MY HEART IN STONE

PART 27:

There was a swoop to the blackness that possessed her brain, a familiar feel of hovering

that took her many places, memories, fragments of people she knew.  None of it solidified

until she came to a tall pier of stone with a flat rock balanced on top of it.  Atop it

stretched Cort, seeming oblivious to her efforts to reach him.  Then she turned and

knew where the swoop came from and it lifted her, flew her over the gorge, so that she

could feel the horror rising from below.  The fear grew thicker, heavier until she ended

up in the aerie of the tower and Mikol hovered over the open space, laughing, then, with

a final bounce, let her go….

Her eyes flew open to pitch black in the room.  Their curtains had been pulled so that

much of the street-light had been blocked out, but she could make out the dim outline of

Cort’s head, as he seemed to be waking up at the same moment. 

She found that she was trembling, hard.

Putting out a hand, he felt the vibration in her shoulder and, lifting his head, concerned,

asked, “Are you cold, Rachel?”  He began to slide out of bed, reaching for another

blanket.  Even in town, the nights were chilly and the heater in the room had not been

turned on.  She shook her head in the dark.

“No,” she answered quite decidedly.  “I’m not cold."

He paused for a brief second, then turned back to her, understanding that something

much more important than cold was bothering her. "It's all right, my love," he

murmured, slipping one arm beneath her, pulling her body close to his.  "I've got you.

You're safe." He kissed her ear, her cheek, and she pressed even more tightly against

him, seeking the solidness of his form in the dim light.

"I love you," he whispered into her hair.  "Do you have any idea how much?"  He kissed

her forehead, her eyes, the hollow under her neck.  His hands slipped under her short

gown.  "Let me show you," he said softly, his lips smiling.  "Let me show you that I will

never let you fall."

“Pssst!  Sweet love…” Rachel whispered into Cort’s ear, blinking sleepily against a

stray sunbeam that somehow slipped past the curtains and fell on Cort’s face.  She

read the clock and saw that the morning was already approaching the time when she

agreed to meet with Henri to go to the shop to look for a dress.  The spell of the night,

the comfort Cort had given her, still clung to her limbs and she was not quite ready to

break it.  However, unless she wanted to delay progress on their plans for the wedding…   

She waited a few more minutes before trying again, her heart melting over his profile,

the way his lashes lay along the rims of his eyes, the stubble of the faint beard he was

always trying to keep at bay.  Maybe if she lay her head back down again, she’d feel like

getting up in a few minutes….   

Her eyes went to the clock.  Nope.  She had to get up  now and get dressed else Henri

would be waiting for naught.   

“I have to get up now,” she whispered again.  “Henri’s taking me to find a dress!”  

"A dress?" he murmured sleepily.  "Why do you need a dress?"  It was only because she

saw his grin that she didn't hit him with the pillow.

“Would you rather I show up in a paper bag and sandals?”  Rachel asked rhetorically. 

Cort opened his mouth and she put her fingers over it.  “Don’t answer that.  I just might

show up in my housemaid’s dress and feather duster and sneeze all the way through the ceremony.”  She snuggled further into his embrace.  “Do you have anything in mind that

you’d like to do while I’m gone?”

"I could stay here in bed all day," he said, still grinning, attempting to tickle her armpit,

"but only if you stay with me."

“I really want to find a special dress,” Rachel laughed.  “I hate to leave you alone, but

you know its not proper that a groom see his bride’s dress before the wedding.”

"Actually," he replied, "I'll probably just go for a bit of a walk by myself.  Saw some

things yesterday I'd like to see better." He smiled at her, adding, "won't go to the

cathedral, though.  That's something I'd like to do with you"  He nuzzled her neck.

"Not to mention...other things...I'd like to do with you."

“Good,” she murmured, nuzzling back.  “On both counts…very much…on both…oh! 

I’ve got to get up!”  She climbed out of his arms with a thousand kisses and rushed to

shower and dress, giving him one last deep kiss before running out the door.

Henri was sitting at a small café table reading a newspaper as she approached,

seemingly unworried about the time.  He rose when she greeted him, tucking the

paper underneath his arm.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” Rachel said, as he took one more sip of his

coffee and indicated to the waiter that he was through with his breakfast. 

