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letsplayeternity · 1 year ago
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No but you don't understand this is his face when Penelope tells him she's the laughingstock of the entire ton and of course she never expected him to court her. This boy just got this heart broken because THAT'S HIS FRIEND. That's his FRIEND, more than anything else, and he does not see her in the way that she sees herself (he's not fully ready to truly see her yet) but he is CERTAIN she is miles above the rest of the entire bloody ton and that she does not see it herself BREAKS HIS HEART.
AND she is clearly in pain now and THERE IS NOTHING HE CAN DO BECAUSE HE WAS A PART OF IT. He had promised to take care of her, to "always look after her" and HE DIDN'T. He loves her (just how much he loves her he is not ready to realise yet) and he has let HER down. She was the only person who truly saw him as a separate person from his million siblings and he was never "another bridgerton" to her, and like we talk about Compass!Colin and how he ALWAYS sees Penelope, but he DIDN'T SEE HER, not when it mattered and HE BROKE HER HEART. That's the face of a man who knows he has become no better than the Fifes or Cressidas of the Ton and the BOY IS DISTRAUGHT.
Now excuse me while I go throw myself off of a cliff.
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sea-owl · 1 year ago
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Little sisters Edwina, Posy, and Felicity terrorizing their older sister's stalker lover (aka the ABC brothers) is such a funny concept to me especially when I'm imagining actual little girls who probably don't even reach past the brothers' shoulders and haven't gone through puberty yet successfully bullying and cockblocking ABC like it's their sole reason to live. Then the BridgertonBros are tearing their hairs out because they are LOSING to a bunch of little girls. And the funniest part of this to me would be if Kate, Sophie, and Pen are slightly oblivious to all of the chaos and warring behind their backs like they know their little sisters are menaces to society but they are absolute angels who thrive in their older sister's affections so they couldn't be that bad, right??? And absolutely do NOT believe a word those horny Bridgerton men are saying about their precious little sisters.
Pfft this makes me think of an AU of where the Sharmas came to London early because they can't wait for Edwina to come to age to debute so Kate is trying to find a good match for her family. In an attempt to keep the Penwood estate in the Gunningworth family, Richard legitimized Sophie as the heiress, so now she's looking for a match in London too. Penelope was debuted early at 17 despite asking her mama to wait another year.
Anthony and Benedict are trying their damn best to woo Kate and Sophie at the balls. Unfortunately for Anthony, his reputation as a rake is coming back to bite him in the ass as is his duty as head of the family with Simon and Daphne coming up with this fake courtship scheme.
Benedict needs a better strategy than following Sophie around like a lost puppy. She thinks he's lonely, and since she actually knows his name without confusing him for one of his brothers, he's coming to her for a friendly chat.
Colin is sitting back, laughing at his brothers as he throws in his own matchmaking scheme or two. He may also be sticking to Penelope's side like glue claiming he wants to spend these dreadful balls with a friend when in reality he's claiming Penelope for himself while trying to plan how to best court her so there's no way she says no.
Enter 17 year olds Edwina and Posy, and 10 year old Felicity. All of whom are protective of their big sisters, and believe their sisters deserve better than some horny Bridgerton. Look at them! Those Bridgertons stare at their sisters like they're gonna eat them! They're not gonna take their sisters away!
Edwina believes her big sister deserves a love match, and no Capitol R rake is gonna give that to Kate! Kate may say she's looking for a marriage of convenience, but Edwina knows Kate is a romantic underneath. If only she were a year older so she may debute as well and she could truly see how these so called gentlemen act when they think no one is watching at the balls instead of only seeing them in their drawing room. One more year, Edwina tells herself. She has to convince Kate that she can help take part of the responsibilities of finding an advantageous match that way Kate does not choose the most advantageous of her current suitors. Which sadly for Edwina is that damn Bridgerton rake.
Posy also wishes she was another year older. That way, she could be at Sophie's side during balls. During their lifetime, Posy truly believes Sophie is the only one who truly loves her, and Posy loves Sophie more than anyone else in the whole world. She knows Sophie has lived an unfair life and Posy is determined to make sure the rest of her sister's life is filled with love. That starts by having her find a love match. Something she believes the bohemian Bridgerton would not be able to do. Love at first sight Posy's ass, that man is just horny!
Felicity has believed Colin to be a wolf in sheep's clothing for years, just waiting for her beloved sister to debute. Sadly, their families are too entangled with their mothers' friendship, Penelope's friendship with Eloise and Colin, and Felicity's own friendship with Hyacinth. There's no way Colin and Penelope wouldn't have interacted with one another. But it has also worked in Felicity's favor with their families being so entertwined. No one questions seeing one another in the other's house, and Bridgertons' prank wars have also definitely helped Felicity stop that horny Bridgerton's plan more than once. Colin is too fickle. He'll get bored and run off to some other country. Felicity will not stand to see her sister ignored by a husband after she has been ignored the majority of her life.
Edwina and Posy, who have become friends with Penelope and Eloise, also use the Bridgertons sibling rivalry to their advantage. Eloise loves messing with her brothers, so she's down for Edwina's and Posy's schemes.
At some point after Anthony, Benedict, and Colin ask for the parents' approval, they have to face the little sisters for their approval, too.
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snowbellewells · 5 years ago
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The Lawman, the Thief, and the Outlaw
by: @snowbellewells
(Here we are, at long last!! I am so excited to present the Rio Bravo AU I have been thinking about and wanting to write for so long.  As we are now just a little under three weeks away from Netflix’s “Heartstrings” and seeing Colin as a cowboy, I had to get going on this and channel that excitement.  If you have ever seen the old John Wayne/Dean Martin/Ricky Nelson/Walter Brennan Western “Rio Bravo”, then this will follow a lot of the basic plot points, though I will take some of my own twists and turns as well. I definitely have to give it some inspirational credit, as well as @theonceoverthinker for her help with a few plot issues I was trying to wrangle, and for the lovely ladies on the Discord chat: @kmomof4  @profdanglaisstuff @ultraluckycatnd @darkcolinodonorgasm @teamhook @wellhellotragic  for helping me with title suggestions.
Please enjoy, and I’d love to hear what you think of this opening!!)
Summary: Sheriff Killian Jones has done his best to leave behind a troubled past and bring law and order to the town of Blanchard Ridge. However, when he upholds his duty in the face of the most feared and dangerous outlaw gang in the area, allies are few and he dreads trapping them in the same situation he finds himself. The small Western town is about to become a powder keg, and one lawman, his deputies, and a resourceful woman too stubborn for her own good are all that stand in the way of bloodshed and lawlessness...
Chapter One
Sun beat down brutal and unyielding from the hot August afternoon sky onto the packed dirt of Main Street in Blanchard Ridge while the town was sleepy and still; not even the bark of a dog or the clop of hooves from a passing rider disturbed the dusty hours before the evening meal. The stage was due in at four, but as far as Killian Jones’ sharp gaze could reach from where he sat, chair tilted back on the wooden slats of the porch, appearing relaxed and lazy, nothing moved in the time of the ‘siesta’ as their neighbors just a few hours south in Pioche would call it. 
Though all appeared normal - more still than normal, even - in the sleepy little town he was meant to watch after, Jones was not about to drop his guard; he had learned long ago that calm could turn to chaos on a dime, and he aimed to be ready when the storm came. Idly, he flicked his pocket knife along the grain of the whittling stick he worked as he sat surveying the nearly deserted street, hoping to convey boredom despite every sense being keenly attuned, nerves jangling in a way that warned him something was coming - even if he didn’t yet know what it might be. He hadn’t survived as long as he had, nor gained the reputation he possessed, by growing careless, and he trusted his instincts. He slowly let his hand slide down casually, almost without notice, making certain his favorite Colt Single Action was in its holster, before going back to the soft humming and carving he’d employed since he took up his seat just past the noonday meal, upon his return from lunch at the Nolans’, and since his deputy, Scarlet, had taken off for the afternoon. 
Reflecting for a moment as he watched heat shimmer in waves before his eyes, Jones knew that he was far from the typical lawman, even in these rough territories, and the irony of his ending up here wasn’t lost on him. He didn’t give himself leave to think much on the twists and turns his life had taken, and he tried not to waste much time debating whether or not he deserved the opportunity and trust he had been granted, seeing as how neither did anyone a lick of good. But on long, lonesome afternoons such as this one, when the parched brown earth and flat, monotonous chaparral stretched before him as far as the eye could see - such a contrast from the verdant rolling hills and cool breezes of Ireland, from whence he’d immigrated with his father and brother more years ago than he could rightly count - he did sometimes wonder how he had wound up here in the desert. He was a haunted man, and he didn’t like to leave the gate open to thoughts of the past any longer than he could help it, so he slammed it closed before they could go much further. Suffice to say, he’d been offered a second chance on the right side of the law, to be part of something that wouldn’t lead to jail, lynching, or death in some back alley from a knife in the back, and he had taken it.
There was only one inmate in the jail behind him, but it was one more than usual in the peaceful settlement where folks generally got along and abided by the few simple laws there were. It had him on edge, this Felix Nightshade in their cells, and it was why he had sent Will out for a few hours when he had, so they would both be around once night fell. They’d bunk in the jail, just to be cautious. Nightshade himself might only be a bank and stagecoach robber, interchangeable with any other, but word had it that he was the lieutenant to Pan Malcolm himself, the feared and bloodthirsty outlaw who had lead the notorious Lost Boys gang terrorizing the state for some years. Killian expected a rescue attempt to come before the Federal Marshals came to fetch Nightshade and take him into custody, and if so, he reckoned they  would strike under cover of darkness. It was what he would do himself.
