“Cozier and cozier,” he murmured.
A few minutes later, the flight attendant cleared away the coffee service and the plane pulled away from the gate. Derek grabbed my hand and held it securely as we taxied down the runway.
“I’m not a nervous flier,” I said.
He shifted closer so we were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, then gazed into my eyes. “I am.”
I shut off the shower and just as sternly shut off the memories. Grabbing a towel from the wonderfully warm towel rack, I dried off. I pulled a can of Pepsi from the minibar and popped it open, hoping the caffeine would help perk up my system. I blew my hair dry, put on some makeup and dressed for the chilly evening outdoors in warm tights, jeans, boots and my short down jacket.
I left my room and stepped into the empty lift to go downstairs. Despite much mental protesting, my recalcitrant mind dragged me back to earlier that day.
We landed at Heathrow and disembarked. Derek and I walked down the breezeway toward customs, holding hands. I was slightly disoriented from the flight but happy and laughing at his droll commentary. When we reached the long line, he wished me good luck at the book fair, then warmly kissed my cheek and said good-bye. A British citizen, he didn’t have to wait in the long passport section with us poor tourists. I waved as he walked away, then watched him stop, think for a moment and turn back.
“This is unacceptable,” he said as he came up close, tugged me even closer and kissed me for real. My brain shut down and my senses took over. All I could feel was heat, pressure, electricity. The kiss was hot, thorough, openmouthed. My heart stumbled in my chest as I dropped my bag and wrapped my arms around him.
I vaguely heard a passing woman whisper, “Oh, my.”
“Damn it, I’ll miss you,” Derek muttered, his forehead pressed against mine.
“Mm.” I was too stunned to say anything intelligible.
He gently ran his finger along my jaw, then chucked my chin. He grinned, kissed me once more, fast and hard and meticulously. Then he turned and left me for good. I watched him go, sighed a little, and picked up my bag and joined the line for customs, while he strolled down the European Union members’ ramp and out of the airport.
I emerged a mere twenty minutes later and headed for the next terminal to catch the shuttle flight to Edinburgh.
Imagine my surprise when I saw Derek still waiting curbside forty or so yards away. I smiled with delight and hurried over to him, just as a darkhaired woman jumped out of a shiny new silver Jaguar and rushed to hug him. Derek laughed as he grabbed her and kissed her, then tossed his bag in the Jaguar’s trunk. They chatted companionably as the woman opened the rear door to allow Derek to greet an adorable toddler who bore a striking resemblance to him. Derek then helped the woman into the car and jogged around to the driver’s side, jumped in and whisked his little family away.
The hotel elevator stopped and my memories jolted to a halt. The doors opened but I had to take a minute to breathe and settle myself. I refused to feel devastated by Derek’s betrayal, but I could go with livid. Or pissed off, or furious, not to mention being completely embarrassed and annoyed with myself.
Stepping out of the elevator, I managed a few steps but had to stop again. I leaned against the wall and tried to find my composure.
This was me, facing the well-established fact that I had lousy taste in men. My family was so right about that. Maybe I would just hire a matchmaker or some other third party to choose for me, since I was utterly incapable of making healthy choices. Or better yet, maybe I’d give up men altogether. Who needed this kind of grief?
Forcing a smile I didn’t feel, I walked to the lobby.
“ Brooklyn, here we are,” Helen cried out gaily from halfway across the large space. She was standing with four other women and I recognized one, Kimberly, a book history teacher we’d met in Lyon. We gave each other hugs as Helen introduced the others. Then the whole group walked out of the hotel and headed for the High Street. Another group of six was already waiting in front of St. Giles’ for the ghost tour to begin.
A lanky young man wearing a garishly striped wool scarf and matching skullcap introduced himself as Liam and announced that he would be our guide for the evening. He began with a bit of the condensed history of how Edinburgh was established and told us some cringeworthy facts about the place we’d be touring tonight, just a few hundred yards away down a narrow passageway between two tall buildings.
“Now gather close,” Liam said, his tone turning somber. “Take a good, long look at your friends and loved ones here with you tonight. Study their faces, for you may not see them ever again once we’ve stirred up the ghosts of Mary King’s Close.”