Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 04] (32 page)

“Maybe someday, if you get close enough to Torolf … sorry, I can’t get used to his being called Max … he’ll tell you more.”

Alison frowned. How much closer could she and Max get? Was he hiding something from her? Hah! He had a nerve accusing her of secrets when he had a few of his own.

Flipping through the thesis pages, Alison pointed to the bibliography. “I notice that you cite lots of source material on the time period and events that
occurred in Norway, but most of the personal information about the Magnusson family came from the journal of a fourteen-year-old girl, Kirsten Magnusson, who lived there then. Same name as yours.”

Kirsten’s face flushed … with embarrassment, Alison supposed. “Yes, you could say that she was my ancestor many, many times removed. I was lucky enough to … um … discover her long-lost journal.”

“How interesting! I didn’t know girls did much writing then. In fact, I didn’t know anyone did much writing in the tenth century.”

“They didn’t, but Kirsten was a very unusual girl.”

“Apparently.” Alison studied the still blushing Kirsten for a long moment. There was something about her and the whole story that struck an odd note, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“You mentioned Max having had an accident. When I told our father, he almost went through the roof. We had to practically sit on him to prevent him from driving right down to Coronado.”

“I don’t think that would have been a good idea.” Briefly, she gave Kirsten the details of the accident and Max’s concussion.

“How like him! To jump right back into SEALs training after a blow to the head. I always knew his head was thick, but that’s ridiculous.”

“The problem is that he’s suffered some memory loss.” At the expression of shock on Kirsten’s face, she immediately added, “I’m sure it’s temporary. But that’s why we were looking for information on his family history. We wanted clues that might help him remember.”

“Does Torolf know you’re here today?”

She shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry about betraying any confidences. It’s just that he’s been away at jump school and winding down to graduation. There hasn’t been time to discuss much of anything.”
Talk about telling whoppers!

“You know, he hasn’t invited any of the family down for his graduation,” Kirsten told her, hurt ringing in her voice. “Do you think we should call him up and ask for an invitation, or just show up?”

“I don’t know. My first inclination is to say, wait till he gets his head together. I’m not sure if the shock would jar him into remembering, or cause other damage. Besides, he’s not graduating into SEALs yet, just out of BUD/S training.”

Kirsten nodded. “This has always been a dream of Torolf’s.”

“Really? Most of the time, he acts as if he’s just biding his time.”

It was Kirsten’s turn to say, “Really?” Then, “If Torolf doesn’t remember his family right now, who does he think he is?”

Alison smiled. “An eleventh-century Viking from the Norselands who has time-traveled here.”

“Oh, my God!” Kirsten said, but she wasn’t shocked. More like dismayed. “What should we do?”

“I was thinking … once he graduates, he’ll have a two-week liberty. What would you think about my driving him up to Blue Dragon Vineyards? Just to see if it jogs his memory?”

“That would be great! I have an idea. Harvest Festival will be held on September eighth. Would that fit in that time frame?”

“Yes. Yes, it would.” Alison wasn’t sure she’d be
able to talk Max into going anywhere with her, but she would try. They exchanged various addresses and telephone numbers.

Just before she left, Kirsten asked, “What exactly is your relationship with my brother?”

Alison paused. “I wish I knew.”

The Story of Me …

Max called Alison’s office number on Friday morning between the morning run and breaking fast and was told that she wasn’t coming in today.
Why not?

Between breaking fast and his first almost-drowning of the day, he called her home. Nothing but the ring-ring-ring, then the bloody answer machine. No one was home.
Why not?

Between three almost-drownings and some IBL maneuverings among rocks designed to kill the trainees or compel them to ring out, he called Lillian. “She went to Los Angeles this morning, dear. She should be back by mid-afternoon.” He thanked her for her help and hung up, but wondered,
Why?

