Straight to The Heart

       Roxanne felt a wave of panic rise in her throat, grabbing hold as if the man's hand were around her throat instead of on her shoulder.  She forced herself to breathe through nose and mouth.  This wasn't an entirely new situation.  There had been times at the club when she had needed to escape the unwelcome attention of a demanding patron, and this bastard didn't seem much different from his modern counterparts. She put the pail on the ground, freeing up both hands, and worked at relaxing tense muscles. She stopped fighting and become loose in his grip.

        "Good plan, boy.  No use making this harder than it has to be.  You and me are gonna have us a little fun."  He rubbed himself through his breeches with his free hand, and cackled, "Well...maybe it'll be me having' most of the fun.  You just stay nice and quiet."

        She wondered if she could reach the blade in her left boot, but decided against it.  Bending over to grab it would cost her precious balance, and likely put him on notice that she intended to fight back.  The element of surprise was an asset that was worth retaining, and so she eyed the small shed for an alternative weapon, spying the heavy iron shovel against the wall in the furthest corner.  She turned her face and gave the soldier a blank grin, taking a few steps in the direction of the shovel as she did so, and hoping he'd take her lead.

          So intent on his fun, the man followed, pushing her toward the corner with the shovel.  "You are mightily stupid, boy, and I'm glad of it." He gave a final push, and her face fit the rough wood of the shed wall.  With one hand still on her shoulder, he leaned his Brown Bess against the wall, and then began to fumble with the stays on his breeches, face turned downward.  Roxanne grabbed the shovel, but before she could swing, a second figure appeared at the shed entrance, musket pointed at them.

          "Take your bloody hands off that child."

            The red coat turned, his breeches slipping to his knees, leaving him exposed.  He didn't attempt to pull up his pants, but instead reached for his weapon.  Focused on the man in the doorway, he paid no attention to the boy behind him, leaving her free to grab the shovel and bring it down hard on the back of his head.  There was a heavy thump, and the soldier crumpled to the ground in front of her.  For several seconds, neither she or Ian moved, he shocked at the idiot boy's fortitude, she lost in the thought that he'd come to her aid.  Even if speaking were an option, she wasn't sure she could form the words that needed to be said, but Fate would decide otherwise.

           She didn't see the second soldier until he was directly behind Ian, musket pointed at his back.  She saw him pull the trigger, saw the puff of smoke, and screamed, "Ian...behind you!"

            The words coming from the mute boy's mouth startled him, but he turned in reaction, and the musket ball whizzed by him, catching Roxanne squarely in the chest, and knocking her off her feet. She fell to the ground, her head meeting the heavy timber of the wall.  Lights erupted behind her eyeballs like a Fourth of July celebration, and then everything went instantly dark, as if a button in her head had suddenly been pushed to the 'off' position.

___________________________________

         The first clear thoughts floated in her head, puffy clouds of consciousness you saw above you but couldn't reach.  She could hear someone calling her name, frantic, worried.  Her mother perhaps, a fearful soul without an ounce of hope.  She could hear her shouting over and over again..."Roxanne, Roxanne...can you hear me?"  Logic swam in threads through her thoughts.  No.  Not mother.  Mother was dead.  Mother couldn't be calling to her.  Unless, of course, she was as dead as her mother, a lost soul wandering between heaven and hell.  Which. of course, she refused to believe, especially as her body throbbed with a burning pain she couldn't identify. From everything she had read on the subject, pain was an impossibility when you entered the here after.  Or at least that's what everyone said.

       She willed her eye to open, if for no reason other than to verify the state of her being.  Maybe she'd see the famous white light, and know for sure she was truly dead.  Instead, she saw a blurry face, two eyes the color of June skies, and a mouth forming words she was only beginning to make sense of.

       "Robert...Come on, Rob.  Stay with us.  You're going to be okay.  Give me a sign you can hear me."

       No.  Not Mother.  Beckett.  The Sheriff was talking to her.  Calling her Robert. Why was he calling her Robert?  That wasn't her name.  Wait.  He was her boss.  Yes.  She was working undercover. Was Robert her name after all? But why was he looking down at her?  Why was she looking up at him?  There were other people too, and as the clouds cleared, she saw the woman with dark hair, something in the back of her brain realizing it was Maureen.  Yes.  Maureen, who was currently not Maureen.  And someone else.  With green eyes.  Ian.  She struggled to push words out of her mouth, but they came out a strange mix of consonants and vowels, and so she fought instead to stay awake. To at least listen to what was being said.

