As Tommy called the waitress over for a second round of drinks, I happened to make eye contact with Derek.
Without a word, he stood, held his hand out and helped me up.
The speakers in the pub were blaring vintage U2, so I waved to everyone and said loudly to Robin, “Good night.”
She pouted. “Does this mean I have to leave, too?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. As if she would. “I’m just beat, and I have a class to teach tomorrow afternoon, so I’d better hit the sack.”
“I’ll walk you up,” Derek said, as though anyone doubted his intentions.
“Thank you,” I murmured. I weaved my way around the tables scattered throughout the dark pub and Derek followed closely, his hand touching the small of my back.
Little sparks were igniting inside me, and I was pretty sure it was due to him. I wondered what was about to happen and had to take some deep breaths as we left the pub-and ran right into Mom and Dad.
“Hey, sweets, you look pretty,” Dad said, and kissed my cheek.
“She always looks pretty,” Mom said, kissing my other cheek. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Derek?”
Oooh, boy. Exactly how much wine had they consumed during their anniversary dinner?
“She’s devastating,” Derek said, his voice so deep my toes tingled.
Mom’s eyes widened and she elbowed Derek. “Oh, woof, you sexy beast.”
I gasped.
“How was your dinner?” Derek asked, a broad grin on his face.
“Hey, that place is a gas!” Dad said. “We had a Jordan cabernet tonight that blew me away.”
“Good, I’m glad it worked out.”
“Um, how many bottles did you go through?” I asked cautiously.
“Two, but who’s counting?”
“And a groovy little after-dinner drink,” Mom added. “What’s it called, Jim-Jim?”
Jim-Jim? So not a good sign.
“Drambuie, Louie,” Dad said, wiggling his eyebrows at her.
“Yumbo,” she said in as sultry a voice as anyone could muster while saying yumbo.
“Oh, my God.” This was just too much to take.
Mom laid her head on my shoulder. “I love you, sweetie.”
“I love you, too, Mom,” I said, frowning at Derek, who was taking way too much pleasure in my parents’ state.
Mom turned to face me and gripped my shoulders. “Now listen, sugar bean: I want you to come with us to Rosslyn Chapel tomorrow. All those ancient Templar vibes will help boost your auric field.”
Trying to get past the shock of being called sugar bean, I finally managed to stutter, “I-I’m not sure I-”
“Either that,” she continued as if I hadn’t said a word, “or we take advantage of the two-for-one irrigation special at the green spa. My treat!” She turned to Derek and confided, “I always say, an impacted colon is one bummed-out pooper shooter.” Then she turned back to me. “Whaddaya say, hmm?”
Derek sputtered with laughter.
“Rosslyn Chapel it is,” I said brightly.
“Dandy!” she said.
“Cool!” Dad said. “See you in the morning, kiddo.” Then he grabbed Mom and nudged her toward the pub. “Come on, baby, what say you and me liven up the place with a little conga line?”
“Ooh, conga!” Mom cried, and swung her arms in the air as she danced her way into the pub.
“Oh, dear God,” I whispered.
“They’re plastered,” Derek said with a laugh.
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” I muttered.
The next morning, I awoke feeling refreshed and happy.
And alone.
Okay, not so happy. I stared at the ceiling and thought back to the evening before. My life might’ve been notably different this morning, I suppose, if we hadn’t run into my parents.
Talk about a buzz kill. The way I saw it, one minute Derek and I were insanely hot to jump each other, and the next minute, well, he was howling with laughter and I was mortified and searching the lobby for a potted plant to hide behind.
He assured me in the elevator that my parents were the loveliest and most honest people he’d ever met, but let’s face it, my mother had uttered the phrase pooper shooter, and nothing would ever be the same again.
I understood my mother’s need to maintain regularity while she traveled, but for God’s sake, did she have to bring up the subject in front of the man I might’ve awakened next to this morning? I dare anyone to feel sexy with those two words lingering in the air.
Still, Derek’s kiss at the door to my hotel room managed to curl my toes and heat up my insides so completely that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sparks fly out of my ears.
He pressed his forehead against mine, stared soulfully into my eyes, and smiled. I smiled back and was about to drag him inside my room, when his smile turned to a grin and he chuckled. Then he guffawed, and seconds later he was leaning against the wall, holding his stomach, laughing and begging for mercy.
So much for the famous unruffled calm of the British secret agent.
“Pooper shooter!” He gasped. “Christ on a cross, she’s priceless!”
That was when I thanked him for the good time and called it a night.
