Safe Passage. Loreth White Anne

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      The failure couldn’t be more stark.

      And he couldn’t stand to have his face rubbed in the sharp gravel of that reality. So he’d taken one job after another out in the field, in the far wild corners of this earth. Anything to keep him away from a place that had once been home. Anything to keep him from looking in the mirror, facing himself.

      Scott’s jaw clenched as he watched a cab pull into the driveway next door. A trim blonde climbed out, paid her fare and trotted up the steps to Skye’s front door. He watched the door open in welcome, Skye’s dark head appear. This morning the doctor wore a soft yellow robe. Cinched at the waist. Bare feet. He saw her laugh, hair falling around her face. The happy bride-to-be.

      Scott crushed the glass in the reflexive power that surged through his hands and swore at the sharp pain. That bride-to-be wasn’t going anywhere but the chapel today, of that he was certain. He was wasting time washing dishes, watching her house, thinking of the past.

      He glanced down, slightly bemused at the fresh dark blood welling from his hand. He flexed his fingers, testing his injury. The pain in his flesh was nothing compared to the twisted mess in his chest.

      He chucked the dishcloth into the sink.

      He’d go check out the town, buy some supplies. And when it got closer to wedding time, he’d go wait at the church, see who was arriving. He’d had enough of peeking through drapes. He wrapped a handkerchief roughly around his bleeding hand, grabbed his cane and keys, stepped out onto the porch and whistled for Honey.

      To his surprise, the dog bounded instantly to his side. It gave him an unexpected stab of satisfaction. He ruffled the fur on her head. “Come, you silly pooch. We’re going to get some supplies then we’re gonna head on down to the church and watch a wedding.”

      Shopping done, Scott and Honey drove to the only chapel in town and pulled into a parking space across the street, under the boughs of an old cherry tree frothy with pale pink blossoms. Scott opened his newspaper, turned to the business pages, took a bite of dried sausage, and began to read. And wait.

      A wet splotch of drool hit the far edge of the business section. Then another. He looked slowly up from the newsprint into pleading brown eyes and doggy breath.

      “Jeez. Okay, you have the sausage then.”

      Honey inhaled the piece whole, tail thumping down on the front seat.

      “You didn’t even blink, Honey. Was it worth it?” Scott wedged the business section onto the dashboard, opened a bottle of water. “Okay, Honey, this is your car water.” He held up the bowl they’d just bought at the Haven General Store. “And it goes in your new car bowl. Got it?” Scott sloshed water into the bowl, set it on the floor of the truck. “Careful now, don’t knock it over.”

      The darn hound was hard work. He’d gotten used to caring only for his own needs. Hadn’t had to think about making anyone else happy for a long, long time.

      Not even a dog.

      He watched as Honey lapped up the water. And suddenly he was seeing a black Lab. Merlin—the dog he’d owned when he was eleven. The dog he and his dad used to take on fishing trips. And that made him think of the times he had gone fly-fishing with Leni, before Kaitlin was born.

      Scott blinked, rubbed his face. Guilt bit at him. He hadn’t seen his dad or his mum since the funeral. He’d cut everyone out. Everything that made him think of Leni and Kaitlin, of the role he’d played in their deaths. He’d sliced out the very core of who he was.

      Scott cleared his throat, retrieved the business section and glanced across at the chapel. He had to focus.

      But there was still no action. He turned his attention back to the paper, scanned the headlines.

      There was another article on the devastating U.S. beef crisis. And a smaller one about the whitefly epidemic sweeping south. His eyes widened. “Hey, look at this— Kepplar has been contracted to develop a predator bug for this whitefly thing. Our Dr. Van Rijn is in charge of the project.”

      Honey burped. Scott looked up, frowned. “You know, Honey, it’s a conspiracy. Rex figures by giving you to me, you’ll make me go fully nuts. Soon I’ll be talking to myself. Then they can happily institutionalize me. Zero guilt for Bellona.”

      Honey perked up, but not because of Scott’s scintillating conversation. Her interest was captured by sudden activity outside the church. Cars started arriving. Small groups of people were entering the chapel.

      Scott closed the paper, folded it, watched the action across the street. Two men in suits climbed out of a red convertible parked directly in front of the church. Scott studied them, but he couldn’t see the groom.

      Then a Harley, identical to Skye’s, rumbled into one of the parking spaces behind the convertible. Another man in a suit. He carried his helmet under one arm, entered the church.

      The activity seemed to die down a little. Scott glanced at his watch. It was almost six-thirty now. By his count there were at least forty wedding guests already waiting inside the church for the bridal party to arrive.

      Then he saw it.

      A sleek, white limousine cruised down the street, pulled to a stop in front of the chapel. It had no adornment. No silly paper flowers. No ribbons. For some reason, Scott thought this was appropriate and in keeping with the direct and no-nonsense nature of the woman he’d recently met.

      A photographer snapped the scene as the driver’s door opened. An elderly gentleman stepped out, dapper in a crisp gray suit. Scott recognized him from the general store. The man walked around the vehicle to open the passenger door. A slim blonde stepped out, the same one Scott had seen at Skye’s house this morning. A long dress the dark blue of midnight skimmed the curves of her body. It was draped in a way that reminded Scott of ancient Greece. She was followed by a miniature version, maybe six years old, with wild fair curls. The little flower girl clung to a simple basket of petals.

      Then came the bride.

      Dr. Skye Van Rijn stepped out of the bridal vehicle and took the old man’s arm.

      And she clean stole Scott’s breath.

      She was an ancient Greek goddess. An Aphrodite. A high priestess in virginal white. She stood tall, elegant, strong, the simple yet exquisite fall of her dress in the style of old Athens. Her rich dark hair was loosely piled upon her head, held with a tiny silvery-white wreath of leaves. Loose, smoky tendrils curled down, teasing her shoulders. Her arms were bare. Behind her the small stone chapel was silhouetted against the evening sea and a spring sky turning pale violet as the faraway sun set. Scott could think only of white doves and peace offerings and the gods of Mount Olympus. The bug lady looked like she should be marrying Zeus, for Christ’s sake. Not some guy called Jozsef. The woman was a dream. Brains. Beauty…

      And a suspect.

      Keep that in your confounded brain, Agent.

      But he couldn’t tear his eyes from Skye as the blond woman helped her with the back of her dress. He watched as she climbed the stairs, passed through the chapel doors.

      He watched the double doors swing shut behind her. And he imagined her walking down the aisle. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered, СКАЧАТЬ