THE OAK AND THE ASH (1/9) by Parda August 2004
CHAPTER 1 "Uncovered"
===== EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, 2016 =====
Connor MacLeod had not wanted to spy on his wife. He had, in fact, been
performing the weekly task of emptying the trash when he had tripped over
Callie, his son's elderly calico cat who had been soaking up the patch of
sunshine at the top of the stairs. The contents of the study's trash basket
went up, the trash basket went down, and the cat went sideways. Connor went
on swearing as he knelt to pick up the scattered papers, while Callie
stalked away, tail held high.
A mustard-yellow scrap of paper fluttered out from inside last month's
newsletter from the Society for the Historical Preservation of Edinburgh,
and Connor reached for it with his left hand as he dropped the newsletter
into the trash basket with his right. He paused when he noticed the
handwriting on the yellow paper--neatly slanted letters written in thick
black ink, a rarity in today's world of v-mail and digi-pens--and he found
himself reading what was written there. The receipt was from the Stanford
Hotel on George Street in Stirling, for the sum of 120 euros (cash) from
Mrs. A. Johnson, on October 5th, 2016.
Connor sat back on his heels, that patch of sunshine warm on his shoulders,
and stared at the paper in his hands. Last Wednesday. A hotel room. Paid
for in cash by one "Mrs. A. Johnson." But Alex had gone to work as usual
that Wednesday morning and been home for dinner that night. Connor
remembered; it was only a week ago. He'd made barbecued chicken and roasted
potatoes for them. They'd eaten outside in the garden and talked about the
Ibero-Celtic archeological dig in Spain, about their children--Sara's agony
over her latest English term paper and Colin's latest agony over his latest
girlfriend--and about the possibility of visiting Duncan and Susan in New
Zealand over Christmas. Alex had been quiet, but no more than usual--or no
more than usual lately. No more than usual these last few months.
Connor put the receipt in his pocket then collected the rest of the papers
and the trash from the kitchen and bathrooms. He hauled it all to the
rubbish bin in the alley behind the house, and then he called Alex at her
office at the museum.
She wasn't there. "It's Wednesday," said Sally, one of the student interns,
as if that explained it all.
"Wednesday," Connor repeated.
"Why, yes. Dr. Johnson goes to class every Wednesday. She won't be back
until five."
"Oh, yeah," Connor agreed, as if he'd known that all along. He added a
self-deprecating chuckle. "I seem to be a little disorganized today, Sally.
Can you give me the phone number there?"
"I just call her cell phone. She won't answer if she's in class, of course,
but she usually checks her messages around lunchtime."
"Of course," Connor murmured, but it was past lunchtime, and suddenly he
didn't feel like talking to Alex anymore. "Thanks, Sally," he said, and she
signed off with a cheery goodbye. Connor walked from his Georgian townhouse
to the Waverly station and caught a ride to Stirling.
He got off the train at twenty after two. Connor walked to George Street
then sat on a bench in the small park across the street from the Stanford
Hotel. He watched the front door for nearly half an hour. A family of four
went in, a white-haired woman in a dark blue coat went out, and just before
three, a tall man with graying hair in a gray business suit left the
building and turned to the right. Seven minutes later, Alex walked out the
front door and turned to the left, in the direction of the train station.
She had plenty of time to catch the 3:36 and get back to work by five.
Connor waited another ten minutes before he went into the hotel, an
old-fashioned, genteel kind of place. The elderly lady behind the wooden
desk in the lobby was impeccably dressed, frostily efficient, and
terrifyingly honest. A black fountain pen lay next to the guest book in
front of her, the guest book she ostentatiously closed as soon as Connor
started asking questions. "I have nothing more to say to you," she informed
him. "The staff of this hotel does not answer questions about our guests,
and if you do not put that money away immediately, I shall summon the
police."
Connor nodded politely as he flipped his wallet closed, and he walked out of
the lobby. He immediately went to the service entrance in the back. The
West Jamaican man working in the kitchen was much more reasonable. "No, I
never seen that lady," he said, peering at a photograph of Alex as he
pocketed the cash. "But then I don't see the guests ever." He called
across the steamy room to a young woman in a gray uniform with pink
barrettes in her blonde hair. "Hey, Cecile! You know this lady?"
Cecile set down a tray of dirty dishes on the shiny aluminum counter and
came over to look. "Oh, yeah. Every Wednesday."
Every Wednesday. Week after week, Alex taking the train out to Stirling,
renting a hotel room in the middle of the day to take a "class," and never
once saying a word. Connor put the picture away, careful not to crease the
edges, careful not to crush it in his hand. "How long has she been coming
here?" Connor asked, withdrawing more bills.
"Oh, I don't know," Cecile replied as she made the money disappear. "A
couple of weeks, I guess. No, September it was, I came back from my
vacation and then she started coming, so that's five or six weeks now.
Always orders tea and sandwiches for lunch, doesn't she, Jake?" she asked,
and the cook nodded vigorously, his short braids swinging. "She tips good,"
Cecile continued, "polite enough, but not real friendly. Kind of cool, you
know?"
Connor knew, especially lately. Alex was usually "too tired" in the
evenings, and "still sleepy" in the mornings, and "not in the mood" in the
middle of the day. For the last five or six weeks now, maybe longer. At
least, that's what she been saying to him. "How many sandwiches?" Connor
asked, forcing himself to stay cool as well.
"Two, of course," Cecile said, with a simper and a giggle. "Tea for two.
I've never seen her fellow; she always orders before he gets here, and then
I'm usually off my shift, except today, because I'm covering for my friend
Angela, but I think it's kind of sweet, especially at her age and all.