He was standing to stretch his long legs and lean frame from the stiffness of sitting in one position for too long when the ground beneath his feet began to tremble and there was a rumbling sound like distant thunder suddenly drawing near. A cloud of dust kicked up on the horizon and drew ever closer, until Killian began to think that he had been wrong to surmise his adversary would wait for nightfall, when he recognized what was coming. His stance eased and his hand once more slid away from his six shooter as ‘yips’ and ‘haws’ rang out with the sound of hooves and the lowing of cattle. A train was driving their herd into town.
From under the awning, the sheriff waited to see if he knew any of the riders, but it was the distinctive brand on the cows themselves as they jostled into view taking up the whole street in a lumbering river, that let him know whose livestock had arrived. The ornate “O” interlocked with a “Q” told him the whole lot of them were a former compadre of his, Robin Sherwood’s, and coming from his ranch out on the Rio Bravo river, a prime bit of real estate that had been in his second wife’s family for generations. Another former immigrant, and once ne’er-do-well like Killian himself, Rob had found love, married a powerful heiress and become one of the most prominent cattle ranchers around, going respectable with impressive style and giving his spread the name Outlaw’s Queen.  Jones didn’t know Rob’s wife all that well, didn’t even see his friend that often, as the ride out to their land was long and he didn’t often give himself days off, but she was rumored to be quite the lady. Robin truly did treat her as royalty… and was happy to do so.
Chuckling, Killian moved forward as the herd cleared through, driven into the holding pens down by the livery kept for such wagon trains passing through, then came down the steps to meet Sherwood as he swung from the saddle, smiling widely and already calling out a greeting.   The rest of his riders, including the young orphan he had taken under his wing upon hiring him as a ranch hand back in the spring, moved the cattle on, slowing them as they neared the large corral and began to guide them through the gate.
Killian had started down the weathered plank steps of the boardwalk to the packed dirt of the street, and already had his hand out to shake Rob’s, even as his old friend moved forward in a similar fashion, when the loud crack of a gunshot ran clearly in the afternoon air. Even over the lowing and stamping of the herd, the sound was unmistakable, ricocheting off the buildings and startling everyone nearby, who ducked instinctively. Unfortunately, the bullet had already found a target. Whether its intended one or not, the damage was the same, and Robin Sherwood listed to the side horribly, crashing to his knees at the foot of the steps, his hand going almost dazedly to where blood was already seeping through his shirts at the ribs.
“Rob!” Killian called out an alarmed warning too late to do the other man any good. Even as Killian hurried the last few steps to where his friend was slumped in the street, still breathing, though painfully labored, but unable to right himself from his knees where he had crumpled. “Mate, hang on,” Jones added fervently, as he knelt to survey the damage. Where the bullet had entered, if it had exited cleanly or was still inside, played a huge part in what could be done for the rancher. And even as he looked, Killian was also remaining in a crouch himself, hoping to make as small a target as possible for the unseen gunman, and keep an eye on their surroundings in case more shots were yet to come.
Chaos had erupted around them at the crack of the gunshot; the straggling cows not yet in the corral threatened to stampede in fright, and the rest of Sherwood’s riders darted here and there, whooping and hollering to keep their animals in line. All except one of them -
Killian swallowed back an unwanted lump of emotion trying to burn its way up his throat at the sound of young Henry’s cracked voice crying out an anguished “No!” over the melee, his horse thundering up to the hitching post near them and his gangly legs swinging into Killian’s view as he dismounted and slid to his knees beside them, looking to the sheriff for some sort of reassurance. Killian honestly didn’t know if it was the living hope still alight in the youth’s wide brown eyes - not yet having lived long enough in the crooked old world to have lost faith in things turning out alright - or if it was the vivid flash of horrific memory, bringing his brother’s pained face, as he last remembered seeing it, swimming with ghastly clarity before his eyes too quickly for him to fully shutter it away. Jones didn’t have time for sentiment; the shooter needed to be found. He also needed to be certain no other citizens were hurt, and see to Rob’s wounds once the dust settled. It looked as though the injury had been a clean through-and-through shot, and if he could get Sherwood to Nolan’s without his losing too much blood, he thought David’s pretty, fresh-faced wife: cook, seamstress, and pretty much anything else a person could call for, could stitch him up while they got Doc Hopper to make sure no infection set in. 
The melee around them seemed to be settling down; the riders herding the rest of the cattle into the pen safely and no further shots coming from wherever the assailant’s hiding place had been. The thought that the bullet in Rob’s side had quite probably had his own name on it, was another thing Killian Jones had no time to ruminate on. Clearly the shooter had turned tail when they’d botched the job of taking the Sheriff out of commission, and ridden back for further instructions rather than risking discovery. From what Jones had heard of Malcolm and the precision with which he expected his orders to be followed, the law man reckoned that bloke had every bit as unpleasant a few hours in front of him as Robin did with people poking and prodding at his side.
Pushing all his numerous worries and concerns back for the moment, Killian met the eyes of the lanky young man before him, “Henry, isn’t it?”
The boy nodded, not saying anything, but acknowledging the sheriff’s words with a determined furrow of his brow, trying manfully to hold in his obvious fear and worry for his adopted father. Killian was grateful for the youth’s gumption, even if he hated asking more yet. He knew well how much Sherwood must mean to the lad. When Henry had arrived in town back in the spring, by far the oldest child on the Orphan Train that had driven through seeking homes to take their charges in, it had been clear that a boy of nearly fourteen was not the age most childless families were hoping to start out with. Robin, however, having lost a first wife and young son who would have been about Henry’s age to the influenza years prior, hadn’t hesitated for a second when Killian had mentioned the boy’s plight to him.  It did some good to even Jones’ toughened and grizzled outlook on the world to see that the arrangement had worked out better than he could have hoped. Aiming to put some semblance of encouragement in his tone he added, “I think he’ll recover if we can stop the bleeding and get him sewn up,” he offered. 
Moving to brace Robin on one side, and gesturing Henry to do the same under his arm on the right, between the two of them they got Sherwood to his feet, thought unsteadily and leaning on their combined strength. In a shuffling walk they had soon guided him across the way to the inn and restaurant, finding its proprietor, David Nolan, already at the door and coming to help usher them in to safety, his petite, dark-headed wife Mary right behind.
In a better moment, Killian might have shaken his head and laughed at the pair of them, never far from one another and both with hearts as wide as the Rio Grande itself, always trying to do what they could for anyone in need who came to their door. He’d had Mary’s cool, soft hands fluttering over him more than once after some on-the-job injury in the line of duty, and so he knew the woman must already be itching to get her hands on Rob and do what she could to ease his pain.
To speak his mind plainly, Killian would have been forced to admit that he’d often wondered how two people as fine as the Nolans, whose very nature and bearing spoke of class and manners unheard of this far West, had ended up in this rugged New Mexican outpost. They both were too kind, too open and trusting for their own good, and Killian spent more time than he would admit to hoping they weren’t robbed or taken advantage of by whatever rough characters might come riding through. Yet beneath the surface, where he sensed there may once have been a sheltered, easy life that would never have been enough for either one of them, he had long since decided the pair must have a wealth of strength he hadn’t at first been able to see. They’d come to Blanchard Ridge and opened the inn not long after Killian had pinned on the Sheriff’s badge, and neither one seemed to have a thought in their heads towards leaving. 
Once they got Rob laid out on a bed in the closest possible empty room, Mary began preparing hot water, clean washcloths, and other materials she needed, while her husband set out with the young ranchhand to fetch the Doctor. Sherwood had clung to his senses as long as possible, but he seemed to be drifting away from awareness, now that he was settled and had reached relative safety. Killian made sure the lady had no need of his assistance, to which she shooed him away to go watch for the others’ return.
Striding out in the main dining area, Jones set up watch at the door, not as much for the doctor, Nolan, and Henry as to see what was happening in the main street. Gunfire was as unusual as he could possibly make it in the center of their small outpost, and so after the ruckus of the last hour the dirt thoroughfare was deserted, people having no wish to be caught in the crossfire - whatever was going on.
His first instinct, the gunfighter’s fire within that had pushed him along until settling there and seeking out a modicum of peace, even if he had to keep it himself, had him edgy, chomping at the bit to get out after the culprit firing on himself or his townspeople in broad daylight. But the lawman he had become had to allow his temper to subside; he couldn’t lash out with the need for vengeance and retaliation. And, if the shot hadn’t been meant to kill him outright, then it had no doubt been meant to send him chasing after shadows rather than staying on guard with his prisoner awaiting the Federal Marshall.
The only thing that was stirring as he continued to stare out at the street before him was the cloud of dust drawing closer and signalling the arrival of the four o’clock stagecoach. They pulled up down the way by the post office, before heading on to the livery, for those horses to be watered, brushed down, and a new team hitched up before the stage headed on to the next settlement. One rider jumped down from up top to run the mail pouch in to the postmaster. The whole routine carried on exactly as usual, until a dainty booted foot stepped out onto the wooden boardwalk from inside the stage. A deep green traveling dress, accented in places with an overlay of black lace, drew his eye up to a stunning, pale feminine face, a strong chin and pert little nose, though the rest of the unknown woman’s visage was hidden by an artfully tilted hat with wide brim to shade her face. Now that was unusual; visitors to the Ridge were exceedingly rare.
He tried to move on from the arrestingly lovely sight, as the woman surveyed her surroundings and then began walking in his direction towards the inn, an enticing sway in her step. No call to be gawping at her like some untried greenhorn, no matter how long it had been since --   No, no time for those thoughts either. He was standing lookout over the main way in and out of town, the jail, and his friend; that was more than enough to focus on.
However, as the lady neared the entrance, Killian did open the door for her, touching the brim of his hat slightly, with an easy dip of his chin and a simple, “Afternoon, Ma’am.” 