“Not at all, my dear,” he replied and held the door of the café open for her.  “The shop

I spoke of is but a short walk from here and there is no hurry at all.”

They both walked up a street that seemed to Rachel to grow older the further they

went, beginning at an arch that introduced the courtyard that Henri explained had

been part of an old brewery.  As the walked, she noticed that the neatly squared flagstone

of the street had stopped and was now the original medieval cobblestone.  This was set

in patterned blocks while cobblestone sidewalks arose on either side of a shallow

cobblestone trench. 

http://www.ckrumlov.cz/uk/mesto/objekt/i_sir701.htm

When she was not marveling over the antiquity of the street – “brick streets were the

oldest thing I’d ever seen” she told Henri – she was snapping pictures trying to keep her

balance and her awareness of traffic around her while staring at the various medieval

and Renaissance facades of the buildings lined in a neat row.  Several had old murals

painted on the front which Henri informed was part of an effort of the city to renew

and preserve its past.  He finally had to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and

lead her away, “else they would never get to the shop and poor Cort would be waiting

under the lime whilst you wandered.”

The shop itself sat nearly the end of the long cobblestone lane, the red façade catching

their eye almost immediately as it towered in three stories over its neighbors.  But the

color of the plaster alone was not enough to incite Rachel’s curiosity.  The portico

itself was a piece of Renaissance history.  Two large rosettes were carved into the stone

while two niches with half-moon seats framed the large wooden doors.  She asked Henri

to take a picture of her sitting on one of the little ledges before they went in.

Hours later, they sat side by side on the long Chippendale couch with its brocade

upholstery and dark wood trim, sipping tea courtesy of the shop, both feeling quite

pleased with themselves, watching the shop girls tidy up the last bit of the frenzy that

was the hunt for Rachel’s dress.  At first, Rachel had been a bit shy of a strange man

overseeing such a personal choice, but Deidre would not arrive until the next day, and

she had felt more than a little reserve in asking the shop girls when they kept insisting

the most expensive gowns were the best ones on her; two, she was even more shy of the

rather intimidating proprietress, who never really said much, but after a few stilted

attempts at English, seemed to be much more easy-going with suggestions than her

helpers.  Rachel drove them all crazy with her cries of delight over the dresses and her

all-too-feminine indecision.  Henri remained silent through most of the selections, until

Rachel plopped down in the middle of the room and had a small meltdown of panic and

despair.  Then he began ordering away the ones he thought were less than admirable

until they narrowed it down to five.  Once that took place, Rachel’s indecision

disappeared, and the selection was now getting a final once-over for any flaws to be

fixed and boxed up for her to take back to the hotel.  They had even found a delicate

veil to go with it and it, too, was receiving a once-over before packaging.

“Perhaps you had better let me take the dress and veil with me back to the castle, or

give to Volos to watch over,” Henri recommended.  “Having it in the room with you

will be too great a temptation to show off, and I really think it would be best to reserve

it for the moment he sees you walk toward him.”

Rachel just looked at the doctor, a wide smile spreading over her face.  She was not

too terribly vain about her looks, but having tried the dress in question on repeatedly

in between other suggested dresses, there was something to the way it hugged her body

and its delicate filigree of lace that told her the look on Cort’s face would be worth

everything.  “You’re absolutely correct,” she said.  “I guess the next step is getting

HIM an outfit!  Oh!  Before I forget,” she sat up, nearly sending the tea cup balanced

on her knee flying to the floor.  She reached into her purse and pulled out a small box

and handed it to Henri.  “One of those many trips into town was so I could get this for

him,” she told Henri.  He opened the box up to reveal a simple band of white gold, its

mirror-like surface gleaming in the lights of the shop.  “Do you know where I can

have something engraved on the inside?”

“There is another jewelry store around the corner.  We can go there next if you like,”

Henri said.

“Do you think he’ll like that?”  Rachel asked, as Henri returned the ring to her hands. 

“I almost got him one with a diamond in it, but I think he prefers simplicity.”

Henri smiled, nodding agreement.  "I think he finds the greatest beauty in the grand

simplicity he sees around him.  The ring is perfect, truly perfect."