They were being given a half-day liberty today because the instructors were involved in some hush-hush (that was Cage’s word) meeting with some bigger chieftains from the nation’s seat. Probably something related to terrorism, which was all everyone talked about. Dangerous times they were here, even worse than his own harsh time. At least back then, a person didn’t have to worry about being blown into a thousand pieces just walking down the road of a busy market town.

Since his classmates had gone into San Diego and Alison was not yet home, he decided to look over the
folder she’d left for him. He still had trouble reading the Saxon language, but if he sounded out the more difficult words, he should be able to manage.

First he sounded out the title, “A Study of an Old Norse Family in Eleventh-Century Vestfold.” That sounded interesting, especially since it was written by a person who had the same name as his sister.

It took him a long time to read the document, but when he finished, he was more puzzled than before he’d started. It was the story of his very own family. Every one of them, himself included. It ended with his father’s longship being lost in a haze of fog.

First, how did this person know so many details about his family? All of the family’s names and ages, even his father’s wives and mistresses, were set down. There were descriptions of his father’s farmstead, right down to the runic carvings about the great-hall lintel. Episodes that only a person who had been there could have related, like the time his father’s hirdsmen had tried to find a non-fertile woman for him by presenting him with everything from a hugely pregnant cow-maid to a half-bald wench who was older than Magnus himself. There were sagas he’d forgotten, but which this person had written down. Descriptions of all his family members, himself included, were accurate, though he did not think that he and his brother Torolf had been as vain or mischievous as they were portrayed. This person had even included Madrene’s shrewishness.

Second, why would someone here in modern times be so interested in such a small segment of ancient history,
and why his particular family?

Third, where had Alison gotten this document, and why had he only found out about it now? Another of Alison’s secrets!

An idea came to him unbidden then. What if this Kirsten was one of his own descendants? Or what if someone on that longship had survived in some far-off land, like Greenland, and this was his or her descendant?

One thing was certain: He would have to meet this Kirsten person. But first, he had about fifty questions to ask Alison. He tried her number, but again no answer. He decided to go there himself and wait for her.

Suddenly, excitement rippled through him at the prospect of seeing her again. And it wasn’t just because he had questions.

Hog Heaven was turning into Hog Hell …

Torolf was going to have to leave this madhouse soon or else become one of the inmates.

He had more repair work than he could handle. In fact, he could probably make a good living as a Harley mechanic if he wanted … which he didn’t.

The Morgans continued to be great hosts and friends to him, but they were driving him nuts with their not-so-subtle attempts to make him stay. The latest tactic was to throw one biker babe after another at him in hopes that he would fall in love and not want to leave.

Like Lizzy, who had come last week to watch him adjust the carburetors on a Harley Heritage Springer. Lizzy was a thirty-something teacher who spent her summer vacations here at Hog Heaven. She had stood there leaning against the concrete wall of
the garage while he squatted down on his haunches. Then she’d blurted out, “I’ve got balls.”

“Whaaat?” He’d shot up, almost hitting his head on the handlebars.

“Ben Wa balls.”

“Whaaat?” he’d said again.

“You know, those heavy metal Oriental balls you can buy in sex shops. Man, they sure do vibrate when I ride my hog.”

But she had been no worse than Linda, a part-time stripper who claimed to be eighteen but was more likely jail bait. He’d been working on Granny Olsen’s valves when Linda had asked him, “Wanna see my nipple rings?”

“No!” he’d shouted.

Too late. Linda had lifted her T-shirt to display two very nice breasts ornamented with shiny gold rings.

Ouch!

Speaking of breasts, a part-Cherokee trucker named Tis-see-woo-na-tis, or She Who Bathes With Her Knees, wanted to show him her breasts, too, but for a different reason. Tissie had told him, while he’d been detailing a classic Harley Electra Glide, that the only parts of her body that had been tattooed were her two breasts, which had been made to look like ice cream cones.

He must have frowned his confusion. Big mistake! Tissie took that as her cue to reveal all. And, yep, her breasts were tattooed to resemble two waffle cones, filled with vanilla ice cream and topped with cherries.