She raised her head enough for beguiling green eyes to be seen from beneath her own chapeau. They twinkled with some bit of mischief and humor, as she replied, “Why thank you, Sheriff,” with a pointed glance to his badge. “Good afternoon to you.”  She then brushed by him so closely that he felt her warmth, making the small hairs on his arm stand on end, and caught the inviting scent of apple blossom, and the cold mix of leather and cinnamon along with it.
Was it only an hour or so ago that the town had appeared sleepily uneventful? Sheriff Killian Jones sensed now that his trouble was just starting, and in more ways than one.
Tagging some who may enjoy: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @let-it-raines @revanmeetra87 @linda8084 @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @effulgentcolors @thisonesatellite @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snidgetsafan @shireness-says @spartanguard @winterbaby89
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winterisakillerwrites · 5 years ago
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Love & Great Buildings - Chapter Two
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Chapter: 2/19
Character/Relationship: Tom Hiddleston/Rosemary Mathews (OFC)
Genre: Romance/Angst
Summary: Three years have passed and a chance encounter brings Tom and Rosie together again. Can time make any difference or are they doomed to repeat their mistakes.
Rating: M
Author’s Notes/Warnings:  This is part nine of Last Minutes & Lost Evenings. Many thanks to @redfoxwritesstuff​ for listening to me ramble incessantly about  this story and being a sounding board when I needed it. You are a lifesaver, even if your stories break my heart.
Previous
CHAPTER TWO
  “So, how was it?” Jules fired as Rosemary pushed her way into Stories Untold the next morning.
 She shot the tall redhead a glare which softened upon seeing the mug of coffee that had been thrust in her direction. She grabbed it and took a grateful sip. Caffeine, she mused. Heaven.
 Seeing Rosemary’s shoulders relax, Jules plowed onward. “Details. I need details. Did you have fun? How much did we raise? Did you talk to anyone famous?” Her eyes had taken on the manic gleam that Rosemary customarily saw only during the run up to a major holiday sales run or anticipated date nights. There was little that could be done to soften the fervor, but it might be postponed…
 Rosemary threw her free hand up in plaintive surrender. “One question at a time, Jules, please. My blood caffeine level is not up to your rapid fire demands just yet. Take pity on me.”
 A sigh was Jules only answer and Rosemary took the welcome reprieve as a chance to finish her coffee and actually place her belongings in the office. And once her coffee had been finished and her purse and coat secured, she’d surrendered wholly to Jules’ excited frenzy.
 Yes, it had been a rather nice time. And yes, she had in fact rubbed elbows with more than a few well knowns. Jules had been particularly interested in her chat with Colin Firth. And yes, they’d managed to raise a great deal more readies than either of them had anticipated. Jules beamed, demanding as many details as Rosemary could remember. She’d indulged as best she could while they filled the register and readied the store for opening.
 Rosemary did not, however, once mention her encounter with Tom. While Jules had cooled in her dislike over the years, Rosemary hadn’t felt the need to rock the boat. Besides, the chances of another run in were slight. They, after all, had managed to avoid one another over the last three years; bringing up him at this juncture would be foolish.
 The sales through lunch were stronger than she’d expected. And once Evan had come in, Rosemary had retired to the back to wage war on the seemingly never-ending paperwork in the back office. Orders in particular had become her pet project of the week. She’d managed to get a quarter of the way through the next months’ proposed work up for both stores when distraction reared its head.
 “Have you seen the pictures?” Jules voice carried from the hallway. “From the gala?”
 Rosemary looked at Jules with momentary confusion. “Pictures?” Then sense came flooding back. Charity event. Photographers. Of course there had been pictures. “God, sorry. Still not firing on all cylinders. I take it I’m in some?” She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Academically, she’d known it was a possibility but hadn’t really taken the time to think it through.
 Jules cocked an eyebrow. “Not a lot.” She paused to fish something from her pocket. “Though I must say, I am practically green with envy over this one with you and Colin Firth.” She held up her phone and flashed said photograph.
 Rosemary grabbed the phone and studied the shot briefly before handing it back. “Huh. Not too shabby.” It was a nice photograph. She’d looked remarkably put together and not at all discomposed; a feat indeed considering who she’d been standing next to. He was Mr. Darcy after all. With a shake of her head she returned her attention to the latest order sheet.
 Jules, however, remained in the doorway in silence for several moments. Rosemary could feel her eyes burning into the back of her head. “Yes?”
 “Tom was there.” It was a statement, not a question.
 Rosemary sighed. “Yes, he was. We bumped into each other before the auction.”
 “And you didn’t see fit to mention this because…”
 “It wasn’t anything major. We saw each other, made small talk. What else was I supposed to do? Avoiding him or flat out refusing to speak to him would create more questions than it was worth. Besides it’s been three years. It’s water under the bridge.”
 Jules looked less than convinced. “You are in a few. With him.”
 “Oh?” She hoped her tone did not belie the disconcerting feeling that flooded through her. “He was at my table for a spell. We chatted. I guess it was bound to happen.”
 “Rose…”
 She sighed and dropped the papers still in her hand onto the desk “Jules, honey, I’m fine. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I had feared it would be. We were both adults and handled ourselves accordingly. No harm, no foul.”
 Jules narrowed her eyes but did not utter a word.
 Rosemary shook her head, “I know what you’re thinking, but really I’m okay. I moved on, we both have. He’s not a horrible person, he never was. We just don’t work. And that’s okay.”
 “I know, Rose. I know. I just…You know what, never mind.” She shook her head and relaxed her shoulders. “I’m going to head back out there and make sure Evan’s not being eaten alive.” She smiled.
 Rosemary shook her head, laughing as well. “Don’t bother; a little chaos is good for him. Builds character.”
 “I’ll just let him know you said that. I’m sure it’ll be a comfort as he nurses his wounds.”
 She laughed in earnest and shifted her attention back to the waiting forms. “He’ll deal.”
                                                              ___
  “Can you move that display about a foot and a half to the left?” With a good natured groan Max, the newest edition to the Stories Untold family, shifted the display, again. Rosemary studied it critically and then smiled. “Perfect.”
 The newest Stories location had been officially open for a week and, save for a few minor hiccups, had been running smoothly. Sales looked promising and foot traffic was slow but steady. And while Jules’ reports showed that the main store was holding its own, Rosemary still felt the familiar flutter of unease.
 It was silly, she knew, and most days she could pay it rather little mind. This would be her first major change to the business she’d loved and cherished fiercely since she’d taken sole ownership seven years prior. She wanted this to succeed; wanted it desperately.
 “You sure? Like completely, 100%, can’t be any surer, sure?” Max raised his sandy eyebrow which pulled a hearty laugh from everyone in the room and a quirked eyebrow from Rosemary.
 “Watch your cheek, young man.” The laughter in her eyes belied her stern tone. She shook her head and sighed. “Yes. I’m sure. Now, back to the stock room with you; those boxes aren’t going to stock themselves.” Max grumbled good-naturedly as he lumbered off to complete his assigned task.
 Rosemary sighed and turned her attention back to the front counter. “Alright people, let’s get back to work. We’ve got ten minutes before we open.”
 A controlled melee erupted around her; Hanna, the store’s assistant manager, flew to the register, and finished loading the till. Alex and Gabe, stocking and general floor help, ran around the main sales floor making sure everything was settled and ready for the start of business. Rosemary smiled at the chaos.
 Yeah, she thought, this will definitely be a challenge.
                                                       ____
  “Excuse me, do you know if you’ve got the new Carter novel in?”
 Rosemary turned, setting the box she’d been carrying onto the counter. She smiled at the woman standing before her. “Let me check.” A few quick taps on the tablet sitting by the registers later and Rosemary nodded. “Yes we do. It will be just here.” She motioned for the woman to follow her.
 Book obtained, the woman thanked Rosemary profusely, quickly paid for her purchase, and hurried from the store, leaving the jangle of the door chime in her wake. Rosemary turned her attention back to the box she’d sat on the counter. With any luck it should be the business cards and other various promotional materials they’d been due a week and a half ago.
 Box cutter in hand, Rosemary had seen but not registered the figure that had entered the store and now stood near the counter.
 “We seem to have a habit of meeting like this,” a familiar, warm voice chuckled. Startled, Rosemary dropped the box cutter and snapped her gaze up. Tom stood, a small but genuine smile lighting his features. “Hello.”
 Rosemary blinked at him for several moments before remembering herself and returning his greeting. “Hi.” She let out a small, nervous laugh and quickly collected herself once more. “You, good sir, seem to have a habit of scaring years off my lifespan.”
 Tom held his hands up in apology. “As always, that was never my intent.”
 “So, Mr. Hiddleston, what brings you in today?” Professional, she told herself, I just need to keep myself professional and I can keep my head.
 It was his turn to chuckle nervously, “You,” he answered with a smile, “Actually.”
 Rosemary was taken aback but fought to hide it. “Oh? And you knew I’d be here because?”
 Tom laughed in earnest. “The store has always been your baby. There isn’t a chance in hell that you’d not be here for the newest launch.”
 Rosemary nodded slowly and rested her hands on the counter. “That still doesn’t really clear anything up.” She watched Tom blink in confusion and stamped down the small part of her heart that fluttered stubbornly in her chest.
 She watched Tom rub the back of his neck with his left hand. “I saw the sign for the shop a few weeks back and was intrigued,” he started, eyes rising to hers. “I had been debating on whether it was a good idea for me to come after it opened when I ran into you at the gala.” His face flushed slightly. “After that I knew that I had to at least see…” He paused again and seeming to come to a decision, carried on. “I just…I missed you.”