       "We need to see exactly where the musket ball entered.  How deep the wound is."

        There was a tug at her clothes, and then the sound of linen ripping.  Someone had balled up her coat, and stuck it under her head, and someone else held her hand.  A someone with hands much larger than hers.  She strained to make sense of the words.

        "You said he was a deaf and mute, but I heard him speak.  He saved my life."

        "I apologize for the lack of honesty, Mr. Sawyer.  As you well know, these are dangerous times, and one must be prudent with the sharing of truth."

        "Aye.  That they be.  And I must admit to being grateful for your brother's ability to speak."

         The pain grew in intensity as the clouds in her head began to reform, a searing, red-hot poker stabbing her in the chest, making each breath a challenge.  Again, she tried to speak, but the sounds gurgled off her tongue.  The movement of cloth being pulled from her skin made her arch her back in painful response, it hurting more than anything she could ever remember. More awful then the time she had burned her hand on the oven door.  Worse than the time she had run a nail through her foot. There was the feel of cool breeze on bare skin, and before she slipped back into the darkness, she heard a voice say...

          "Lord Almighty...he's a she!"

_______________________________________

       It would have worked out fine if it hadn't been for the paintings.  There hadn't been enough time before Patrick's arrival to tear them all down.  And so they stayed, hung in conspicuous places all over the flat.  It wasn't as if you could ignore them either, so beautiful and delicate in their nature they called you to their attention.  Fr. Kevin hadn't a clue how either of them would explain his sister's sudden emergence of talent, and he asked for additional forgiveness for the lies he would surely have to compose.

      It was Rachel who handled most of the fibbing for him, launching into a long story how she had taken a few lessons with someone she'd met in town.  He marveled at her given ability to create believable stories out of nothing, and the thought came to him that her special skill would certainly be required of her in the turmoil of her own time.  It also surprised him that Patrick believed the story
without hesitation.  Patrick, the brother made his living getting people to say things they didn't want.  He seemed most thrilled that his sister had developed this new hobby, and genuinely pleased when she gifted him with a few of his favorites.

       If his brother had taken the water colors in the spirit they were given, and had just been on his way, things would have been fine.  But Patrick being Patrick always made things difficult, and when he decided that since Beckett was "away" on business, and since Maureen was taking a few days off from the deli anyway, she should accompany him back to Boston to meet with a gallery owner he knew, things got decidedly more complicated.

Rachel's watercolors capture Patrick's attention

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus 2015
All Rights Reserved

       

       

       

     

         

     

Trouble

              An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

Trouble

   Machines with engines he knew.   Motorcycles, all terrains, amphibious vehicles and such were things he’d dealt with on several occasions.   There was a level of confidence regarding his ability to maneuver them, or if be the case, completely shut down their efficiency.   Horses, on the other hand, were an entirely a different animal, both figuratively and literally.  They were unpredictable, at times stubborn and defiant, as well as skittish and prone to run at the slightest inclination.

       Hollings sat his horse like a man used to spending whole days in the saddle, a seasoned Calvary officer if Beckett had to guess.  As the small regiment rode closer, it was easy to see that the Captain’s body moved as one with the horse, rider and animal in perfect sync with one another.  Even if he were in possession of a mount, which it was unlikely he’d be, his skills on horseback were markedly inferior to those of his opponent, and it put him at an immediate disadvantage.  

       As a child of privileged upbringing, he had spent the required time in equestrian pursuits, though it was clear from the start it was not a hobby he enjoyed.  The large animals with their fearful, liquidy eyes and snorting nostrils seemed to him an untrustworthy choice of companion, and close-knit relationships with living things, two legged or otherwise, never came easy. But at his mother's insistence, he had tried the customary trappings of polo, though it was obvious he lacked any enthusiasm for the sport, and by the time he was sixteen, she'd given up on him, and had turned all attention to her younger son.

          All this ran through his mind as the regiment came to a halt in front of the Revere house.  Hollings slipped from his horse with ease, and made his way toward them, removing his hat as he did.  Upon closer view, he was younger than Beckett had first guessed, in his late twenties, with that air of smug confidence that he seldom found was warranted. He bent slightly at the waste, eyeing the group, and honing in Maureen, while at the same time giving he and Roxanne the once over.

              "Good Day, Madame.  I've come to see your husband.  Again."

              "I'm afraid it's for naught, Captain Hollings.  As I explained to you yesterday, my husband is away on business.  Connecticut, I believe, in search of a tea pot mold for a rather particular client."