Rachel caressed the smooth surface of the gold before returning the box to her purse, a 

sudden remembrance of one time when Henri stepped away from the two of them, a 

shadow of some regret darkening his eyes.  She looked at the doctor now, who was 

sipping his tea, perfectly composed and detached. “May I ask you a personal question?”  

She asked, realizing that Henri had not spoken much of himself lately.

He looked at her silently a moment, wondering what she might ask.  His personal

life had been a thing unshared for more years than he could count. A little warily,

he nodded assent.

Rachel fidgeted with the hemline of her skirt, acutely aware that an American sense

of privacy was vastly different than a European one and what she might consider

mere friendliness could be mistaken as harsh judgment; but she wanted very much

to get to know Henri better, especially since Cort was so close to him, especially since

Henri had done so much to ensure his safety.

"Have you ever been married?" she asked, after a small intake of breath.

Ah, she had weddings on her mind!  But of course!  He set his cup down, watching a

moment as the tea it contained settled into quiet smoothness again.  Finally his eyes

met hers, their expression containing an old aloneness that had come to be a part of

life.

"No, Rachel, I have not," he replied.  "There was a girl...once...a long time ago, but

we were very young.  In school," he smiled, remembering, "at lunch we sat on the

steps and spoke of life, shared books we loved...that sort of thing.  But," and he began

to run the tip of a finger around the rim of his cup, "I went away to study medicine.

She married another. It is often the way of things, you know."  He smiled fondly at

Rachel. 

"And then I was busy...too busy...and never found her like again. I think now

that I never took the time to look.  And Mikol was there after that and my world was...circumscribed...by him.  He was always the center of everything, his personality,

his demands.  But there were times..."  He looked up at a passing cloud.  "...times,

especially of late, when I would find myself thinking of the steps...and the girl with

sunlight on her hair...and wonder how I came to be so alone."  Shrugging, he took

another sip of tea. "I have no one to blame but myself.  But, now, my dear, here I am

 and I am so happy that I will see the son of my heart marry his lady."  His smile

broadened. "And, I expect, you will have sunlight  on your hair.  He will like that." 

Rachel’s heart felt as if it would burst in fondness for this gentle man, not just because

of his sentiments, but because it healed a part of her that wished Cort had something

she had always taken for granted: family.  There was much more flitting through her

 mind, but the public closeness of the shop and the fragility of their own friendship

warned her it was not the time to push further.  So instead, she grabbed Henri’s hand

and squeezed it with a big smile. 

“We mustn’t forget you, either.  There must be something special you’d like to wear so

you can stand up for Cort,” she said. 

Once she made her payments to the shops, she and Henri made their way to the

jewelers, and after receiving a promise from the jewelry that the ring’s engraving would

be done on the morrow, they headed back to the hotel.

Cort walked through the main square of the small town, craning his head not to miss

any of the architectural touches that looked so different to him. He couldn't help but

contrast the place with Redemption, awash in brown and drab tan and nothing else. 

The dirt street, the land beyond, all of it brown.  Here there were pale blues, bright

 yellows, gleaming whites, soft pinks.  He was also on a mission of his own.  Unbeknownst

to Rachel, he, too, had made a few phone calls, had had Terry handle an arrangement

or two.  Now he walked in the morning light, smiling.  Henri had told him just where

he was most likely to find what he wanted.

There was a footbridge over the river near the spillway.  As his business would take him

to the other section of Hromada, he chose to cross there, spending several moments

leaning on the railing, watching the water.  Just the sound it made delighted him and

he closed his eyes, centering in on it, shutting out the ringing of bicycle bells, the passing conversations.

Once across the bridge, he pulled out a small map Henri had made for him, and soon

was opening the door of an ancient old shop tucked into a side street.  He couldn't read

the sign in Czech, but Henri had told him that it meant Twice Treasured.  He liked that.

Inside were things that had once been treasured by someone in some other age, quietly

awaiting a new owner to treasure them again.

A small bell rang as he entered the shop and two cats, lying on the shelves of a rather

rickety bookcase, blinked sleepily at him.  The lighting was fairly dim, but seemed

appropriate to the atmosphere of the place.  A floorboard creaked under his boot as

he approached the owner, a tiny woman, grey hair pulled severely back into a long pony

tail, a wine-colored velvet shawl covering her remarkably stooped back.  She turned at

the sound of the creak, adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, and peered at him down a long,

thin nose.  He smiled at her and something about the almost happy innocence of his smile generated an upward curve of her own lips in return.