 Rosemary didn’t bother to hide the shock and confusion that flooded over her. “You missed me?” She parroted back, trying to understand. “It’s been three years, Tom. Why now?”
 Tom nodded. “I know you asked me to stay away. And I understand why. I did my utmost best to respect that. But, yes, I have missed you. And seeing you again…it solidified that for me.”
 A thousand questions ricocheted through her mind. With great effort she settle on, “What do you want, Tom?”
 He smiled softly, “To be able to talk with you again. To call you when I’ve had a shit day or a great one or when I just want to hear your voice. There’s this saying, I guess you’d call it, that I heard recently and it struck me.” He paused, watching her face. “It pretty much goes that you have no idea how much you miss someone until something happens, good or ill, and the only person you want to tell is the one who’s not there. And it’s true. I want you in my life Rosemary, in whatever capacity you are comfortable with.” His eyes were clear and cautiously hopeful.
 She stared at him in stunned disbelief. It was tempting, so very tempting. “Tom…”
 He nodded and offered a small, knowing smile of understanding. “I’m not asking for an answer now. But can you get promise me to think about it?”
 Rosemary hesitated, her eyes lowering to the counter. Could she do this? Should she? And if she didn’t would she honestly be okay with it? With a sigh, she nodded. “I can do that.” She paused, pulling a length of receipt tape from the cash register. In a quick, neat hand she wrote her number and handed it to Tom before she allowed herself to think better of it. His brows rose in confusion. “My number,” she clarified. If he could be bold, so could she.
 He smiled, tucking the number safely in his pocket. “Is it okay if I call you this week? Maybe we could meet for coffee or lunch?”
 Rosemary nodded. “I’d like that.”
                                                         ___
  It took everything Rosemary had to keep herself from jumping each time the phone rang. She felt utterly ridiculous the way her heart would leap into her throat at the sound only to settle in disappointment when the name on the screen wasn’t his. Pathetic, she chided herself. You are completely, ridiculously pathetic.
 Tom had promised to call but that had been nearly two weeks prior. A few days she could easily excuse. He was a busy man and time had a funny way of slipping away when you were busy. Maybe a week, given the right circumstances. But two weeks and nothing, not even a text? She was an idiot for even considering letting him back into her life. But that didn’t stop her from wishing he would call. That he would reach out. Something.
 Disgusted with both herself and the situation, she tossed her phone onto the coffee table and forced herself to focus on something, anything else. The knock at her door forced her heart heavily into her throat.
 “Sweet lord,” she murmured to herself, hand clutches tightly to her chest. With a laugh at her own skittishness, she pushed herself up from the couch and to the front door.
 The first thing she registered was the large bottle of wine clutched tightly in a well-manicured hand. “Wha…” she started. It took all of thirty seconds for her brain to register the smiling face behind the bottle. “Jules?”
 Jules rolled her eyes and pushed past Rosemary into the flat, shedding her coat as she went. “You’ve forgotten our standing date. I’m crushed.”
 Realization dawned. “It’s Thursday!” She shouted, feeling like a fool. “God, where is my head?”
 Jules snorted in laughter. “Obviously not attached. So…seeing as you completely forgot I was coming I doubt you’ve got food ready.”
 Hissing a curse, Rosemary shook her head. “Chinese?” She offered helpfully.
 “I guess that’ll do.” Jules wandered into the kitchen behind Rosemary, grabbing two wine glasses. Armed with both a menu and a corkscrew, Rosemary ushered her friend back into the living room.
 “General Tso’s?” She asked, grabbing her phone from the table.
 Jules nodded her assent and busied herself opening the wine bottle. Order placed, Rosemary took the offered wine glass and sipped gratefully.
 “So…Movie?”
 Jules smirked and grabbed the remote from the coffee table, switching on the flat screen television and cueing up Netflix. “Romantic comedy?”
 Rosemary groaned and settled further into the couch. “Only if it’s a truly terrible one and we take the piss out of it.”
 A grin lit up Jules’ warm face. “One cheesy romantic comedy coming up.”
                                                      ___
  The movie they settled on was truly terrible but the wine and running commentary made it almost bearable. “I cannot believe someone got paid to write this drivel,” Rosemary moaned as she picked through her sweet and sour pork. “I mean seriously, we are in the wrong line of work.”
 Jules lifted her glass. “Here, here!”
 Both women dissolved into fits of giggles. “You spill wine on my couch, young lady, and you’ll be sorry,” Rosemary admonished, placing her own glass onto the coffee table. Another round of giggles erupted between them.
 It took Rosemary several moments to register the ringing she assumed was coming from the television was in fact coming her phone that she’d left lying on the side table. She clumsily grabbed for the phone, hoping whoever was on the other end had patience. She glanced at the phone, it was number she did not recognize. “Hello?”
 “Rosie?”
 The voice was familiar, Rosemary knew that she knew it but still she could not place it. “Yes…?”
 “Rosie, its Tom…Are you drunk?” There was amusement in his tone.
 She giggled. “Maybe...” Rosemary squinted, trying to think. Tom? Tom…Oh yes, Tom. I know Tom! “Tom!” she squealed into the phone, earning a glare from Jules. “Wait…” Her voice trailed off. There was something she was forgetting. “You said you’d call two weeks ago! You lied!”
 A sigh, “I know, I’m sorry.”
 “S’not good enough,” Rosemary protested. “You say you want to be part of my life and then disappear. That’s not acceptable.” From the corner of her eye she could see Jules’ eyebrow rise in increments. She held up her hand and waved it dismissively in her direction. She could not handle two simultaneous conversations at this point.
 “I know it’s not, Rosie. And if you can meet me for lunch tomorrow I can try to explain.”
 Rosemary creased her forehead in confusion. “Why can’t you explain now?”
 Tom sighed and she could hear shuffling on the other end of the line. “I could but something tells me that it would be lost on you at this point.”
 “Are you saying you think I can’t keep up?” Now she was indignant.
 “No, well yes. Rosie, you are slurring your words something fierce…”
 She shook her head, temporarily forgetting that he could not see her. “It’s not that bad. Just tell me Tom. Cause if you don’t I’m just going to assume the worst…” and it wasn’t a completely idle threat.
 “Work, Rose. I got called back for an insane amount of reshoots and I could barely keep myself straight let alone other people.”
 She snorted a laugh of derision. “And you couldn’t text me something to that effect because?”
 “I’m a shit person and got caught up in my own damn head. I’m sorry. I truly am. I should have called or at least texted. It’s just the more time that passed the harder it was to try to justify.” He was nearly tripping over his words now.
 In her inebriated state she could just barely keep up. Damn him. “Tom, I think you’re right. I don’t think I’m up for this kind of conversation right now.”
 “Okay.” Tom paused and was silent for several moments. “Could we…I mean. Would you be able to meet me tomorrow for lunch or maybe dinner? To talk?”
 “Lunch,” Rosemary replied automatically. Dinner was decidedly not a good idea. Far too intimate for whatever is was they currently were.
 “Is Italian okay? I know a nice little café that does a fantastic lunch.”
 She gave her assent and quickly ended the call. The phone chimed moments later with the text Tom had promised of the location and time. She could feel Jules’s eyes on her but did not dare look over. She instead held up her hand in exasperation. “I know. But we are far too drunk for this kind of conversation…”
 “Nope. Not gonna happen, Rose, darling. Drunk is exactly how this kind of conversation needs to happen. So talk,” Jules ordered pouring more wine into each glass.
 Rosemary took the proffered glass and drank deeply, knowing she’d regret all of this come morning. “Fine,” she uttered. “Do your worst.”
 Next  
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winterisakiller · 6 years ago
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Love & Great Buildings - Chapter Two
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Chapter: 2/19
Character/Relationship: Tom Hiddleston/Rosemary Mathews (OFC)
Genre: Romance/Angst
Summary: Three years have passed and a chance encounter brings Tom and Rosie together again. Can time make any difference or are they doomed to repeat their mistakes.
Rating: T (for now)
Author’s Notes/Warnings:  This is part nine of Last Minutes and Lost Evenings. Many thanks to @redfoxwritesstuff for listening to me ramble incessantly about  this story and being a sounding board when I needed it. You are a lifesaver, even if your stories break my heart.
This story and its preceding one-shots can be also be found on AO3 under the username: winterisakiller (sparkinside)
Tag List: @tinchentitri @noplacelikehome77
Previous Chapter
CHAPTER TWO
 “So, how was it?” Jules fired as Rosemary pushed her way into Stories Untold the next morning.
She shot the tall redhead a glare which softened upon seeing the mug of coffee that had been thrust in her direction. She grabbed it and took a grateful sip. Caffeine, she mused. Heaven. 
Seeing Rosemary’s shoulders relax, Jules plowed onward. “Details. I need details. Did you have fun? How much did we raise? Did you talk to anyone famous?” Her eyes had taken on the manic gleam that Rosemary customarily saw only during the run up to a major holiday sales run or anticipated date nights. There was little that could be done to soften the fervor, but it might be postponed… 
Rosemary threw her free hand up in plaintive surrender. “One question at a time, Jules, please. My blood caffeine level is not up to your rapid fire demands just yet. Take pity on me.” 
A sigh was Jules only answer and Rosemary took the welcome reprieve as a chance to finish her coffee and actually place her belongings in the office. And once her coffee had been finished and her purse and coat secured, she’d surrendered wholly to Jules’ excited frenzy. 
Yes, it had been a rather nice time. And yes, she had in fact rubbed elbows with more than a few well knowns. Jules had been particularly interested in her chat with Colin Firth. And yes, they’d managed to raise a great deal more readies than either of them had anticipated. Jules beamed, demanding as many details as Rosemary could remember. She’d indulged as best she could while they filled the register and readied the store for opening. 