As I rolled out of bed, I felt a small twinge in my lower back, probably from landing smack-dab on my ass more than once yesterday. I did some slow stretches, bringing my knees up, then bending right, left, then over. They seemed to help. The hot shower helped, too.
My sore ankle barely even registered on the pain-o-meter, so that was something to be thankful for.
I popped two ibuprofen and drank my cup of hot chocolate as I dressed. Frankly, I was ecstatic to feel only a slight throbbing in my head, considering the half bottle of wine and Scotch nightcap I’d consumed the evening before. Okay, maybe it was a little more than half a bottle of wine, but the hangover gods must’ve taken pity on me anyway. I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the astral plane, where I figured most hangover gods hung out during the day.
My luck ran out when I stepped into the elevator and saw the only other passenger inside: Martin Warrington, Helen’s estranged husband. For once, he was alone, without Helen to hide behind.
“Hello, Martin,” I said, unable to be completely rude and ignore him.
“ Brooklyn,” he said. “I’m glad I ran into you.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I made a face. I guess I could be a little rude, after all.
“No.” He smiled contritely. “I’ve been meaning to track you down and force you to listen to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to apologize.”
“Apologize?” I said. “For what?”
“For being a consummate clod, of course.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “This isn’t easy to admit, but when Helen and I first got together, I was jealous of all her friends and I acted like a complete ass.”
“Well,” I started, but didn’t know what to say next. I couldn’t dispute his words, because they were true, and frankly, I was still suspicious of his motives.
He chuckled. He had to know what I was thinking. “I screwed up,” he said. “I admit it. But I’m trying to make up for lost time. I love Helen, and I’ve spent these last few days realizing how unhappy I made her, and I hate myself for it. I just want her to be happy.”
“I want that, too,” I said cautiously.
He smiled and it seemed sincere, not the least bit reptilian or smug. “You’re a good friend of hers and your opinion matters to her, so I’m hoping it’s not too late for us to be friends.”
“That might be asking a lot,” I said, but I tried to smile as I said it.
He grinned, relaxing a bit more. “I completely understand. Perhaps we can start over as semifriendly acquaintances, then.”
He held out his hand, and after a moment of consideration, I shook it, then said, “I’m not sure Helen cares what I think of you, Martin.”
“She cares,” he said. “A lot.”
“Okay, then here’s the deal. If you do anything to make her unhappy, all bets are off.”
“I love her,” he said simply. “I don’t want her to be unhappy.”
We stood in silence. To fill the void, I asked, “I guess this means you two aren’t filing for divorce?”
He smiled tightly. “She told you about the divorce?”
“She mentioned it.”
He exhaled heavily again. “Let’s just say I’m determined to change her mind.”
I studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Well, good luck with it.”
He laughed. “Thanks, I’ll need it.”
That might’ve been the first time I ever heard Martin laugh. A small miracle.
Bemused, I walked away from the elevator. That was weird, I thought. But good, I guess. I’d actually seen a glimmer of the nice guy Helen had always said he could be.
I walked into the restaurant and found my parents and Robin eating fresh fruit and oatmeal.
“What’s with the oatmeal?” I asked Robin as I sat. She never ate oatmeal, and I was in the mood for French toast and bacon.
“It’s good for me,” she mumbled.
“Since when?”
“Since your mother swears by it.”
I frowned at Mom. “You do?”
She nodded resolutely. “Robin needs more fiber.”
Robin smiled weakly. “I seem to be experiencing psychic energy interference.”
Glancing back at Mom, I said, “That’s not another euphemism for the colon thing, is it?”
She pressed her hands together in a prayer pose. “All is connected,” she said, evading the question. Which I guess meant, yeah, it all came back to the colon thing.
I turned back to Robin. “Are you sure you don’t just have a hangover?”
She yawned. “Probably. I was up kind of late.”
I sighed. “Okay, I’ll have the oatmeal.”
“Solidarity,” Robin whispered, and held out her fist to bump mine.
“Tomorrow, we’re starting a juice fast,” Mom said. “Then we’ll join the screaming prayer circle that meets at sunrise on the Salisbury Crags. Are you in?”
I coughed. “ Sunrise?”
“Absolutely,” Mom said. “That’s when the core fire of enlightenment is most rampant.”
“But that’s, like, in the morning.”
“Exactly.”
“No, thanks.”
“Your father will be there.”
“Really?” I turned to him. “Dad, are you going on a juice fast?”
“Sure,” Dad said, spearing a thick piece of bacon. “If cabernet is considered juice, I’m there.”