"English?" he asked hesitantly.  The two of them were alone and if she did not have any

English, things might get a bit complicated.

She held up a gnarled hand, her fingers making the sign for "a little."

His eyes quickly scanned the shop, past the jumble of small furnishings for sale, the old

hats and scarves, the array of interesting small boxes and containers, several rugs, many

books and paintings, coming to rest on a glass-topped case of antique jewelry.  He

pointed.  "That," he said and the two of them crossed the room, her going around to the

back side of it and lifting the glass.

The left-hand side of the case was filled with unusual pins fastened to deep blue velvet.

He ignored those. It was the selection of rings that he wanted to examine.  "Please,

God, please let it be here," he whispered, closing his eyes briefly before he began to

look.  There were five rows of rings, rather crowded together, sometimes 2 or 3 of

them in the same ring slot.  He had his hands clasped behind his back as he bent over, 

doing a quick first check of the contents.  He sighed.  He didn't see it.  Not what he was

looking for. Not the one he had in his mind for Rachel.  He checked a second time, still

not finding it. There were one or two that might do, but 'might do' was not what he

needed.  He knew what he wanted to say as he put it on her finger. It had to be right.

The woman had been watching his face. "Not find?" she asked as he straightened

after his second inspection.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "not find."

"Use fingers," she suggested, demonstrating by pushing a ring slightly to one side so

the one behind it showed more clearly.

"Is all right?" he asked.

"Is," she nodded. "Look!"

And so he made his way down the rows again, stopping at each slot to separate the rings

a bit. When he came to the last slot in the 4th row, he pushed aside a small emerald

ring, revealing a garnet set in diamonds. He was about to move on when he saw a third

ring pushed way down behind the garnet in the slot.  He pulled out the two rings,

setting them just to one side.  The stone on the remaining ring was not visible. It seemed

to be upside down and all he could see was the lower part of a white gold band.  He tried

to pull it out, but his fingers were too large to reach that far into the slot.

"I do," the old woman said, patting his hand away.

"I do," Cort repeated, a sudden strange surge of hope rising in him because they were

the words of the wedding ceremony.

With a small grunt, she pulled the stuck ring out, holding it up for him to see. "Oh...

my!" he said.

A bit later, his pocket bulging with a ring box, he went to visit the lime tree. No one was there...he'd looked carefully in all directions...and so he said, "Hello, Lime. I'm back."

The lime, not being a great conversationalist, was content to let him do the talking.

He liked to touch the tree, especially the edge where new bark had curled over the

sharp break from the lightning strike.  Being rather tired by now, he sat on the nearest

bench.  "So, my friend," he said to the tree, "I see you know all about healing."  He

patted his thigh.  "You got any secrets about that you want to share?"  He'd dropped

his cane at his feet and now pushed it a bit with the toe of one boot.  "I don't want to

be using this that day, you know."  A breeze caused the lower branches to sway

slightly.  He grinned.  "Knew you'd understand."

Rising, he rested the palm of his hand flat on the trunk. "I've got to go now, old fellow.

Just wanted you to know I was thinking about you and that I'm grateful you're going

to be our church."  Before he left, he stood, looking straight up through the canopy, remembering a similar time with the pines near the blue house back in the States. 

"Thank You for being here, too," he smiled.

He took his time making his way back to the Mini, looking in shop windows, watching

the people, stopping to make friends with a small black and white dog.  Only two blocks

from the hotel he came across a little open-air market, fruits and vegetables colorful

in their neat wooden bins.  Several items he didn't recognize, but one small, shallow

container held a dozen roundish green things.  He picked one up, smelling its tangy

scent.  Holding it out toward the very plump man who owned the market, he asked,

"Lime?"

The man nodded, Cort smiled broadly, and purchased it.

Cort had wandered slowly back to their room, turning the lime over and over in his

hand as he walked, once in a while lifting it to his nose and taking a long sniff.

Setting it on the little table, he got out the new pocket knife Henri had supplied him

with and sliced it in half.  Again he smelled it then let his tongue trail across the cut

surface.  The taste was tart and sharp and he looked at it, head cocked.