Rosemary did not, however, once mention her encounter with Tom. While Jules had cooled in her dislike over the years, Rosemary hadn’t felt the need to rock the boat. Besides, the chances of another run in were slight. They, after all, had managed to avoid one another over the last three years; bringing up him at this juncture would be foolish. 
The sales through lunch were stronger than she’d expected. And once Evan had come in, Rosemary had retired to the back to wage war on the seemingly never-ending paperwork in the back office. Orders in particular had become her pet project of the week. She’d managed to get a quarter of the way through the next months’ proposed work up for both stores when distraction reared its head. 
“Have you seen the pictures?” Jules voice carried from the hallway. “From the gala?” 
Rosemary looked at Jules with momentary confusion. “Pictures?” Then sense came flooding back. Charity event. Photographers. Of course there had been pictures. “God, sorry. Still not firing on all cylinders. I take it I’m in some?” She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Academically, she’d known it was a possibility but hadn’t really taken the time to think it through. 
Jules cocked an eyebrow. “Not a lot.” She paused to fish something from her pocket. “Though I must say, I am practically green with envy over this one with you and Colin Firth.” She held up her phone and flashed said photograph. 
Rosemary grabbed the phone and studied the shot briefly before handing it back. “Huh. Not too shabby.” It was a nice photograph. She’d looked remarkably put together and not at all discomposed; a feat indeed considering who she’d been standing next to. He was Mr. Darcy after all. With a shake of her head she returned her attention to the latest order sheet. 
Jules, however, remained in the doorway in silence for several moments. Rosemary could feel her eyes burning into the back of her head. “Yes?” 
“Tom was there.” It was a statement, not a question. 
Rosemary sighed. “Yes, he was. We bumped into each other before the auction.” 
“And you didn’t see fit to mention this because…” 
“It wasn’t anything major. We saw each other, made small talk. What else was I supposed to do? Avoiding him or flat out refusing to speak to him would create more questions than it was worth. Besides it’s been three years. It’s water under the bridge.” 
Jules looked less than convinced. “You are in a few. With him.” 
“Oh?” She hoped her tone did not belie the disconcerting feeling that flooded through her. “He was at my table for a spell. We chatted. I guess it was bound to happen.” 
“Rose…” 
She sighed and dropped the papers still in her hand onto the desk “Jules, honey, I’m fine. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I had feared it would be. We were both adults and handled ourselves accordingly. No harm, no foul.” 
Jules narrowed her eyes but did not utter a word. 
Rosemary shook her head, “I know what you’re thinking, but really I’m okay. I moved on, we both have. He’s not a horrible person, he never was. We just don’t work. And that’s okay.” 
“I know, Rose. I know. I just…You know what, never mind.” She shook her head and relaxed her shoulders. “I’m going to head back out there and make sure Evan’s not being eaten alive.” She smiled. 
Rosemary shook her head, laughing as well. “Don’t bother; a little chaos is good for him. Builds character.” 
“I’ll just let him know you said that. I’m sure it’ll be a comfort as he nurses his wounds.” 
She laughed in earnest and shifted her attention back to the waiting forms. “He’ll deal.” 
                                                          ___
  “Can you move that display about a foot and a half to the left?” With a good natured groan Max, the newest edition to the Stories Untold family, shifted the display, again. Rosemary studied it critically and then smiled. “Perfect.” 
The newest Stories location had been officially open for a week and, save for a few minor hiccups, had been running smoothly. Sales looked promising and foot traffic was slow but steady. And while Jules’ reports showed that the main store was holding its own, Rosemary still felt the familiar flutter of unease. 
It was silly, she knew, and most days she could pay it rather little mind. This would be her first major change to the business she’d loved and cherished fiercely since she’d taken sole ownership seven years prior. She wanted this to succeed; wanted it desperately. 
“You sure? Like completely, 100%, can’t be any surer, sure?” Max raised his sandy eyebrow which pulled a hearty laugh from everyone in the room and a quirked eyebrow from Rosemary. 
“Watch your cheek, young man.” The laughter in her eyes belied her stern tone. She shook her head and sighed. “Yes. I’m sure. Now, back to the stock room with you; those boxes aren’t going to stock themselves.” Max grumbled good-naturedly as he lumbered off to complete his assigned task. 
Rosemary sighed and turned her attention back to the front counter. “Alright people, let’s get back to work. We’ve got ten minutes before we open.” 
A controlled melee erupted around her; Hanna, the store’s assistant manager, flew to the register, and finished loading the till. Alex and Gabe, stocking and general floor help, ran around the main sales floor making sure everything was settled and ready for the start of business. Rosemary smiled at the chaos. 
Yeah, she thought, this will definitely be a challenge.
                                                             ____
 “Excuse me, do you know if you’ve got the new Carter novel in? 
Rosemary turned, setting the box she’d been carrying onto the counter. She smiled at the woman standing before her. “Let me check.” A few quick taps on the tablet sitting by the registers later and Rosemary nodded. “Yes we do. It will be just here.” She motioned for the woman to follow her. 
Book obtained, the woman thanked Rosemary profusely, quickly paid for her purchase, and hurried from the store, leaving the jangle of the door chime in her wake. Rosemary turned her attention back to the box she’d sat on the counter. With any luck it should be the business cards and other various promotional materials they’d been due a week and a half ago. 
Box cutter in hand, Rosemary had seen but not registered the figure that had entered the store and now stood near the counter. 
“We seem to have a habit of meeting like this,” a familiar, warm voice chuckled. Startled, Rosemary dropped the box cutter and snapped her gaze up. Tom stood, a small but genuine smile lighting his features. “Hello.” 
Rosemary blinked at him for several moments before remembering herself and returning his greeting. “Hi.” She let out a small, nervous laugh and quickly collected herself once more. “You, good sir, seem to have a habit of scaring years off my lifespan.” 
Tom held his hands up in apology. “As always, that was never my intent.” 
“So, Mr. Hiddleston, what brings you in today?” Professional, she told herself, I just need to keep myself professional and I can keep my head. 
It was his turn to chuckle nervously, “You,” he answered with a smile, “Actually.” 
Rosemary was taken aback but fought to hide it. “Oh? And you knew I’d be here because?” 
Tom laughed in earnest. “The store has always been your baby. There isn’t a chance in hell that you’d not be here for the newest launch.”
Rosemary nodded slowly and rested her hands on the counter. “That still doesn’t really clear anything up.” She watched Tom blink in confusion and stamped down the small part of her heart that fluttered stubbornly in her chest. 
She watched Tom rub the back of his neck with his left hand. “I saw the sign for the shop a few weeks back and was intrigued,” he started, eyes rising to hers. “I had been debating on whether it was a good idea for me to come after it opened when I ran into you at the gala.” His face flushed slightly. “After that I knew that I had to at least see…” He paused again and seeming to come to a decision, carried on. “I just…I missed you.” 
Rosemary didn’t bother to hide the shock and confusion that flooded over her. “You missed me?” She parroted back, trying to understand. “It’s been three years, Tom. Why now?” 
Tom nodded. “I know you asked me to stay away. And I understand why. I did my utmost best to respect that. But, yes, I have missed you. And seeing you again…it solidified that for me.” 
A thousand questions ricocheted through her mind. With great effort she settle on, “What do you want, Tom?” 
He smiled softly, “To be able to talk with you again. To call you when I’ve had a shit day or a great one or when I just want to hear your voice. There’s this saying, I guess you’d call it, that I heard recently and it struck me.” He paused, watching her face. “It pretty much goes that you have no idea how much you miss someone until something happens, good or ill, and the only person you want to tell is the one who’s not there. And it’s true. I want you in my life Rosemary, in whatever capacity you are comfortable with.” His eyes were clear and cautiously hopeful. 
She stared at him in stunned disbelief. It was tempting, so very tempting. “Tom…” 
He nodded and offered a small, knowing smile of understanding. “I’m not asking for an answer now. But can you get promise me to think about it?” 
Rosemary hesitated, her eyes lowering to the counter. Could she do this? Should she? And if she didn’t would she honestly be okay with it? With a sigh, she nodded. “I can do that.” She paused, pulling a length of receipt tape from the cash register. In a quick, neat hand she wrote her number and handed it to Tom before she allowed herself to think better of it. His brows rose in confusion. “My number,” she clarified. If he could be bold, so could she. 
He smiled, tucking the number safely in his pocket. “Is it okay if I call you this week? Maybe we could meet for coffee or lunch?” 
Rosemary nodded. “I’d like that.” 
                                                          ___
  It took everything Rosemary had to keep herself from jumping each time the phone rang. She felt utterly ridiculous the way her heart would leap into her throat at the sound only to settle in disappointment when the name on the screen wasn’t his. Pathetic, she chided herself. You are completely, ridiculously pathetic. 
Tom had promised to call but that had been nearly two weeks prior. A few days she could easily excuse. He was a busy man and time had a funny way of slipping away when you were busy. Maybe a week, given the right circumstances. But two weeks and nothing, not even a text? She was an idiot for even considering letting him back into her life. But that didn’t stop her from wishing he would call. That he would reach out. Something. 
Disgusted with both herself and the situation, she tossed her phone onto the coffee table and forced herself to focus on something, anything else. The knock at her door forced her heart heavily into her throat. 
“Sweet lord,” she murmured to herself, hand clutches tightly to her chest. With a laugh at her own skittishness, she pushed herself up from the couch and to the front door. 
The first thing she registered was the large bottle of wine clutched tightly in a well-manicured hand. “Wha…” she started. It took all of thirty seconds for her brain to register the smiling face behind the bottle. “Jules?” 