They didn’t seem to be suffering any lingering effects from the alcohol they’d consumed last night. Maybe there was something to the whole colon thing, after all.
I shivered as I remembered Mom’s statement from the night before. On second thought, I was going to forget I ever had that thought.
After breakfast, as we waited for the valet to bring the minivan around, a taxicab pulled up and Helen climbed out of the back, carrying three Jaeger shopping bags. She paid the driver, then rushed over to Mom and gave her a big hug.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in days,” she said, then laughed. “It’s crazy how life can change in a day.”
“It’s so funny you should say so,” I said as I pulled her away from the family and walked with her toward the wide sliding doors of the hotel. “Because I rode down in the elevator with Martin a little while ago.”
Her smile wobbled. “Oh, dear. Should I apologize?”
I frowned, then shook my head and chuckled. “No, strangely enough, he took care of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“He apologized to me,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “That’s weird.”
“I know.” I laughed. “But he did. He was actually nice about it, said he’s determined to talk you out of the divorce and make your relationship work. And he wants us to try to be friends.”
She tensed up. “He mentioned the divorce?”
“Just that he wants to change your mind about it.”
“And what did you say?”
“I wished him luck.” I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She breathed again. “I’m just surprised he approached you.”
“It couldn’t be avoided. We were stuck in the elevator together.”
She smiled. “At least he made the effort.”
I studied her. “Helen, are you going to go back to him?”
“I don’t know,” she said, waving her hands in frustration. “I’m so confused. He’s been on his best behavior. I should go find him.” She checked her watch. “Phooey. I think he just started a two-hour meeting.”
“If you’ve got two hours to kill, why don’t you come with us to Rosslyn Chapel?”
“Is that where you’re all going?”
“Yes.”
“It sounds like fun,” she said hesitantly.
“Fun and educational.”
She laughed. “I’d love to. I’ll give my bags to the bellman.”
“I’ll go with you.”
We checked her shopping bags and walked across the lobby. I hesitated, then finally asked what I’d wanted to know for days. “So, Helen, what about the thing with Kyle?”
“For goodness’ sake, Brooklyn, he was married.” She shook her head in distress. “What was I thinking? My feelings for him were obviously one-sided.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said lamely, having been there, done that. “He was an adorable cad.”
“I suppose so, but I completely deluded myself.”
“You thought he was in love with you.”
“Yes, and how pathetic does that sound?” she said, clutching my arm as we walked over to the valet station. “I’ve had to do some serious soul-searching in the past day or so. Was I really in love or was Kyle just the excuse I needed to leave Martin? Was I looking for another guy to take care of me? Am I that helpless? What do I really want? Martin and I had a good relationship in the beginning. Do I want to throw that away?”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Give yourself a break. You don’t have to do anything right this minute.”
She pursed her lips in thought, then nodded in agreement. “You’re right. I’m just going to enjoy the ride for now.”
“Great.”
“It feels good to talk to you about this. I’ve been so conflicted.”
“I’m always here for you,” I said, hugging her. Not that I could help much, because let’s face it, I was the last woman on earth to be writing the advice-to-the-lovelorn column. Never seemed to stop me, though.
The minivan had finally arrived from the parking garage and Robin was already at the wheel. Mom had the front passenger seat, so Helen and I climbed in the back with Dad.
“Helen’s coming with us,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Wonderful,” Mom said.
“Super,” Dad said, sliding over. “Buckle up, everyone.”
“The concierge gave me directions for a scenic route, so let’s hope we don’t get lost.” With that warning, Robin drove south out of the city down a busy two-lane highway. After a few miles, suburbia turned to rural farm-land, with mown fields and low hedges. In one field, six large haystacks were piled in a neat row.
“It looks like a van Gogh painting,” Mom said with a sigh. “I want to get a picture of that on the way home.”
After twenty minutes, Robin turned onto a slightly hilly, residential street and followed it until the road ended in a wide, well-paved parking lot. As she pulled into a space, the car lurched forward and she pumped the brakes a few times.
“Everything okay?” Mom asked.
“I’m just not used to the brakes,” Robin said with a shrug. “British cars take some getting used to.”
I looked around at the smoothly paved surfaces and shiny brick wall surrounding a new visitors’ center. “They’ve upgraded this whole area.”
Robin nodded. “I’ll say. It used to be a dirt lot.”