"Hmmmm?  What does one do with a lime?" he wondered.  His eyes found the wall

clock.  Rachel should be back any minute.  He wanted to make...something...with the

lime.  Smiling at last, he filled two glasses from the bathroom with water  and squeezed

a half a lime into each, carefully removing the seeds.  There was sugar by the little coffee

pot, so he sprinkled some of that in and stirred it.  Then he sat there, staring at the door

for about five minutes until he heard the sound of Rachel's hand turning the knob.  He

stood, holding an iceless glass in each hand, grinning as she entered.

"I found a lime," he announced proudly, slightly lifting both glasses.  His eyes were

sparkling, both with humor at himself and because the woman he loved more than life

itself was smiling back at him.

"You made limeade!" Rachel exclaimed as she closed the door behind her.  She held

out her hands for the glass.  "Oh, you are my hero!  With all the walking we've done,

I'm about parched."  She drank much of the water without pausing for breath, finishing

with a satisfied sigh.  “That was perfect.  Thank you!”

"I'm afraid it wasn't very cold," Cort commented, taking the glass from her when she'd finished.  "It was sorta warm, in fact."  He moved closer.  "Very warm...like..."  He lay

his lips softly atop hers.  "...this," he finished.

It was true, the water wasn’t ice cold, but it was cooler than the hot tea that she had

shared with Henri, and refreshing after their long trek back; but definitely not as warm

as the feel of his lips on hers and she closed her eyes to the kiss, feeling a green warmth

tingle behind her eyelids.  She kept her eyes closed to hover there, almost ignoring his

next question.

"Any luck finding your dress?" 

Green was replaced by the image of the elegant dress she chose and she opened her eyes

to stare at the buttons of his shirt as he nuzzled her hair.  The shirt she had brought with

her to Hromada.

“Henri is stashing my dress in a secret place until our special day.  He thinks I might

be tempted to try it on for you.”  She gave him a mischievous grin.  “I think he must be

right.  Getting kissed by you will persuade me of anything.  And I think he has some

errands of his own to run.  Cort, um….,” she hesitated, reaching up to twiddle with the

collar.  “This might not be clean.”

"Not clean?  I just put it on this morning.  I know I haven't worn this shirt for a long

time."  He pulled at the collar, squinching his face down, trying to see it.

"I’m sorry...I think Henri must have had it cleaned after all," Rachel replied,

remembering that her things had been collected from the room to take to Kamen. 

"It's okay," she added, patting his shoulder, feeling a bit foolish.  Those days of tears

were a thing of the past now.  The shirt was back with its rightful owner.  Sighing, she

looked up to see Cort gazing down at her with a quizzical look.  “I brought that shirt

with me from home.  It…was…all I had left of you…at the time…”she trailed off. 

Cotton had suddenly bloomed in her throat.

"You brought my...?"  Suddenly he realized what she was saying and gathered her in

his arms, pressing her to his chest so she could feel the solidness of him.  "This," he

whispered to her, "this is the way it was meant to be.  Me, here, with you.  Not some

empty shirt.  This."

Once again she was clinging to him, but was too caught up in the truth of his assurance

to care.  She shifted so she could look up at him and place her lips on his in thanksgiving,

smiling as she did. 

“Have you eaten?”  She asked, her hands smoothing out the cloth of his shirt to

privately rejoice in the person wearing it.  “Let’s grab lunch downstairs and then go

to the cathedral.  I’d like to see it before the others arrive this evening.”

"Good idea," he agreed. "I've been wanting to see the inside of a real cathedral ever

since Father Michael talked about them."

After they ate, they began their stroll down the street, and Rachel told him of their trip

to the shop, of the cobblestone streets and the restoration of the houses.  They paused in

the archway of the entrance, a broad arc decorated with the ever-present symbol of the

medieval patriarchal family, the Rosenbergs: a five-petaled flower.  The flyer posted on

the front door announced the times of the masses and other benefits given for charities

in the area. 

 “We seem to be in luck,” Rachel whispered as they stepped inside.  “Hardly anyone is

here.” 

"Better that way," he commented, holding the door for her, his neck already craning

to see the high vaults above them.  He walked down the aisle, holding her hand, turning

in slow circles as he went, trying to see everything. The predominant color was white,

which was what the chapel of his small mission had been.  "It's...big," he said, trying to

get his spiritual bearings in such an unfamiliar setting.