Holy dairy products!

Serenity and Spike had set him up, hoping to keep
him here as sort of an adopted son. The worst thing was that he noticed them eyeing him lately like a fresh palette for their tattoo and piercing arts. That hunch proved true when he awakened one morning to find Serenity drawing a picture of an eagle with a marker around his navel. He was pretty sure that it had been a preliminary sketch for one of her tattoos. On him! And George had been looking at that region, too. Probably the eagle would have had a ring in its mouth, also known as his belly button.

I … don’t … think … so!

Torolf’s memory was coming back in bits and pieces. In fact, he kept a small tablet in his back pocket listing all the things he remembered. A Navy uniform, which was pretty clear evidence to him that he’d been in the military, not prison. But why would he have gone AWOL? A vineyard. A Viking longship. A shipwreck, or a ship lost in the fog. An accident in which he was struck by a truck. A brother, or someone, who looked a lot like himself.

His progress was much too slow. So finally he decided to research the address listed on his driver’s license. He used George’s computer to call up the address so he could get a telephone number. Two names were listed at the same Sonoma Valley address, which was incidentally home to Blue Dragon Vineyards. Angela Abruzzi and Magnus Ericsson. A prickling sensation passed over his body at that second name.

Not giving himself a chance for second thoughts, he dialed the number.

A male with a deep voice answered. “Hello. Magnus Ericsson here. Who is this?”

“I don’t know. But I think I might be your son.”

Working my way back to you, babe …

When Alison got home from Los Angeles that afternoon, Max was sitting on the top step of her porch, talking with Lillian as she dug among her rosebeds. An empty glass and dish were sitting next to him, which she assumed had held milk and the lemon meringue pie she’d smelled baking this morning.

He looked so good sitting there. Just an average guy, wearing a Harley T-shirt, jeans, and white athletic shoes, but of course there was nothing average about him.

Lillian waved. Max just stared at her. And she did what pregnant women throughout time have done; she started to bawl.

Max glanced at Lillian, and Lillian glanced at Max. They both shrugged in confusion, then walked over to meet her.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Lillian asked, patting her on the shoulder.

“Did I do something?” Max opened his arms to embrace her.

But she stepped back, hugging her briefcase in front of her chest with both hands and continuing to sob. “No-o-o,” she blubbered.

“Do you want me to go?”

Panic shook her. “Don’t go.”

Lillian and Max seemed to communicate something between them, and Lillian walked away. He put an arm over Alison’s shoulders and led her toward the house.

“What in bloody hell is going on?” he asked. They were walking up the steps to her apartment now.

“I was happy to see you.”
Finally.

“You were crying with happiness?” He cast her a skeptical glance.

She nodded. “And relief.”
And because I’m pregnant, you fool.

Once they were in her apartment, she set her briefcase down and went into the kitchen to put the teakettle on to boil. He followed her and leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “Where were you today?”

“I went to see Kirsten Magnusson.”

She could see that surprised him. “The person who wrote that document you sent me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why did I go see her?”

“Yea. Why did you go see her? Why did you not tell me you were going? Why didn’t you invite me to go along?”

The teakettle whistled. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Nay. Do you have any mead?”

She smiled tentatively. “Would a Bud Light do?”

He nodded.

They both sat down at the table, she drinking sweet tea and he sipping beer. “I went to see Kirsten because I was intrigued by her research. If you had talked with me this week, I probably would have asked you to go along.”
Or maybe not.

“What did you learn?”

“Not much that wasn’t in her thesis. She’s your sister, Max. Oh, I know you don’t believe that, because you insist on saying you came from another century. But I think, and she thinks, that you’re her brother.”

“That’s impossible.”

“She is very hurt that you didn’t invite her and the
rest of your family to your graduation next week.”

“How could I invite people I do not know?”

“Will you make love to me?”
Oh, God, my brain is melting.

“
What?
”

Her request had obviously surprised him. Heck, it had surprised her, too.