Hollywood crews had invaded Rosslyn Chapel a few years back to film one of the climactic scenes in The Da Vinci Code. I’d heard that the producers had paid Rosslyn Chapel a potful of money to upgrade the place. It was a good thing, since the book and film had been responsible for bringing thousands of thundering hordes of tourists to the small, fragile chapel, disrupting the neighborhood and challenging the Rosslyn estate to take drastic measures before the church was completely destroyed.
A semipermanent canopy and scaffolding covered the ancient roof and sides, protecting the chapel from the rain that seeped into the walls and softened the stone.
We stopped to buy tickets at the clean, modern visitors’ center, noted the addition of a small but fully stocked café, then walked across the grounds to the chapel.
As we stepped inside the dark church, my first thought was how impossible it would be to describe Rosslyn Chapel in just a few words. Enigmatic, charming and otherworldly were several that came to mind, but they weren’t enough.
Even though I’d visited before, it was still a shock to realize how small it was, only thirty-five feet across and maybe twice that in length. It was also darker than expected, and so incredibly ornate; with carvings on every surface of every wall and ceiling, it was almost overwhelming.
Every inch of carved stonework seemed to hold some esoteric meaning. There were symbols from every biblical lesson, every saint, every sin, every virtue. The vast and complex story of creation was carved into one wall. The history of Scotland was represented, including a small sculpture of Robert the Bruce and his well-known heart. One prominent pillar showed angels playing every musical instrument imaginable. Mythological creatures ran amok. Even Scandinavian dragons dwelled at the base of one pillar, with vines streaming from their mouths.
Signs and symbols of the Knights Templar and the Freemasons who’d built the structure were everywhere. It was said that the only reason Rosslyn Chapel was spared by Cromwell during Britain ’s own civil war was that Cromwell was a Freemason.
Mom walked around, staring up at the ceiling with its thousands of small carved flowers and stars. When she bumped into one of the pillars, I hurried over and put my arm through hers.
“Mom, why don’t we explore together for a while?”
“Oh, that would be fun,” she said, patting my arm. “This place rocks. I’m getting all sorts of supreme vibes, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, I feel the power.” I actually did. You couldn’t help but feel the energy of the place.
I took her into the Lady Chapel that ran along one end of the church and pointed out a green man carved on the end of a protruding arch that jutted from the ceiling near the altar of Saint Andrew.
“What in the world?” She moved in as close as she could get and stared at the strange, ancient pagan fertility symbol whose round face was always shown surrounded by leaves. Green men could be found all over Rosslyn Chapel, carved on the walls, the ceiling, the pillars, and hidden among the seven deadly sins.
One school of thought claimed that the little green man symbolized man’s capacity for great goodness versus his corresponding facility for evil-whatever that meant. Some said the story of Robin Hood had its origins in the green man legend. The eerie thing was, green men had been found carved in the old stone walls of churches and abbeys all over Britain, depicted as demon, trickster, or lord of the forest. His true meaning remained a primordial mystery.
Surrounded by all the symbols of freemasonry in the pillars and the walls, I felt my thoughts begin to run wild. It occurred to me as I stood staring at a carving of an angel playing bagpipes that there might be some deeper significance to the Robert Burns poems than an illicit love affair and a secret baby.
What if the story of Rabbie and the princess was true? What if the royal family had known about the baby being Robert Burns’s child all along? What if they had not only refused to allow the upstart, rabble-rousing Freemason Scotsman to be an acknowledged link in the royal lineage, but also decided to do something about it? Burns had been ill ever since he’d left Edinburgh and died prematurely at the age of thirty-seven.
What if his death had been less than natural? What if he’d been murdered?
“What if you’re hallucinating?” I muttered as I shook my head to clear away the murderous thoughts. “Jeezo, Wainwright, chill out.”
I loved a conspiracy theory as much as the next girl, but that was ridiculous. In my defense, it probably wasn’t the first time someone had suffered acute delirium inside Rosslyn Chapel.
“What’d you say, honey?” Mom asked.
“Nothing.” I smiled gaily, causing her to frown.
“What’s this?” I asked quickly, pointing to the arch above us. It seemed to distract her as she checked her brochure.
“The danse macabre,” she explained. “See the little skeletons walking next to their earthly bodies? They’re supposed to represent death’s supremacy over mankind.”
“Cheery,” I said.
“I know.” She mused, “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out these old Freemason dudes were once Deadheads.”
It was useless to point out that the chapel had been built over six hundred years ago, while the Grateful Dead and their Deadhead followers had come into being only forty or so years ago, not the other way around. Mom had a whole different way of dealing with that pesky space-time continuum thing.
