who calls herself my grandma, and a family who was
unnaturally subdued in order to try to spare my feelings. I haven’t
even bothered to put a Christmas tree up this year. That’s an
activity usually taken care of by my dad, and I have no desire to
do it without him. Jean offered to get one, but I suppose my glare
relayed to her my answer as she hadn’t brought one home.

“I was planning to hide in my room and
ignore the day completely.”

“Or you could spend it with me,” he says. I
begin to shake my head, but he says, “Hear me out. Shane and I are
alone. You and... Jean... are alone.” I can’t help but notice he
stumbles over her name. “Why not spend it together and be a little
less alone?”

I glance up at him. “That’s your argument
for spending Christmas together? Less alone?”

He scowls. “I did this completely
arseways.”

“You did it what-ways?” I ask, confused. He
flushes.

“Uh... I mean, I
completely botched it.” He takes a breath, and I realize he’s
nervous. No wonder he’s acting so strangely. “It’s just... I really
want to spend the day with
you
, Niahm.”

“Okay,” I capitulate, wanting to let him off
the hook. “Why don’t you come here and I’ll cook?”

He shakes his head. “No, Niahm, I don’t want
it to be a day of work for you.”

I smile at him. “Sam, how long have you
known me? Since when have you known me to consider cooking work?
Besides, it’s tradition.” My voice hitches a little on the last
word. This will be the first Christmas I haven’t cooked for my
parents. Suddenly, I decide that’s exactly what I want to do. Sam’s
eyes are full of sympathy, so I push away from him and turn back to
the rake, picking it up and stabbing at the hay.

“I’ll invite Stacy and her family.” Stab,
toss. “I’ll make all of the things I’ve made every other year.”
Stab, toss. “Then everything will be okay.” Stab, toss.

Sam steps up behind me and wraps his arms
around my waist, leaning his cheek on the top of my head. He pushes
the rake from my hand and slips my gloves off, entwining his
fingers with mine. I give a shaky laugh.

“All I do is cry, anymore,” I say. “I must
be wearing all my friends out with my pathetic-ness.”

Sam chuckles against my hair. “I don’t think
that’s a word.”

“Well, neither is the one you used before.
What was it? Arseness?”

He stiffens against me. “Arseways,” he says
thickly.

“What does that mean?”

Pause. “It means making a mess of
something.”

I squeeze his hands, which warm mine much
better than the gloves.

“Where did you learn that?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
Just as I‘m about to turn to discover the reason for his hesitancy,
he speaks.

“I knew a guy who used it all the time. He
was Irish.”

“Mm,” I answer. I suppose he must have known
a lot of immigrants and foreigners in New York. Sam makes a
slightly strangled sound.

“Are you okay?” I ask, worried that maybe he
shouldn’t be out here working so hard if he’s reinjured his arm. He
grunts, and not for the first time I wonder if he somehow knows
what I’m thinking.

“What should Shane and I bring?” he says,
ignoring my question.

“Bring for what?”

“For Christmas, silly.”

I turn in his arms, releasing his hands to
wrap mine around his shoulders, my tears gone. Sam always manages
to pull me from the brink of falling apart.

“A tree,” I say.

Shane and I are on Niahm’s doorstep first
thing Christmas morning, loaded with gifts—and a tree. Niahm smiles
at me, her eyes soft as I drag the pine into the festive-free
house. It takes some time to set it up, drag the bulbs and lights
from the attic, and decorate it. Shane then brings more boxes down,
and we decorate the mantle, railing, tables, and every other
surface we possibly can. Stacy and her family come during this, and
between us all, the house soon feels like it should on Christmas
morning.

Niahm stuffs the turkey we brought, and puts
it in the oven, shooting me a look at the size of the massive bird.
She, Stacy, Mrs. Bowen, and even Jean head to the kitchen to
prepare the rest of the food.

I figure Niahm’s going to be plenty angry
with me when the doorbell rings in the early afternoon admitting
the first of a large group of invited guests. I hadn’t told Jean
what I was up to, but Stacy and her mom were aware. They’d given me
the list of who I should invite. I definitely don’t want Niahm
alone today. When the house is full to the tune of thirty people, I
feel I’ve accomplished my goal.

Many of the men are gathered around the TV,
watching a football game. I walk to the kitchen doorway, and see
Niahm surrounded by friends from school, and other townspeople who
love her. Bob dances happily around everyone’s feet, quickly
snapping up any morsel that drops to the ground.