Jules rolled her eyes and pushed past Rosemary into the flat, shedding her coat as she went. “You’ve forgotten our standing date. I’m crushed.” 
Realization dawned. “It’s Thursday!” She shouted, feeling like a fool. “God, where is my head?” 
Jules snorted in laughter. “Obviously not attached. So…seeing as you completely forgot I was coming I doubt you’ve got food ready.” 
Hissing a curse, Rosemary shook her head. “Chinese?” She offered helpfully. 
“I guess that’ll do.” Jules wandered into the kitchen behind Rosemary, grabbing two wine glasses. Armed with both a menu and a corkscrew, Rosemary ushered her friend back into the living room. 
“General Tso’s?” She asked, grabbing her phone from the table. 
Jules nodded her assent and busied herself opening the wine bottle. Order placed, Rosemary took the offered wine glass and sipped gratefully. 
“So…Movie?” 
Jules smirked and grabbed the remote from the coffee table, switching on the flat screen television and cueing up Netflix. “Romantic comedy?” 
Rosemary groaned and settled further into the couch. “Only if it’s a truly terrible one and we take the piss out of it.” 
A grin lit up Jules’ warm face. “One cheesy romantic comedy coming up.”
                                                            ___
  The movie they settled on was truly terrible but the wine and running commentary made it almost bearable. “I cannot believe someone got paid to write this drivel,” Rosemary moaned as she picked through her sweet and sour pork. “I mean seriously, we are in the wrong line of work.” 
Jules lifted her glass. “Here, here!” 
Both women dissolved into fits of giggles. “You spill wine on my couch, young lady, and you’ll be sorry,” Rosemary admonished, placing her own glass onto the coffee table. Another round of giggles erupted between them. 
It took Rosemary several moments to register the ringing she assumed was coming from the television was in fact coming her phone that she’d left lying on the side table. She clumsily grabbed for the phone, hoping whoever was on the other end had patience. She glanced at the phone, it was number she did not recognize. “Hello?” 
“Rosie?” 
The voice was familiar, Rosemary knew that she knew it but still she could not place it. “Yes…?” 
“Rosie, its Tom…Are you drunk?” There was amusement in his tone. 
She giggled. “Maybe...” Rosemary squinted, trying to think. Tom? Tom…Oh yes, Tom. I know Tom! “Tom!” she squealed into the phone, earning a glare from Jules. “Wait…” Her voice trailed off. There was something she was forgetting. “You said you’d call two weeks ago! You lied!” 
A sigh, “I know, I’m sorry.” 
“S’not good enough,” Rosemary protested. “You say you want to be part of my life and then disappear. That’s not acceptable.” From the corner of her eye she could see Jules’ eyebrow rise in increments. She held up her hand and waved it dismissively in her direction. She could not handle two simultaneous conversations at this point. 
“I know it’s not, Rosie. And if you can meet me for lunch tomorrow I can try to explain.” 
Rosemary creased her forehead in confusion. “Why can’t you explain now?” 
Tom sighed and she could hear shuffling on the other end of the line. “I could but something tells me that it would be lost on you at this point.” 
“Are you saying you think I can’t keep up?” Now she was indignant. 
“No, well yes. Rosie, you are slurring your words something fierce…” 
She shook her head, temporarily forgetting that he could not see her. “It’s not that bad. Just tell me Tom. Cause if you don’t I’m just going to assume the worst…” and it wasn’t a completely idle threat. 
“Work, Rose. I got called back for an insane amount of reshoots and I could barely keep myself straight let alone other people.” 
She snorted a laugh of derision. “And you couldn’t text me something to that effect because?” 
“I’m a shit person and got caught up in my own damn head. I’m sorry. I truly am. I should have called or at least texted. It’s just the more time that passed the harder it was to try to justify.” He was nearly tripping over his words now. 
In her inebriated state she could just barely keep up. Damn him. “Tom, I think you’re right. I don’t think I’m up for this kind of conversation right now. 
“Okay.” Tom paused and was silent for several moments. “Could we…I mean. Would you be able to meet me tomorrow for lunch or maybe dinner? To talk?” 
“Lunch,” Rosemary replied automatically. Dinner was decidedly not a good idea. Far too intimate for whatever is was they currently were. 
“Is Italian okay? I know a nice little café that does a fantastic lunch.” 
She gave her assent and quickly ended the call. The phone chimed moments later with the text Tom had promised of the location and time. She could feel Jules’s eyes on her but did not dare look over. She instead held up her hand in exasperation. “I know. But we are far too drunk for this kind of conversation…” 
“Nope. Not gonna happen, Rose, darling. Drunk is exactly how this kind of conversation needs to happen. So talk,” Jules ordered pouring more wine into each glass. 
Rosemary took the proffered glass and drank deeply, knowing she’d regret all of this come morning. “Fine,” she uttered. “Do your worst.”
Next Chapter
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memoirsofagenie · 4 years ago
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Jersey Sails: From La Corbière to Cape Florida
Genie, 09/26/2020 
(Short-story submitted to the [24th Annual] 2020 Zoetrope: All-Story Short Fiction Competition)
Put together a bay, a barrier reef, stretches of white sand, luscious vegetation, protected species and a lighthouse, and pirate stories start to abound. Honestly, who wasn’t an indigenous pirate of sorts in the Village of Key Biscayne? The majority of “Key Rats” (as Key Biscayners informally call themselves) had always taken pride in having very heterogeneous backgrounds and on being endowed with an innate seafaring force, and Jordana’s own family history didn’t fall far from this paradigm, considering they were Italians from Rome, albeit with an Abruzzese heritage, who had lived in over four continents before settling on the Key during Jordana’s early twenties. More than a Key Rat, she was a full-fledged third-culture kid.
Being now in her mid-forties and living with her widowed father, Jordana had heard, overheard, eavesdropped on and collected so many other tales of fellow local pirates, that she sometimes pondered whether she should group them in a volume. Not only did she thrive on historical details, but writing was truly her forte, so what was holding her back? Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she always felt the next story was going to be better… until the afternoon of August 17, 1992.
That August Monday, like all others after returning from work, Jordana picked-up her mail and engaged in another ritualistic habit of hers, that of chit-chatting with the front-door neighbor Uma, an elderly, retired politics college professor and widow from India who, with equal customary precision, would walk her rust Dobermann at 6:00pm sharp, not without first saying hello and providing the daily recap of salient gossip at the Harbor Drive waterfront condo where they both lived and from where the gorgeous Vizcaya could be admired across Biscayne Bay. Yet that afternoon, instead of watching one of Uma’s many colorful and glitzy dupattas and sarees blowing in the island breeze as was usually the case immediately after saying “see you tomorrow”, Uma invited Jordana for tea. It turns out she had walked the dog earlier, to dodge the sporadic thunderstorm of the day, a typically South Floridian late-summer meteorological phenomenon, much like the notorious London drizzle in winter.
Soon enough, as the beautiful Hindo-Islamic wood-carved door -a family heirloom which she had brought to America all the way from her native Jaipur when she got married- of Uma’s apartment closed behind them, the storm continued brewing and thunders started rolling. Jordana didn’t take much heed of the noises in the sky, because having tea at Uma’s was always a very relaxing and otherworldly experience, in particular after the fumes of incense and the aromas of her signature masala chai concoction steeping in boiling water would make shapes and shadows that sparkled across the “sheesh mahal”, or hall of mirrors… because that is exactly what Uma’s dining-room looked like, being as it was, plastered in multicolored Rajasthani marble intarsia and ornate thikri glasswork. However, the enchantment would soon break, because the retired politics professor also loved to have the TV on while sipping her tea.
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               “Breaking News: We interrupt this newscast to give you a detailed update of tropical storm Andrew’s trajectory,” the reporter said. “The tropical storm has now become a Category 3 hurricane and it might make landfall in Miami later this week…”
               “This is insane. Are you hearing this, beti?” Uma exclaimed as she hastily stirred her chai, making alarming clanging sounds.
               “Yes, I’m listening... What a drag, to have to go through evacuation again! Oh well… let us keep our fingers crossed and hope it makes a last-minute eastward turn, that way we don’t have to deal with it!” Jordana was always very hopeful, because having lived on the Key longer, not only had she already been through strong hurricanes, but she was also well aware of the possibility that even when landfall was imminent, the maleficent twisters could turn around and recede into the ocean.
The two women continued sipping their tea and chatting. Suddenly, it was dinner time, so Jordana thanked her hostess and left for her apartment. She had started opening and scanning through her mail while Uma was preparing the tea a couple of hours earlier, however a quirky golden, mildly distressed envelope had caught her eye, as both the stationery and the handwriting did not look familiar at first glance. The gulab jamun and tamarind chutney golgappas that Uma had served with chai had left her full, so she simply skipped dinner, slipped quickly into her pajamas and drew the mail from her purse, picking the mysterious bulky missive from the stack.
The postmark was less than a week old, but the location itself had completely blurred from the letter, making it hard to determine its actual provenance. What is more, the envelope lacked the names of both the recipient and the sender. Given Jordana’s fondness of the art of letter-writing and her eternal quest for original stationeries, she could only surmise that this singular quality of paper was rather old and out of production; still, this realization did not help much either.
Hence, giving in to her curiosity, she opened the letter, only to find a telegraphic, ten-line message in what seemed to be an old French Patois with a Gaelic twang or a Creole dialect of yore… who knows! This fact alone unleashed a myriad theories and resolutions in her head, because among the many Key Rats and island pirates, Haitian and other French-Antilles’ descendants were not uncommon. Tracking the true intended reader of the letter would not have been so challenging after all. Nonetheless, the contents of the envelope did not stop there, for accompanying the letter were ten black-and-white pictures of maritime settings that could have been taken anywhere on America’s Northeastern or Western Coasts, if it weren’t for the tenth picture, depicting a medieval hilltop castle, perched on the sea, surrounded by houses of what could easily have been -in view of the fuzziness- French Breton, Spanish Cantabrian, Galician, or Southern English fishing-village architecture.
