Fire on the Island (8 page)

"A lot of
the nurses at the orphanage were American," she said, then swallowed
visibly and wouldn't meet his eyes when he turned to look at her. He could tell
she hadn't meant to reveal that little tidbit.

He put a hand
on her delicate shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I can't imagine
what it must have been like, growing up without knowing who your family
was."

She dropped the
last piece of bacon into the pan and braced palms on the counter. Taking a deep
breath, she turned luminous, haunted eyes to him. "I didn't say I didn't
know who they were," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

He thought she
would continue, but she turned back to the stove and busied her hands with the
task of cooking. They worked in silence until the cooking was done, and
Jeremiah carried their plates to the rough-hewn kitchen table. When Isla just
stared down at her plate, pushing the food around, Jeremiah knew that something
was still troubling her.

"Do you
want to talk about it? Your parents, I mean."

"No, not
really. But I guess I probably should. It's supposed to be therapeutic or
something, right? I'm just so used to being on my own when the memories crop
up. You'd probably be running for the hills after hearing about my childhood,
anyway."

"Isla, I
have a psychology degree. It would take a hell of a lot to shock me. No
pressure, but I'm here if you want someone to listen."

She gave him a
small smile that made him want to pull her into his lap and kiss her until she
forgot everything, but he knew she wouldn't accept his sympathy. Not about
this. Taking a deep breath, visibly steeling herself against whatever memories
still haunted her, she began to speak.

"My da
left us when I was too young to even remember him. After that we lived with my
grandmum, until Eileen, my mum, finally kicked her out. She blamed her for
driving Da away, although I'm sure it had more to do with the fact that Eileen
was a drunk. I was told Grandmum died shortly after she left our house."

Jere reached
out his hand to cover hers on the table, squeezed a little. "What
happened? How did you end up in an orphanage?"

Isla's chest
rose and fell with a deep breath and she continued. "My world fell apart
on Halloween night, when I was eight." She twisted her torso in her chair,
gave him her back, and swept her curls off her neck.

Jeremiah
cleared his throat, not sure how to react. "That's a nice tattoo," he
said.

"You'd
think that's what it was, wouldn't you? Only I never got a tattoo—this is where
you start to fit me for a straight jacket.”

“Like I said,
takes a lot to shock me.”

“That mark just
appeared on my neck that morning. It stung and I was rubbing it, and Eileen saw
me. She wanted to see what the problem was so I showed her. At the time, she
showed no reaction, just told me we’d put a salve on it.

“Of course, I
didn’t believe her, so I went to the bathroom to check it out, and this is what
I found. We ate dinner shortly after, if you could call it that, and then I
headed for bed. As far as I can tell, Eileen drugged my oatmeal with something
because I barely remember hitting the bed. Intense pain in my neck woke me up,
and I found her straddling my waist, trying to cut out the mark.”

“God,” he
breathed, free hand curling to a fist so tight, three knuckles cracked.

Nodding, Isla
went on mechanically, her eyes fixed on his face, but he could tell she wasn’t
seeing him. “I’ve no idea how, but I managed to throw her off and run into the
kitchen. I tried to stave off another attack by throwing things at her, but
that only made her angrier. She had some kind of crazy notion that she had been
seduced by the devil and that I was the result of the unholy union. She said he
put his mark on me.”

She took a sip
of coffee, trembling hands cupped around the mug like a lifeline, and then
turned her head and dashed a hand across her cheek.

“I almost got
out. I left her in the kitchen and had made it to the front door when she
grabbed me by the hair and slit my throat.” It came out in a rush, as if she
were afraid of lingering on the words too long lest she have to relive it.

Jeremiah’s big
body jerked violently in his chair in response to her revelation, but he
remained silent, clenching his jaw so hard he was sure she could hear his teeth
grinding.

Silent tears
streamed down her cheeks and her mournful eyes finally focused on him. She gave
him a shaky half-smile. “She wasn’t very good at it though. She cut me but not
fatally,” Isla said, fingering the scar on her throat.

“Thinking she’d
killed me, Eileen went back to trashing things in the house and I was able to
slip out the front door. A neighbor had called the police, and they were there
by the time I made it to the front yard. Eileen was taken to an institution for
the criminally insane, and I ended up in the orphanage.”

Expelling a
long, slow breath to give himself time to formulate a response, Jere rose from
his chair and pulled her up with him, wrapping her in his arms.

Isla stiffened
at first, as if not wanting to have to lean on anyone, but then she relaxed
into him and began to sob. As he stroked her hair and cradled her, Jeremiah
wondered if she had ever really allowed herself to grieve.

Sniffling a
little, Isla finally pulled back, wiping her face with a sleeve. “Thanks,” she
said sheepishly. “I guess I needed to let it out a little.”

“My pleasure,”
he said, and meant it.

They settled
into an easy rhythm throughout the day, with Isla working on the accounts for
Expeditions at her antique cherry wood desk and Jeremiah doing internet
research on his iPhone. Isla was unsettled at how quickly she had become
comfortable having him in what had always been her space.

He sat slouched
on her overstuffed black leather couch with his feet propped on the coffee
table, tap-tap-tapping on the screen of his phone, and he looked as if he
belonged there. Isla's heart did a little flip-flop in her chest when he caught
her staring and gave her a lopsided grin. Running his fingers through his thick
mop of hair that was beginning to curl, he turned back to his web-surfing.

Isla shook her
head and tried to concentrate on the ledgers. The soulful wailing of his
ringtone cut through the silence, and when he checked the caller ID, he excused
himself out to the porch.