              "And you continue to insist you have no idea of his return?"

              "It is far from my place, Sir, to question the business of my husband.  He knows best what needs to be done, and I trust that he will return as soon as is possible."

              "You certainly are a dutiful wife, Madame.  Mr. Revere is a lucky man." His eyes lingered on the swell of bosom over the ruffle of her blouse, and the corners of his mouth turned up in smile that  hid the beginnings of a smirk.  Turning his attention to her visitors, he questioned, "And who might these gentlemen be?"

             He stuck out his hand, and when the Captain reluctantly accepted it, gripped it harder than was necessary, an emotional mistake that wasn't his custom.  "Theodore Walker, Captain.  Mrs. Revere's cousin from Philadelphia.  I am most pleased to make your acquaintance."  He released his hold, and the Captain lost any remnants of a smile.

              "What brings you to Boston, Mr. Walker?"

              "No reason other than to visit my dear Rachel.  I act as a family emissary, bearing gifts in celebration of her marriage and the new child.  A joyful reason for a reunion, don't you think, Captain?"

               Hollings made no response, instead turning his attention to Roxanne.  "And you, boy?  You are here to 'visit' as well?"

              Roxanne grinned at the officer, but said nothing. 

             "Answer me, boy."

             "I'm afraid that is quite impossible, Captain, as my brother, Robert, is deaf and mute. And simple as well.  He means you no disrespect."

             Hollings stepped away from the boy, as if whatever had caused his disability was contagious. "Ahhh...an idiot.  I see.  Well, I suppose he can't answer me, then, can he?"   He returned his hat to his head.  "And just how long do you plan on staying, Mr. Walker, this being a family visit and all?"

            Beckett smiled warmly, though he registered an instant dislike for the man.  "I suppose that will depend on my cousin's good nature.  I surely do not wish to wear out my welcome, though I had hoped to meet Rachel's new husband.  It seems we both wait on Mr. Revere's return." 

           There was the sound of hooves on soft ground, and all heads turned to the east.  A single rider on horseback appeared on the horizon, and the mood of the situation suddenly became tense.  Beckett hoped it wasn't the man himself, as Paul Revere's presence would only complicate matters.  The fact that the patriot was away from the house had seemed like a blessing, a sign that Fate had sanctified this mission, but from past experience, there was always the chance Lady Luck was gonna turn around and shit on you instead.

              As he neared, it was obvious the rider wasn't Paul Revere, but rather their friend from the Green Dragon, one Ian Sawyer.  His addition to the mix wasn't a stroke of luck either.  The more people involved in the mission, the higher the odds increased for something to go wrong.  Sawyer had seemed an honest man, a decent man, and the thought of him ending up a casualty didn't set well with Beckett.

             Ian reined his horse, and slipped from it's back.  He tipped a head toward Maureen and Ted,  gave Roxanne a smile and a wave, and then confronted the officer.  "What is it you want, Hollings?"

            "What business is that of yours, Sawyer?  Get back on that horse, and return to your own farm.  This is none of your concern."

             "Mr. Revere is a good friend, and I gave my word I'd look after his affairs whilst he was away.  If you have a problem, Captain, you best express it to me."

             "I owe you nothing, Sawyer, but let it not be said I am an unjust man."  He reached into his breast pocket, and retrieved a stack of papers.  "I have orders from the Governor himself to keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings of one Mr. Paul Revere, and that is exactly what I intend to do."

           "But as you can see, Captain, Mr. Revere is not currently at home."

           "True, but it is my guess he will not leave his wife and family home alone too long.  These are, after all...cautious times."  He left the breath of a threat hang in the air, before continuing.  "There is no need for hostility on anyone's part.  I have orders that must be followed.  I will post a guard of two men to this property, and another two at Mr. Revere's shop.  They will notify me of his return to either place.  It is simply a watch, no hostile action to be taken."  He then bowed towards Maureen.  "I regret any angst this might have caused you, Madame.  You have my apologies."

             Without waiting for any replies, Hollings turned his back and walked over to his men, assigning two to remain here at the Revere home, and sending two off in the direction of the harbor area where the silversmith's shop was located.  He then mounted his horse, and set off in the same direction he had come.

________________________________

             They had little choice but to regroup inside the house, as the presence of the two soldiers outside left little privacy.  It took a great deal of conversation to convince Ian Sawyer that Theodore Walker was perfectly capable of looking after Mrs. Revere and her children, and that the brave young man should return to his own farm.  Sawyer reluctantly agreed, but not without making Beckett promise to send one of the children if trouble arose. 