Might this be the “story of stories” Jordana was awaiting in order to finally consolidate her volume of local pirate tales? Jordana was too tired to brainstorm that night. She went to sleep, resolving to drop by the quiet village library the next day after work, to start delving into the population archives while hoping to unearth some clues.
She would have to wait another week, sadly! The very next morning, as she glided through the Rickenbacker Causeway on her convertible red FIAT 500, the radio announcers made it clear that Hurricane Andrew, now a Category 4, was at the doors of the Panhandle. It was gaining more strength by the hour and was expected to enter precisely through Key Biscayne. Jordana was well-prepared for the chaos that was about to ensue. She still did her best to go to work with a positive outlook, shuffling the black-and-white pictures in her head, when it suddenly dawned on her that she HAD indeed seen the medieval castle before, but where?
In the days that followed, Jordana duly prepped the house for Hurricane Andrew, which by August 23rd had become a Category 5. She and her father would normally evacuate to the North, in Palm Beach. But this year, her father had been vacationing in Rome for the last two months and was not due to return before mid-September, leaving Jordana to brave the storm at Chavela’s  -a long-term family friend who, like may in the Magic City, had exiled from Cuba- house in Coral Gables.
The wind monster ravaged South Florida the night between August 24 and 25. Despite the expected curfew after such an emergency, Jordana returned home to Key Biscayne the morning of the 25th. As also expected, the island had literally become, yet again, a boat anchorage. All of Crandon Boulevard was a massive water puddle and the boats had been lifted from the side-canals and seashore, flying and landing onto the streets. She turned right onto Harbor Drive, even more scared of what she would find. Paradoxically enough, her apartment building bordered on the Key Biscayne Yacht Club.
Once home, she opened the door leading to the shared patio of the condo, where the pool was located. To the right, she could see the heaps of boats in the Yacht Club’s marina, one on top of the other. For some miraculous reason, no boat had crossed over to the pool, as had happened two years prior. Many club members and boat owners had rushed to the club and Jordana could overhear their chatter across the surrounding turquoise wooden lattice. She got even closer as the multiple conversations started to get more dramatic.
The club manager was holding a huge roll in his hand. It was a spare red sail that had flown off one of the many crammed vessels. With the aid of two other men, he decided to unroll it. It had no tag or distinguishing marks, so perhaps unrolling it might have revealed a symbol, a drawing or pattern that could help determine whose it was.
“Hey Bob, just hold it tight on that end, please,” said the manager to one of the two other men.
“Wait a minute, it looks like there’s a drawing. Wait, it’s some kind of shield, or at least it looks like it,” said the third man.
               As the three men kept unrolling, Jordana watched and listened intently. When the sail was completely open, a gust of wind lifted it momentarily allowing her a short glimpse of the so-called shield.
               “Hey, it’s not a shield. It’s a coat of arms, or so it seems. This sail belongs to Colin Peirson!” cried Bob.
To which Paul, the manager echoed “oh, well! Let us roll it back and put it in the storage. I will have to compile a list of all the damaged boats, in any case. I will call everyone, one by one, so eventually he’ll put it back where it belongs.”
               Jordana was uncertain whether it was a coat of arms or not. However, within the central shield were depicted the contours of the same castle; yes, that castle; the castle she had seen on one of the ten black-and-white pictures of the mysterious letter. She finally recalled that at some point during her first years in Key Biscayne, she had noticed the sail, fully blowing in the wind, in a bygone summer afternoon island regatta. Even back then, the castle had taken hold of her strong photographic memory, though with the passing of time, it had become one of the many beautiful but faded remembrances. Anyhow, atop the castle, waved a flag, which surely was the logo of the British Army, with the famous lion passant on the crest of St. Edward’s crown. Having quite a few military aficionados in the family, Jordana had no doubts, not to mention that when her dear mother was alive, they had frequently attended the spring military pilgrimages in Lourdes, where aside from reaffirming one’s faith, one could admire the distinct symbols and regalia of international military corps.
               Instead of staying in the patio and cleaning up, she stuck to her pre-hurricane plans and rushed to the library. The library was not exactly what one would call well-stocked, however the population archives, its collection of various encyclopedias, particularly the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and the microfiche section had always helped her during her college studies. Without further ado, she searched “Colin Peirson” and “British Army.”
She did remain skeptical during the process and thought to be off-track, because there was still the interrogative as to why the letter was in that hitherto unknown (to her) French-like language. And boy, was she off-track! As Jordana frenetically and enthusiastically read through her selected sources, her mind finally gained some clarity as she started reading about the Battle of Jersey between the English and the French during the American Revolutionary War.
“Goodness, how obvious!” she reckoned to herself. “This is no French Patois or Creole dialect,” she mused. Sure enough, it took her a further hour of information scavenging to arrive to the conclusion that the language of the letter was Jèrriais, or Jersey French. As for “Colin Peirson”, might he be a descendant of the hero of the Battle of Jersey, Major Peirson? On a side note, Jordana was also rather proud of her observational skills, for thinking that the architecture on the pictures might’ve been French Breton or Southern English, among others, wasn’t too far-fetched deep down!
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While she admired John Singleton Copley’s impacting painting of the eponymous battle in one of the diverse sources consulted, Jordana’s head spinned as various historical scenarios played out in her head. There was only one thing left to do… she had to find Colin Peirson! The population archives of Key Biscayne indicated that, except for a six-month sojourn at the Le Phare condo on 798 Crandon Boulevard, he had always lived, ever since his arrival to South Florida, in the Southwest Point of the Mashta Island enclave.
The next day, Jordana decided to pay a visit to Mr. Peirson. As soon as she reached the address, she noticed she had unknowingly passed countless times in front of Mr. Peirson’s estate, for it was a palatial setting. Mr. Peirson’s house was not just the only house in the Southwest Point of Mashta Island, but it was also the only building in high Victorian style on Key Biscayne, a detail that clashed with the trademark Mackle and Cape Cod homes that populated the island from the 1960s onwards. Needless to say, Jordana had always wondered who lived in that fairy-tale, multi-colored house, of which the main particularities -aside from the Juliette balcony and the screened porch- were the steep turret flanking the southwestern corner of the building, covered in wooden scalloped shingles, and its topmost window made of intricately etched and stained glass, further framed by a carved dormer, depicting whimsical floral motifs. Jordana’s curiosity was particularly tickled by the hypothetical view from the turret. Who knows if Mr. Peirson would greet her, let alone invite her in to discuss the letter and possibly allow her to visit the turret?
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Jordana made her way through the verdant, cobbled pathway leading to the door. She could hear all kinds of strange noises, something which reminded her Key Biscayne was basically two thirds parkland. It was not infrequent to be ambushed by iguanas, cranes, possums, raccoons… and asps, on occasion. Fortunately for her, this time she was only escorted by fluttering monarch butterflies and dragonflies.
Jordana knocked three times, when at last an elderly and jovial silver-haired gentleman opened the door. Matter-of-factly, he must’ve been rather handsome back in the day, as he was reminiscent of Paul Newman.
“Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Peirson,” Jordana said.
“You found him. May I ask who you are and to what I owe this visit?” he replied.
“I believe I have something that belongs to you. For some reason, this letter was mailed to my house. I am sorry I had to open it, but as you may notice from the envelope, there is no discernible indication that it might have been yours. After a few coincidences and investigations, I finally found you,” Jordana explained.
“I’d love hear all about it. Do come in. I have just finished my breakfast,” Mr. Peirson said.
As Mr. Peirson locked the door behind them and guided Jordana to the living room, he drew the photographs from the envelope. With another gesture, he indicated the sofa, inviting her to sit down. He hastily looked at the pictures, two, three times. Jordana could see his piercing green eyes getting teary. As she explained what an ordeal it had been to track him down, all he could do was look at the pictures and sob, until he finally pulled himself together, dried his eyes and uttered “Wait here. I’ll be right back!”
Mr. Peirson shook a little, so before heading to what seemed to be his study, he picked up his cane. Once there, Jordana could hear him toiling with books and boxes. He was taking too long, so she got up from her armchair and walked to the threshold of the study door. As she stood peeking, she asked him if he needed any help. He gladly accepted. With his cane, he indicated what was apparently an oversized wooden music-box on the parquet floor.
“Can you please pick it up and open it?” he asked.
As she picked the box up and started lifting the lid, she took a quick look around the room and noticed that along the walls hung oversized posters of the ten pictures. What is more, the box itself contained a copy of the ten pictures too!
In the two minutes that it took Mr. Peirson to go sit at his desk, Jordana, still with the open box in hand, quickly analyzed for a second time her surroundings. The study was a rather dark place, seemingly of another era, so much so that the only things that shone were an old gramophone close to the door and a giant mother-of-pearl Jacobean shell. She hadn’t noticed either entering the study, but now she was thinking that perhaps she and Mr. Peirson might have something in common to talk about. If anything, they could break the ice further talking about Santiago de Compostela, a destination she had wanted to visit forever! Despite entertaining this thought, just as she was about to ask him about St. James’s Way -and possibly, his pilgrimage to Santiago- he took an old record from the first drawer of his desk: “Here dear, would you care to put this record on?”
He assumed Jordana would know how to activate the gramophone. Not that she really knew… but she did, nevertheless. She recalled some scenes of silent movies she had seen with her grandmother as a child and very nonchalantly loaded the record. The unmistakable and softly tremulous voice of Edith Piaf started resounding in the room: “quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose…” Before the Little Sparrow of France could bellow the following verses, Mr. Peirson had reached for the box containing the photographs that Jordana had left on his desk prior to loading the gramophone.