Jeremiah took
the phone call outside so he wouldn't disturb her.

"Rousseau."

"Dr.
Rousseau? This is Dr. Stephen MacLaren from Sacred Hearts Assisted
Living."

Instantly on
full alert, Jeremiah answered the older man, "Yes, Dr. MacLaren, what can
I do for you?"

"I'm
calling to inform you that I've decided to allow you a short visit with Ms.
Mackay. I can't guarantee her lucidity or how long it will last. But if you can
make it here tomorrow at three, you may speak with her."

"I'll be
there. I really appreciate it. See you at three."

When Jeremiah
ended the call, the sun was starting to set below the trees and the sky was
soaked in vibrant reds and yellows. He entered the house to find Isla curled up
on the couch in her pajamas with a book on her lap. She looked so young and
frail that it was hard to believe she had survived so much.

Isla turned to look
at him, smiled, and patted the cushion beside her, inviting him to sit down. He
took the seat and slid his arm casually onto the back of the sofa, behind her
but not touching. "Tell me about your childhood," she said with a
smile in her voice. "Maybe it will make me feel better to hear a little
normal."

"Not much
to tell really. I grew up in New Orleans with my mom and my younger brother,
Matthieu. My dad died when I was nine years old, and Mom never remarried. She
threw all of her energy into raising us up to be good boys," he said with
a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You were
close, though." It wasn't a question so much as a statement.

"Yeah, we
were. Are, really. I travel a lot for work, so we don't get to see each other
all that often, but the love was always there."

He gave her an
apologetic smile, but she just shook her head. "Don't. You having a happy
childhood has nothing to do with me having a bad one. Please, go on."

"I
graduated from high school a year early and did my undergrad at Tulane. After
that, I went to the University of Edinburgh to get my PhD in psychology."

She looked
surprised at that, so he laughed and tugged on one of her curls. "This
isn't my first trip across the pond! I had actually planned to stay in
Edinburgh to start working on my research."

"Why
didn't you?"

Jeremiah closed
his eyes against the flood of images that always remained just below the
surface—broken houses, broken lives, a city buckling under a shroud of muddy
water. "When Katrina wiped out the family home in '05, I moved back home
to take care of my mom for awhile. Matt was still in college, and Mom was
hellbent on him staying put. Eventually, I got her settled in a nice house
outside the city and I started traveling more for my research."

"So where
do you live now?" Isla asked, leaning toward him. She seemed appreciative
of the distraction.

"I still
have an apartment in New Orleans, but I mostly live out of hotels. Between my
research and book tours, I'm always traveling somewhere."

It sounded so
much emptier when he said it out loud, and he knew he'd find it hard to go back
to such a singular existence after even such a short time of basking in her
light.

Changing the
subject, Isla said, "The road should be passable by tomorrow, so if you
can stand me one more night, I can drive you back to town. I'll hike down at
first light to make sure we won't get stuck."

Jeremiah slid
his hand to the back of her neck, feeling the ridge of the scar her mother had
left above her mark, gripped the base of her neck, and pulled her closer.
"I think I can stand it," he said right before he closed his mouth
over hers.

~~~

It was an
unseasonably cold night, so Isla had started a fire in the old cast-iron stove.
She and Jeremiah sat at the kitchen table with glasses of wine, sharing a
companionable silence. Jeremiah was contemplating how to bring up the subject
of how the locals treated Isla and the real reason behind it. He wanted to be
able to bring up the subject of witches, without revealing too much about his
profession.

People often
reacted with skepticism and even derision when they found out what he did for a
living. "I have an appointment tomorrow in Glasgow," he blurted,
mentally kicking himself for opening himself up to questions about why he was
going there.

Her mouth
quirked in an uneven smile, her dimple peeking out, causing him to lose his
train of thought. "Vacation, eh?"

"What? Oh.
Yeah," he said dumbly.
Charming, dumbass.
"I was hoping you'd
have dinner with me when I get back."

Her smile faded
instantly as she studied the stem of her wine glass. "I can't."

Realizing that
she wasn't going to elaborate, he tried a different tack. "How about a
hike?"

On more
comfortable ground how, the smile returned, again causing his heart to stutter.
He willed himself to stay on track. "Sure, that would be nice."

"So it's
only public places you have a problem with."

Startled, her
eyes flew to his face and her brows knotted. "What do you mean?"

"Are you
embarrassed to be seen with me?" He knew she wasn't, but he needed her to
admit what was really going on.

"No. God,
no. Jeremiah, why would you think that?"

"Do you
really have to ask?" To her credit, she had the grace to blush.

Isla set her
glass down and took a deep breath. "Look, I don't like going to town. The
locals aren't exactly friendly to me."

Jere nodded
noncommittally. "I did notice that the other night. At first I thought it
was directed at Callum and Jack, but they set me straight. Why is that,
exactly?"

"Part of
it is the fact that I have no family, I'm sure. Family lineage is important to
a lot of people. The larger part of it is because of the mark."

"You mean,
the one that just appeared," he said genuinely.

"That'd be
the one," Isla replied with a bitter laugh. “People around here are very
superstitious. They can't all seem to agree on what exactly they think it
means, but most think it's something between a motorcycle gang member and devil
worshipper."

This made
Jeremiah smile, because those two things were about the last things he could
imagine her being.

"The most
popular theory is that I'm a witch," she said, watching him closely as if
she were waiting for him to run screaming from the room.

"Are
you?"