             Their original plan of getting Maureen to the bank unseen was now useless, as they would surely be followed in an attempt to locate her husband.  Ideas were quietly bantered back and forth, until the appearance of the young girl, a wailing baby in her arms.

             "Ma'am...the babe is long due for a feeding.  Were you able to get some milk from that stubborn old cow?"

               "Oh, Lordy, I forgot the pail in the shed when Hollings showed up.  Sarah, dear, can you take the baby up, and change her nappies.  I'll go out and retrieve the milk myself."

                "Yes, Ma'am." The girl turned, and made her way back upstairs, but not before giving Beckett a long hard stare.

                When he was sure she was out of hearing, he stated,  "Not a good idea, love.  I don't like the idea of you out there alone with those two."

                "I'll be fine, Ted.  The baby needs to eat, and Sarah is already disgusted by my inability to nurse the poor thing properly."  She blushed a slight pink, and added, "It's way harder than you'd think."

                Roxanne rose from the bench she was sitting on near the hearth, and whispered, "I'll go, Sir.  I'm guessing they'll not bother with me.  It'll only take a few minutes, and I'll be right back."

                He thought it over, and agreed.  "That should work.  Just get the pail, and come right back here.  Pay the guards no mind at all."

                "Yes, Sir."  

_____________________________

    She left the building, the heat of a warm spring day making the sweat under her chest bindings tight and itchy.  Then again, it might have been the reappearance of Ian Sawyer.  Glorious, brave, hotter than hell, Ian.  It seemed like some terrible cosmic joke, she having the hots for someone other than the unattainable Kevin, someone who was in fact, just as unattainable.  The problem sat with her alone, she thought.  She purposely set her sets on men out of her reach.  That way, she could blame the hurt on things out of her control.  It seemed as good a reason as any.  Lost in soul-searching daydreams, she didn't notice the red coat guard until he stepped directly in front of her, blocking her way to the shed.

       "Well, well...look what has escaped from the house.  It's the idiot boy.  Are you lost, boy?"

       The second guard laughed.  "He can't hear you, Carter.  Or answer you.  You're as stupid as he is."

         "Stupid?  Bugger you, Mayer!  I aught to show you some manners."   

        

           While they argued between them, Roxanne slipped past, and walked quickly toward the shed.  Despite the fear that ran down her spine, she wasn't going back into that house without the pail, racking up yet another failure in the Sheriff's eyes.  She heard footsteps behind her, and grabbing the pail, angled herself closer to the exit.

          The one called Carter blocked the way with an extended arm. "That milk for you boy?  I thought maybe you still sucked on your mama's titties, being how you're stupid and all."

          Roxanne blankly smiled, though her first thought was to kick the leering bastard square in the balls. But doing so would escalate the situation, call more attention to them, a directive Beckett had ordered her to avoid at all costs. If she acted the part, maybe they'd get tired of no response, and just leave her alone.

          "You still talkn' to him, Carter?  I already told you, he can't hear a word you're saying."

           "I understand.  And of course, you know what this means, don't ya, Mayer?"  He leered at her, a thin sheen of sweat hanging right above his lip.  "If he can't talk, he can't tell anybody anything either." He put a hand on her shoulder, pushing her towards the back of the shed.  "I don't mind my fun being of the quiet, stupid sort.  You ever been buggered, boy?  I'm kinda hoping I'm the first."

Copyright  Victoria T. Rocus

All Rights Reserved

          

          

            

       

              

             

              

Of Red Coats and Conversation

                     An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

Mrs. Revere gets ready to meet Patrick O'Kenney

     If nothing else, Pat was consistent.  If you spent enough time with him, you usually knew exactly how he'd react in any given situation, and Fr. Kevin hoped this knowledge might give him an edge in this situation.   While his brother was busy sampling Mrs. Schiller's baked goods, he quickly tried to educate Rachel on the fine points of his eldest brother's personality, and a brief overview of the family hierarchy.  She listened patiently to his ramblings, nodding and agreeing with his suggestions on how to limit detailed conversation.

     When he finished his 5-minute tutorial, out of breath and flustered, she smiled, and tucked an errant curl behind her ear in a gesture that so mimicked Maureen it startled him.  "Have no fear, Reverend.  I am quite familiar with the type of man you describe.  Boston of my time is filled with much of the same, be they Patriots or otherwise.  I can't imagine that your brother is much different.  I shall engage him as I do those back home, as good proper woman should."  She squeezed his hand, and gave him a conspiratorial wink.