She's got to be forty at least."
Alex was fifty-three, and Connor didn't think any of this was sweet at all.
In fact, the tightness in his gut made him want to vomit. He breathed
slowly and deeply before he asked, "Does she use the same room?"
"Usually, unless someone's already in it."
"Anybody in it now? I want to see it."
"Oh, I mean ... I couldn't ..." Cecile looked around nervously, and Connor
handed her another few bills. "Well, I suppose," she agreed. "Georgiana
just finished cleaning it, I know, because there's a couple coming in
tonight at four. We've got a few minutes. You just want to take a look,
right?"
"Right," Connor agreed and followed her out of the kitchen and up the narrow
service staircase at the end of the hall. She unlocked the door for him,
then stood anxiously just inside the room, fidgeting impatiently. Connor
glanced once at the queen-sized bed, neat under its blue and white coverlet,
then he went to the spacious sitting area in front of the bay window. He
twitched back the white lace curtains and stared across the street to the
small grassy park below. Did they sometimes walk there, hand in hand? Or
did they spend all of their time in that bed?
Connor closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly, calmly;
forced himself to let go of the curtain before he ripped it off the wall.
Never lose your temper in a fight. He pulled out his camera and took a
picture of the view from the window, then took a picture of the hotel room,
the bed looming large.
~~~~~
Alex was late getting home that night. She'd been late a lot lately. "I've
got a huge amount of work to do, Connor," she'd told him. "You know what
it's like, getting ready for a dig." She was planning on leaving this
Friday for Spain, and she'd be gone for eight weeks. This time she hadn't
asked him along. In fact, she'd pretty much told him not to come. "We
won't have much time to do anything together anyway, Connor," she'd said
when they talked about it last month. "I'm heading up one of the teams, so
I'll be really busy. Besides, John and Gina have been asking you to visit.
They need some help building the rock walls around their new house, and you
haven't seen Davey for nearly a year, and you know how fast children grow.
And you can spend Thanksgiving with them."
And Connor had agreed to her eminently logical plan. He was supposed to fly
out to Denver on the twenty-first to see John and Gina and their toddler, a
week after Alex left for Spain, for an archeological dig. For two months
without him.
Connor didn't bother to make dinner for her tonight. He sat in the kitchen
while the darkness gathered around him, a bottle of Scotch on the table, a
single shot of untouched whisky by his hand. He was not going to be drunk
when she got home. He was not going to lose his temper.
He was not going to kill her.
Around seven o'clock, she let herself in the front door then called out his
name uncertainly in the dark house. Connor didn't answer. He listened to
her slightly uneven footsteps as she came through the hall, her limp a
legacy of that car crash a year and a half ago. He blinked when she turned
on the kitchen lights, and she stopped in the doorway, blinking too.
"What's wrong?" she asked immediately, her gaze pausing on the bottle, then
going to him. "Are the kids all right? Is Duncan--?"
"They're all fine," Connor told her.
"Rachel?"
"She's fine."
Alex sighed in relief and came into the room, dropping her purse on the
floor, then taking the chair across from him. "So, what's wrong?" she
repeated.
Connor slowly lifted his head. "You've been really busy at work for the
last couple of months, haven't you, Alex?" he asked, giving her a chance to
tell him the truth.
"What?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in a good show of confusion. "Of
course I am; I've told you--"
"Busy every day?"
"Yes, every day," she agreed easily. "Meetings, scheduling, last minute
supply problems ... you know what the chaos before a dig is like." She
leaned forward with a smile. "Look, Connor, I'm sorry I'm late for dinner,
but--"
"Busy with a class?"
"A class?" she repeated, and the word sounded of blank surprise, but her
eyes showed sudden fear. "I don't--"
"Talk to me, Alex," Connor demanded, reaching over to take her hand in his,
the bones of her slender fingers bird-delicate in his grip. "Talk."
Alex stared at him across the table, her dark-blue eyes narrowing. "You're
hurting me, Connor."
Connor relaxed his hold on her slightly, but he didn't let go, and he didn't
look away. With his left hand, he picked up the photo of the hotel room and
dropped the picture on the table between them. "Busy every Wednesday, Alex?
For the last six weeks?"
She glanced at the picture and yanked her hand away. This time Connor let
her go. She shoved her chair back from the table and sat there, poised on
the edge of her seat. "You've been spying on me?" she asked, her voice
quivering with anger.
"You've been lying to me," he snapped back, his own words icy calm, with
that frozen rage he knew so well, and had never once shown to her. She
shook her head mutely, her lips pressed tight together, then rose from the
table and started to leave. Connor shot from his chair and grabbed her by
the arm before she had taken two steps, yanking her around to face him,
crushing the smoothness of her silk blouse into the softness of her skin, so
that he could feel the bone of her arm between his fingers and thumb.
"Don't you ever lie to me!" he snarled, but Alex only stared back, silent.
"What's his name, Alex?" Connor demanded. "What's his name?"
"You think--," she began, with a half-strangled and incredulous laugh. "You
think I have a lover? Me? Me?" she repeated, the word rising high and
hysterical. She blinked rapidly, and tears slipped down her cheeks as she
asked in bewildered despair, "Who would want me?"
"Alex...," Connor whispered, as his rage drained away in a confusion that
left him nearly shaking with sick relief. He released his grip on her arm
and reached out to hold her, because whatever was going on, it sure as hell
wasn't some clandestine affair. "Alex," he said again, gently now, but she
pulled away from him and ran stumbling up the stairs. "Oh, Jesus," Connor
muttered, and he stood there for a moment with his hand over his eyes,
before he went to try to comfort his wife.
========
(continued in part 2)
