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The June morning was bright and sunny, the flowers in full bloom. Grace carried two bouquets of spring flowers, daisies and lilies and bright yellow primroses making a gay splash of color in her arms. Harmony walked silently beside her through the rows of grave markers.
Grace knew exactly where the graves were. Bryant was buried beside their parents, and Ford in the plot nearby that he and Grace had chosen. The day they had bought the plots she had looked at them and thought how many decades it would be before they were used. She had been wrong.
The two graves had markers on them. The life insurance policies would have paid for the markers, but she wondered who had ordered them. Friends, perhaps, or colleagues. It was possible Parrish had done it; he would have found the idea amusing. She didn’t mind. If he had, in this case, the end did justify the means. She was glad they had markers, that these two wonderful, precious men hadn’t lain for a year in unmarked graves.
Bryant’s marker was simply inscribed. “Bryant Joseph St. John. Born Nov. 11, 1962—Died April 27, 1996.” That said so little. He had been thirty-three years old. Never married, but engaged once. Several serious girlfriends. Loved his work, doing crossword puzzles, an ice-cold beer and salty popcorn when he was watching a ball game. His second toes had been longer than his big toes, and he hadn’t liked anything starched. She couldn’t have asked for a better brother.
She placed one of the bouquets on the grave, and numbly walked on. She stumbled a little, and Harmony placed a strong supporting hand under her arm.
“Are you all right?”
“No, not really,” Grace whispered. “But I have to do this.”
Bryant’s grave had been in partial shade; Ford’s was in full sun, and the grass that covered it was thick and lush. “William Ford Wessner,” the marker read. “Born Sept. 27, 1961—Died April 27, 1996.” One more line had been added: “Married with Love to Grace Elizabeth St. John.”
Grace’s knees buckled and she sank slowly to the grass, despite Harmony’s alarmed efforts to keep her upright. She reached out a trembling hand and traced the engraved letters of his name, trying to reach the essence of the man. She missed him so much, ached to see his crooked smile, or the humor in his twinkling eyes. He had died for her, and done it willingly.
“I’ll always love you,” she promised him, though she could no longer read his name in the stone; everything was blurred. He was a man worth loving, and that feeling for him would never die out of her heart, any more than her love for her parents had died.
The human heart had the capacity to love many people, and none of those loves diminished it for the others. Niall had been in her heart even before Ford died, a tiny burning kernel of interest and respect. Losing Ford hadn’t extinguished that spark. Instead it had grown during the long months when she was alone, giving her the strength to go on. At first she had loved him as a person, and later she had loved him as a man. It had been a banked fire when she had gone back to his time, and when he stirred the coals the fire had blazed into an inferno. How many women were so lucky as to have two such loves? They were nothing alike in personality. Ford had been cheerful, good-natured; she suspected Niall could be the very devil to live with, as accustomed to command as he was. Different times, different men—and they were both men, in the best sense of the word.
Harmony knelt down beside her, disregarding the effects of grass on her white pants. “Would he have minded?” she asked softly, nodding at the grave. “Or would he have wanted you to love again?”
“He would want me to love again,” Grace replied, brushing her hand lightly over the grass. As she would want the same for him. She couldn’t help the small spurt of jealousy she felt, ridiculous under the circumstances, but she would want him to be happy, and he had been more generous and openhearted than she was.
She laid the bouquet on the grave and touched the marker again. Since his death she had been able to see only one image of him, that horrible last one, but the words on the marker summoned another, happier memory, that of their wedding day. She saw him in her mind, nervous and excited, the way he repeatedly swallowed, the way his voice shook when he said his vows. When the ceremony was finished a wide grin broke across his face, and it was that grin she saw, relieved and happy all at once.
Tears dripped down her cheeks, and her mouth trembled. “Oh, Ford,” she said, her voice shattered. “I miss you so much, and I love you, but I have to go now.”
Harmony helped her to her feet and gently led her away. Grace stumbled; the grass was springy beneath her feet, and wet with early-morning dew. She stopped, tilting her head back. It was a beautiful day. She took a deep breath, inhaling all the fresh scents, and with swimming eyes looked at the wide expanse of blue sky.
“You look like you gonna pass out any minute now,” Harmony said sternly. “You eat anything yet?”
“No, not yet.” Grace gathered herself and smiled. It was wobbly, but it was a real smile. She ached, but she felt at peace. She hadn’t had vengeance, but Ford and Bryant had had justice, and it was enough.
“Did you even try to eat, or did you just start gagging?”
“Gagging.” Morning sickness had started three days ago, hitting her early and hard. Harmony had said the worse the morning sickness was, the less likely a woman was to miscarry; if that old wives’ tale was true, then Grace figured she could play ice hockey in her ninth month without any harm coming to the baby.
She touched her flat stomach. She was five weeks pregnant; she knew the exact date of conception. She would have the longest pregnancy in history, a baby conceived in 1322 and born in 1998. That was one for the record books.
At first it had seemed so unreal, that one night would result in a pregnancy, but when she remembered the night,
she wondered how she couldn’t have expected to get pregnant.
She thought of what Niall had said, of wanting a normal life, a wife and babies. Perhaps a normal life would never be his, but she carried his child and he didn’t even know it. He had isolated himself, allowing himself nothing but the burden of his responsibility. Would he want his child, or would he turn away?
He would want it, she thought. There was a great tenderness in him, and great passion. He had shown both of them to her. A man like that would adore his children. It would be criminal to keep such joy from him.
“Are you going back?” Harmony asked as they drove away from the cemetery.
“I think I have to. It may be a wasted trip, he may send me here again, but if he wants me I’ll stay.”
“Man,” Harmony breathed. “That must be luuuvvv. I mean, a woman givin’ up hot water and central heat, Chicago Hope and Sean Connery, pizza and enchiladas—a man better have somethin’ more to offer than a hot love stick, if you get my drift.”
“I get it,” Grace said, and found herself laughing. “He has a castle, too.”