"Come."  He guided her to a pew on the side.  "I need to sit a while and think."

They sat side by side, looking at the ornate altar section of the cathedral.  He had his

hands folded together on the back of the pew in front of him and for a time, leaned his

forehead on them.  He was aware of her left palm resting lightly on his shoulder and

liked the feeling of connection with her.

It was, indeed, gloriously beautiful in this place and he appreciated all the effort and

thought that had gone into its construction, but something in him missed the pines.  He

hadn't known he would feel like this.  Cathedrals had always sounded like such

marvelous places when Michael described the ones he'd seen in Europe. Perhaps, he

sighed, he was too simple a man for such splendor. For him, the light through the pines

had been a direct link to heaven. He was suddenly very glad they had found the lime,

were going to take the vows of their union under its branches. It  was...comfortable...

there.  Rachel had somehow known that about him.

“I remember when I first came here,” Rachel whispered, flinching somewhat that

despite her low tone, the acoustics of the church picked up the sounds she made and

sent them as fluttering rustles through the rest of the church.  “I sat here and looked

up at the arches, marveled at the technology it took to build this.  How do simple lines

like that hold up so much?  And I guess it's supposed to give one a sense of awe and

majesty, an idea of how far reaching heaven is.  But all I remember thinking that even

though this was a place of worship, every bit of help I needed was so far away.”  She

felt tears sting her eyes a bit as she recalled how alone she felt.  “You weren’t here to

look at it with me, and I wasn’t even sure you’d get to.  Kind of upset me that you were

so close, and yet so far away.”  She wrapped her arm around his.  “I’m glad you’re

here now, though.  I still want to get married under the lime tree, but I’m glad we got

to see this cathedral together.”

Lifting his head, he saw banks of candles lit far to one side and led Rachel there. 

Together they lit one in honor of their marriage.  He started to turn away, but

moved back, lighting another.  "For Henri," he whispered, " and all he is and all

he needs."

Back outside in the sunlight, he pointed to the colorful small boats on the river. "When

I was on the bridge near the spillway," he explained, "I saw the spit of land where they

rent those boats.  May I take you out on the water?" he asked.

Rachel found herself bouncing on her toes.  “Yes you may!  But I have to warn you, I

can be quite klutzy around water.  I’ll have to tell you about the glass-bottom boats in

San Marcos.”

They crossed the small village and found the boat rental.  "This will be a great way to

see the town from a different point of view," he smiled, helping her into the small, blue

boat they'd been assigned. 

The water was calm, flowing slowly, and he let the boat float around the curves, guiding

it only slightly with the oars.  Rowing, he found, bothered his back muscles still, but as

long as he guided the boat a bit, the current did the rest. 

"If you had a parasol," he smiled, "you'd look very like a painting I once saw in a bank."

His face clouded slightly.  "Was robbing it so didn't get all that good a look.  But it was

pretty.  What I saw of it."

Rachel sat on a bench opposite and facing him, dabbling her hands in the water, peering

over the side to look for fish.  It wasn’t quite as clear as the Hill Country rivers she had

come to know, not like the San Marcos river that bubbled out of a lake of springs from

deep within the earth, crystal clear and cold, running strong through the city between

banks lined with elephant ear plants; but the Chlad river lived up to its name in its

coldness and in that much it was just like the San Marcos, as well as its calm and

leisurely current, which they were both happy to let propel their way. 

“I love you,” she said, reaching across to clasp his hand.  He took one of the oars and

tried to use it to steer their boat back towards the middle and winced; and then tried to

act like he didn’t wince.  “Let me help you?”

"Partners, eh?"  He smiled a little, reluctantly letting her take the other oar.  When she

had it in her hands, he put one of his over hers, adding, "In everything, Mrs. Wells."

“In everything,” she repeated.  “We pull together.”

Then together they rounded the curve and put into shore in the landing area.  As he

extended a hand to help her step out onto the sand, he winked broadly.  "But no bank

robbery, ok?"

They sat in the lobby of the small private plane airport, ensconced in a plush loveseat

positioned so they could see the arrival and departure of the planes and watch the

daylight fade over the hills.  The clock on the wall read a quarter of seven and the

latest communication they had was from the NanoCorp company plane at six o’clock. 