       He wanted to warn her.  Explain how Patrick had a way of making people feel small.  Of putting you on the spot, and cross-examining everything you said.  But there wasn't time.  The door at the foot of the stairs slammed shut, and they could hear Pat's stomping hit foot hit each of the steps.  He appeared at the top of them, shoving the last piece of strudel in his mouth.  He chewed the remaining bite, and brushed the crumbs off his suit jacket.  "That woman is a kitchen goddess. You can't find strudel like that anywhere in Boston.  I keep trying to convince her to market the stuff on a wider basis.  She'd make millions."

        Without missing a step, he dumped his brief case on the table, and shucked the jacket off his shoulders.  "Jesus...it's about a hundred degrees in here, Red.  Don't you have enough sense to turn on the air."  He didn't wait for an response, not expecting anyone to counter his comment.  Instead he went over to Rachel, who sat in a kitchen chair, her "sprained" ankle wrapped in support bandages,  propped up on the seat next to her.  He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.  "How goes it, Mrs. Beckett?  I see the clumsy gene has gotten to you again." He pointed to Kevin, who had positioned himself and his crutches against the kitchen sink.  "Honestly, you and Kevin have some kind of strange symbiotic relationship.  Always on the same wave length.  You're like some kind of freaky twins, born six years apart."

           He was used to Pat's caustic remarks, and after so many years, had learn to let them wash over him without a reaction.  But this one cut deep in a new and strange way.  It was true.  He and Maureen were exceptionally close, the two youngest of eight, safety in numbers against of horde of older male siblings.  They always seemed to know what the other was thinking, an emotional pipeline back and forth, even as they aged.  Now, with Rachel Walker inhabiting his sister's body, he could sense nothing.  Not from her, nor any connection with Momo lost in the past.  It was distressing, making him feel oddly alone, and he wondered if his sister had experienced the same when he had traveled and left Fr. Murphy in his place.

           "I know Kev did his damage on a run.  Not much of an athlete.  But you, Red?  You're lighter on your feet than that.  Star of the high school soccer team. What happened?"

            She opened her mouth to speak, and Kevin held his breath.  Would she sound like Maureen to Pat's ear?  The speech pattern? The inflections?

            "You are most correct, dear brother.  Just a simple case of the 'clumsies'.  Carrying bags up those stairs, I missed a step.  Tripped and twisted my ankle   Silly of me for sure, and quite embarrassing.  I'd rather not relive the moment.  I'd much rather hear about what's going on back home.  In Boston.  How are your boys?"

             It was masterful in its simplicity.  If Patrick had noticed the formality of her word choice, it didn't show, as he jumped right in to answer her inquiries.  Despite his brother's callous killer instinct in court, he was a devoted and loving father, and his two sons were the center of his universe.  He spent the next several minutes regaling them with stories of Colin's victories on the rugby and lacrosse fields, and Ian's choices for law school.  Rachel was a pro at drawing out continued conversation on his favorite subject, and at least for the moment, Fr. Kevin could take a deep breath and relax.

____________________________________

             Beckett was right.  Milking a cow wasn't much different than milking a goat, a skill he had picked up years ago while on assignment in Afghanistan.  With a little effort, he'd replenished the bucket lost in their reunion, though he expected he'd be smelling like sour milk with each passing hour in the hot sun.  The time in the shed gave them an opportunity to catch up, and allowed him the opportunity to try and find his wife somewhere in that strange form.  She had taken the existence of the Fairy Queen with more acceptance then he would have imagined, seemingly passive about the discovery.  Her reaction set off a twinge of suspicion, and he wondered if there were things she was keeping from him.  His mind immediately went to the "fairy ring" she had made around a strange acting Kevin, who he had later learned wasn't really Kevin, but some strange personae from the past.  At the time, she had seemed convinced her actions would bring about the desired outcome, and no argument otherwise could shake her faith.

           Then, there was her horrified reaction to his revelation concerning the commitment to "She Who Was All".  The notion that he was now committed to serving the Fairy Queen indefinitely, in return for his ability to come retrieve her, left his wife in obvious distress.

            "Oh, Ted!  You have no idea what you promised!  Deals with the Fey are serious contracts, not to be taken lightly."

            Beckett stopped his milking, and turned to look at his wife.  "And you know this how?"