“I never thought I would tell anyone this story, let alone a stranger, but I feel I can trust you. Then again, you did go out of your way to find me, so you deserve to know. Say, dear, shall we go to the turret? We can admire the view and enjoy the breeze as we talk. Oh, and we can take the record upstairs. I have another gramophone up there. You seem to enjoy the wartime French chansonniers, don’t you? This record is a compilation of various artists. The next song is ‘La Mer’, by Charles Trenet.”
Jordana was really hoping he’d come up with the idea himself and got her wish of visiting the turret. Her inquiring mind was trying to guess where the staircase leading to the turret would be, as according to her sense of orientation and her mental planimetry of the house, she was pretty sure that the study was exactly perpendicular to the turret, so they were basically right below it.
As she tried to solve this puzzle too, she noticed yet another detail that had escaped her thus far. Behind Mr. Peirson’s desk hung a giant Flemish Gobelins tapestry depicting the ancient Greek myth of Daphne and Apollo. The coincidences, or signs, that her encounter with Mr. Peirson was meant to be increased by the second; being from Rome, her favorite statue had always been none other than the “Daphne and Apollo” by Gian Lorenzo Bernini kept at the Galleria Borghese! Anyhow, while she connected the dots and started daydreaming, Mr. Peirson had already vanished, only to pop out again after less than two minutes from behind the tapestry: “Well, dear, are you coming upstairs or not?”
“But of course!”, she exclaimed to herself. How could she have not imagined sooner that the door was behind the tapestry? Oh well!
Mr. Peirson had guessed correctly. Jordana loved the French chansonniers. In fact, she adored Charles Trenet, probably more than she did Piaf. She definitely did not want to miss the opportunity to partake of nostalgically wonderful European stories of the past while admiring the sea with great background music. Without wasting one second more, Jordana immediately grabbed the record, following him through the door and onto the coiled staircase of one-hundred-and-fifty steps. In normal circumstances, this would have been a tiresome exercise for Jordana, but the old man had made it altogether more bearable and somewhat inspirational by sharing anecdotes of how he had bought the plot of land where the house stood and how he had designed it.
“Ah… there it is, my dear! I give you the Cape Florida Lighthouse!” He exclaimed this with great pride and satisfaction as they both climbed the last step; clearly, both the turret and the view it provided were his labors of love. The beauty of Cape Florida was heightened by the radiant morning itself. One could see the white yachts, one by one, entering the water channels in procession and docking at No Name Harbor for the customary brunch at Boater’s Grill. The hurricane that had just passed had merely left some wrack along the shores; still and all, the water was so clear the yachts looked like aggregations of buoyant white manatees, the shadow of which was reflected further by the schools of glimmering swordfish swimming beneath them.
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He resumed, “look again at these ten pictures. See this one? This was the view from my house back in Jersey. I grew up on a windswept clifftop, on the southwestern part of the island. We had a house, very much like this one, situated along a narrow alley crowning Le Mont du Petit Port. During the spring and well into the summer, I would climb our own steep turret and admire Beauport Beach on one side, Petit Port on the other side, and the lighthouse at La Corbière in between! Such delightful memories! As you can see, not only am I in the southwestern part of Key Biscayne, but every time I stare into the golden horizon and at the Cape Florida Lighthouse, my mind steadily flies back to those blissful days…”
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“So, you took these all these pictures as a child?”, Jordana asked.
“I took these pictures, but not as a child; although, in hindsight, I was perhaps a child. In any case, it wasn’t until my seventeenth birthday that my favorite uncle, a diplomat at the American Embassy in Washington D.C., gave me a camera! It was December 1939, two years before the Attack on Pearl Harbor.”
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“I see. It must’ve been excruciating, especially considering what happened over the next few years. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the Germans occupy the Channel Islands sometime during the summer of 1940?”, Jordana asked.
“So they did, my dear! So they did! The date was June 30, 1940!” As he said it, he couldn’t hide his malaise, briefly sighing and gasping for air. He then added, “and that is why I decided to continue our ancestral family business. For generations, we had been sailmakers. Logically, during the Occupation, the business was confiscated, so apart from sails, we also had to provide sacks or camping tents. Anyhow… whenever I had some spare time, I would dash out with my camera and immortalize beauty.”
“Did you have a choice? I mean, could you choose what to do?”, Jordana asked.
“Well, you must’ve noted I have to walk with a cane,” he replied.
“I did detect, but given the gist of our conversation, I had rather assumed that you might have been wounded in battle,” Jordana said.
“True, it could have been an option. But my shaking is a result of an injury. When I was fifteen, I had a bad fall while exploring the Minkies at low tide.”
“What are the Minkies?”, Jordana asked.
“Les Minquiers. Here they are,” he said, as he pulled out yet another photograph from the stack of ten. “We call them the Minkies. They’re a group islands off the coast of Jersey. Actually, islands and rocks. During the low tide, the rocks emerge. With two other friends, we would sneak out with a paddleboat every other Saturday during the summer of ’37. We loved exploring and walking on the rocks. One day I fell and fractured my ankle. Despite various medical therapies, I never fully recovered. That’s why I could never participate in active combat if enlisted in the army, nor could I drive properly. Therefore, I could only become a doctor, a cook, a photographer or follow into my father’s footsteps. I was no doctor and I most definitely couldn’t cook. Still can’t… “, he said, chuckling. “By the way, I realized I haven’t offered you anything. Would you like some freshly baked scones? I’ll tell Maria to bring some upstairs.”
               “Thank you, but don’t worry! I had breakfast before coming. I’d much prefer hearing more about the pictures,” Jordana replied. In the midst of this light moment, she decided it was a good time to bring up the castle. Before she could even start second-guessing herself, she boldly popped the question: “What castle is that? Having seen it on your sail at the yacht club, I imagine it must have a deeper significance than the rest of the pictures…”
               “Oh, c’est lé Vièr Châté, ma chère!” he exclaimed, mixing French and Jèrriais. “It’s Mont Orgueil, the Old Castle; Mount Pride; Haughty Mount… it’s Gorey Castle! And yes,” he paused for a moment and finished the phrase, “if you should know, it is near and dear to my heart!”
               “But just a second Mr. Peirson, I don’t see any battle or war scenes in these pictures. I don’t see any soldiers either,” Jordana pointed out, with a quizzical look.
               “Ah, well, you see, that’s exactly the point, my dear girl! As I said earlier, I pledged to myself to immortalize beauty. Now, Paul was a nurse apprentice at the Military Hospital. On occasion, he would accompany me and watch my back, and suggest views. Naturally, I gave him some copies as well,” he said. “Anyhow, Gorey Castle was the last picture I ever shot in Jersey. It was also the last time I saw Jersey, as Paul and I had decided to escape that very night. Except he ended up in Portugal and I ended up here, reinventing myself as a full-time professional photographer! He married a girl from Sintra and established himself as a high-school biology teacher, near the Promonotorium Magnum...”
               “Who is Paul and where is the Promontorium Magnum?” Jordana asked. “I used to be pretty good at geography, but I never heard of such place in Portugal…,” Jordana said.
               Mr. Peirson giggled, lifted his eyebrows in a mischievous way and replied: “really, and have you heard of the Rock of Lisbon? Oh, and Paul was my closest friend since childhood.”
               Again, Jordana was feeling surprised and slightly embarrassed she hadn’t heard of either place. It was not like her to be unprepared in certain matters, but Mr. Peirson giggled again and broke the silence, revealing the enigma: “I’m pulling your leg, dear. He lived near Cabo da Roca. Leonor, his lovely wife, was the daughter of the lighthouse keeper.”
               At this juncture, Jordana was undecided. Should she ask more about the letter and its contents, or should she ask how he and Paul escaped? She opted for the former. “I hate to pry, but is the letter from Paul?”
               “Sort of,” Mr. Peirson said. “We spoke and wrote regularly, but sadly he passed away a year ago. I had intended to go to his funeral, but at the last minute Leonor told me to wait, as he didn’t really want to be buried; she said there would be a second funeral, in line with his last wishes.”
               “So sorry to hear that. So his wife speaks Jèrriais? She wrote the letter?” Jordana continued. “And what is a second funeral, if I may? Is that some kind of surviving Norman tradition in Jersey?”
               “Paul wrote two letters shortly before dying. One for his family and the other one for me. Leonor knew the contents, but she misplaced it. For a long time, she could not find it. I did tell her to forget about it and that it would eventually resurface, but she was adamant in making sure that I physically received it before we could proceed. Anyhow… he wanted to be cremated on the anniversary of our escape date, and his ashes scattered in the ten places portrayed in my photographs. Undoubtedly, he wanted me to be there!”
               “What an intense story!” Jordana exclaimed. Although she had been fairly audacious up until that point, her instinctive, overarching discretion took over, suggesting it was time to end the conversation right then and there. Then again, they could pick it up some other time, upon Mr. Peirson’s return and only if he wanted. “Well, I think perhaps, it’s best for me to go, now. I’ll leave you to your thoughts. I’m sure you want to start preparing for your trip back home. I wish you a wonderful journey and safe travels! Is this the first time you’re returning to Jersey after all these years?”
               “No. I had been back in the late seventies, for my mother’s funeral. But a lot will have changed, yet again,” he said.
               “Right, I know you’re going to a funeral, but perhaps you may retrace your photographs, this time in color,” Jordana timidly uttered. “Good-bye for now. Until we meet again,” she said.
               Before she could get up from her chair, he quickly said “I think you can take those pictures with your own eyes. How about you come along as my assistant?”
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