She and Cort had meandered their way back through the city, freshened up and the

hotel and then Henri took them outside the city limits in his car to the airport. 

Terry, Deidre, Bud, her father…all were expected within the hour and Rachel found

herself getting more and more tense.  She even caught herself wringing her hands like

Gerta used to do, although she couldn’t exactly describe why she was nervous.  She

looked at Cort, realizing that this period of privacy was going to be over when their

guests crossed the runway, at least until after the wedding.  She almost didn’t want

that to happen.  As far as she was concerned she wanted to keep wandering around

Hromada and lounging about forever.

Cort, his arm around her shoulder, watched the passing people, wondering who they

were, where they were going.  The airport was not a busy one, so there weren't all that

many people about and a tall, very thin man carrying a large black briefcase caught

his eye.  He followed the man's progress with his eyes down the long corridor until he

was distracted by the descent to the runway of the NanoCorp plane, the setting sun

glinting goldenly on its wings.  Fascinated, he got up and walked to the wall of windows,

followed closely by Rachel.  It was metal, obviously heavy.  How could it stay up in the

air?  He shook his head, watching the wheels touch down.  "What a wonder," he

whispered, his palms flat on the glass.

Then it hit him that Terry was inside it, possibly Bud, and he had a sudden eager

yearning to see the men he'd come to think of rather as brothers.  And Dee.  She'd be

there, too.  Flashes of memories from Germania, from Zucchabar and Rome ran

through his mind, long hours in the company of Thorne and his lady.  And Bud...

showing him LA Confidential, breaking the whole movie concept to him.  There'd be

Glen, too, Rachel's father.  He licked his lips.  What would that be like, meeting her

father? 

“There they are!”  Rachel said, pointing to a dark figure making its way down the small

ladder at the side of the plane.  They both peered through the glass, which acted more

and more as a mirror because of the growing dark outside.  “I wonder who’s getting off

first?” She twined her fingers in with Cort’s as she stepped back, a look of hopeful

concern clouding her face.  “It’s Dad.  Are you ready?”

He swallowed hard.  "I've never done this before,  you know.  Met a future father-in-law." 

A sudden pang from all the walking he'd done earlier in the day shot through his left leg

and he leaned a bit more heavily on his cane. Damn, he thought ruefully, trying to

straighten himself a bit, her father will think she's marrying an old man.

“Don’t fear, sweetheart,” she said to him as they walked towards the entrance ramp,

watching as a stocky man made his way to the automatic doors.  She and Cort stood

still then, waiting for Glen to approach.  She didn’t know about Cort, but Rachel

suddenly felt very nervous.  Would her father see how much she loved Cort? Or would

he give his disapproval, turn around and get back on the plane to go home?

Glen was a bit bleary from sleeping away the long hours hunched in a seat on the

plane.  He paused just a few moments once passing the automated doors to look around

and blink in the bright lights of the lobby.  His eyes fell on a couple standing nearby…

one of them his daughter!  She looked as if she were about to burst.  The other figure

was a lithe man, in dark denims and cream-colored flannel shirt, topped by a leather

vest, leaning on a cane.  His expression was valiantly…unreadable.

As Glen stepped toward them, he hesitated again to take in a second look of his

prospective son-in-law.  So, this was the young man he had heard about.  The whole

journey he had been debating his feelings about the upcoming events, the events of the

past few months.  She’d sounded so sure of herself, but he couldn’t help but feel Rachel

was holding back on him still.  Ambivalence was the word he kept coming up with: a

mixture of opposing feelings that just couldn’t seem to find a comfortable fit with each

other, and he knew it would be that way until he met the man. 

Okay, so there he is…clean shaven…hair a bit too long…looked as if he had seen days

of sun and wind, rough shelter, rougher company.  He glanced back at his daughter,

his scholarly little girl who had been perfectly happy to curl up with a good book on a

clear day than to tumble with the rowdier sort, the one who eschewed anything wilder

than a bicycle ride.  Was she really happy?

“I’m here, Angel,” he announced, opening his arms to his daughter and she threw her

arms around him in a bear hug.  When she released him, Glen turned to Cort and held

out his hand.  “I’m Glen, Rachel’s father.”

ON TO PART 28

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