And who was to say she wasn’t right? I thought, staring at the perky little carved skeletons. In my current state, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them pop out of the wall and start grooving to “Iko Iko.”
And now that I thought about it, that carving of the last prince of Orkney, William St. Clair, over in the corner near the entrance to the baptistry, bore a striking resemblance to Jerry Garcia.
Oh, good. More hallucinating.
We caught up with Dad downstairs in the sacristy, an austere space with none of the ornate carvings found in the main church. Here, six feet below ground level, was where a number of tombs of the Rosslyn barons and Orkney princes were located. If there were any ghosts in Rosslyn Chapel, I figured they slept here at night.
“Who’s ready for lunch?” Dad said, not a moment too soon.
We all blinked like baby possums as we stepped outside into the glaring sunshine. After wandering around the lovely grounds for another twenty minutes, we decided to buy sandwiches and tea and water for Dad in the café and eat in the car.
On the drive back, I sat with Robin in the front seat while Mom and Dad started a songfest in back. Dad wanted to start with sixties hits, but Mom insisted on Scottish tunes. She began to sing “ Loch Lomond ” and we all joined in.
On the chorus, my father’s tenor voice filled the car and made my eyes sting with pride.
“Oh! Ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road,
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye,
But me and my true love will never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”
Mom kissed him on the cheek and I saw that her eyes were damp, too.
“Second verse is yours, Helen,” Dad said jovially.
“But I don’t know the words.”
So they just sang the chorus a few more times, and Helen laughed a lot, making me smile. I figured Mom and Dad had started the singing to coax her out of her shell, and it was working. She seemed to be her old self again, relaxed and upbeat. Maybe she and Martin would work things out, after all. I hoped not, but that was just me. I would give him the benefit of the doubt if it made her happy.
I turned to face the front window and sighed. Not with happiness, exactly, but I felt good. I thought about Derek and wondered what he was doing today, wondered what might happen tonight if… well, hmm. I’d let the possibilities percolate for a while. Otherwise, I’d be a basket case by the time I saw him next.
I sighed. It felt great to get away from thoughts of killers and falling bookshelves, not to mention one very recent hit-and-run attempt. Cold prickled my arms at the thought of that black car zooming straight at me. I stiffened, causing my back to cramp up, so I slowly stretched from side to side to ease the lower back pain. I was way too young to feel this old.
The backseat group continued their chatter, so I turned to Robin to talk. “How’s it going?”
She gripped the steering wheel with a look of grim determination. “Great.”
“Something wrong with the steering?” I asked.
“It’s the brakes,” she said. “They’re weak.”
“Can you downshift?” I asked.
“It’s an automatic.”
She took the next curve too fast and Mom grabbed hold of the back of my seat.
“Slow down there, Parnelli,” Dad said with a chuckle.
“Sorry,” Robin said, but her jaw was tight and her lips were thin as she held on to the wheel.
We hit a stretch of straight road that ran through flat green fields, and Robin pumped the brakes a few times.
“Nothing,” she muttered, then tried the hand brake.
“Nothing?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Crap.”
Dad caught the vibe and moved forward, wedging himself between the two front seats. “What’s up?”
“Brakes are fried,” Robin explained.
I realized we were heading for a sharp curve to the right, then straight ahead into a more populated area. “Turn off the engine,” I suggested.
“Can’t,” Dad told me. “The steering will lock up if you do.”
“Crap again.”
“Get off the road, now,” Dad said firmly, pointing to the wide field to our left.
Robin’s head whipped around frantically. “But it’s-”
“Now,” he directed, still pointing as if he could guide her along. “You can do it. Ease over the shoulder and keep going, toward those haystacks.”
“Everything okay?” Mom asked.
“Brakes,” Dad explained calmly. “We’re going into that field. Now.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Mom said, keeping upbeat as she pulled Dad back. “Seat belt on, Jimmy.”
Robin jerked the wheel off to the left and the minivan bumped and bucked like a wild horse over the low rows of hedges lining the highway.
The seemingly smooth field was full of ruts and mounds, and we were bounced and thrown like a dinghy on a raging sea.
“Oof,” Dad said when his head hit the car’s ceiling.
“Oh, dear.” Mom’s voice trembled.
Helen screamed.
My already aching back was wrenched from side to side; then my head struck the headliner hard and I saw stars.
“Damn it!” Robin swore as she hit one last deep pothole.
The car slammed into a haystack with a jarring thud followed by a deafening explosion.