            Their was a faint blush to her cheeks, and she looked sideways, away from direct eye contact.  It was apparent that Mrs. Revere was a worse liar than his own little darling.  "I...I just know.  Granny used to tell Kev and me stories all the time.  From the old country, all about the Fey world.  Plus, I minored in literature as an under grad.  Took loads of classes on celtic lore and legend.  I remember reading all over the place that it was...well...unwise to make deals with the Fey.  They are notoriously bad about listing all the details upfront."

             He was no fool, and had made a career out of reading people's body language.  Maureen was obviously keeping something from him regarding her knowledge of the Fey world.  Now was probably not a good time to press her on the matter, as the focus needed to be on returning all three of them to their rightful time and space.  But he filed the information away for future retrieval, and if his wife had dealings with the fairy world, he needed to know what they were.

              He changed the subject to the task at hand.  "Never the less, what's done is done.  We'll deal with that problem later.  My only goal now is to see you and Mrs. Revere safely switched back to your own selves.  To do so, we need to get you to that spot in the bank, watch in hand.  Kevin and Rox swear that's all you need to do.  It seems the watch needs an extra boost to transport, and there are certain spots that provide that."

             "But why can't I just go back with you guys?  I'm scared, Ted.  What if I end up somewhere else?  A new time and a new body?  If I'm gonna be lost in time, I want it to be with you!"

             "It doesn't work that way, love.  You're tied up in this spell, Rox and I in an entirely different one.  They aren't interchangeable.  Or so I've been told."  He'd left out the part about his being dark magic, not wishing to upset her further.

              "I can't believe Roxanne was willing to risk another time travel experience, just to save my sorry ass.  I know we're friends, but jeez, Ted, that's a huge sacrifice.  I'm surprised Kevin didn't insist on coming."

             "It's not like he didn't want to come.  We felt it was best that he stay behind and take care of Mrs. Revere.  The less contact she has with the future, the better for us all."  He recalled that he had promised not to lie to her after the whole accident tragedy, but this was no time to be explaining to a Catholic girl who took her faith seriously that he had sacrificed part of his soul in his attempt to rescue.  One did what one needed to do.  Gratefully, he was saved from further interrogation and the continued need to lie by the appearance of Roxanne herself.

             "Sir...we have company.  A small group of Red Coats, coming up the road toward the house."  he stopped and shook her head.  "Wow...you know how weird that sounds?"  She looked over at the woman standing next to Beckett.  "Maureen?  Is that really you?"

               The brunette rushed to embrace her.  "Oh, Roxie!  It's so good to see you!  You look so...so different.  Like a cute, very hot, high school boy.  Thank you for coming to get me.  There's no way I can ever repay this debt."  She pulled at the small pony tail at the back of Roxanne's neck.  "Your hair!  You cut your beautiful long hair?"

                "It's not a big deal, Mo.  It'll grow back.  The Sheriff thought it best if I didn't travel as a female.  Less problems that way."

               "Ladies, I hate to interrupt this moving scene, but we need to deal with our visitors."  He turned to Roxanne.  "How many in all?  On horseback, or on foot?

              "Six, I think, Sir.  On horseback."

               "Could you see if one of them was on a large, black steed, with ribbons braided in its mane?"

         "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I think the lead horse did have red ribbons woven in its hair. Why do you ask?"

          "That's got to be Colonel Hollings.  Rude bastard.  Met him yesterday, when I first got here. He came by looking for Paul, and when I said he wasn't here, he got all pissy.  Kept insisting I must know the whereabouts of my husband.  I told him a good wife didn't ask after her husband's business, which just made him angrier.  Worst of all, he kept talking to my chest, staring at it like a hungry dog.  Totally creeped me out."

           Training had taught him to view any interaction with the enemy as nonemotional business. Defuse, disarm, or irradiate as the situation called for, without the added burden of personal feelings.  But the idea that this asshole had leered at his wife, in her body or not, bothered him more than he wanted to admit.  He forced the feelings of hostility down, and put on his best neutral demeanor.  "Well, ladies.  I do think it's best we remain pleasant and calm in our dealings with Colonel Hollings.
The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better."  Later, he'd think back on the details leading up to this moment, and wonder why he hadn't taken his own advice.

Meeting Captain Hollings

_________________________________

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus 2015
All Rights Reserved

           



           

         

Fishing For Answers

                     An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

Beckett comes to the rescue

           They stood that way for a long time, tight in embrace, the milk running down the leg of his pants and dripping into his boot.  She felt odd in his arms, padded in places Maureen wasn't, and several inches taller, so she didn't fit under his chin in the way he loved.  But for reasons he couldn't explain in logical terms, he instinctively knew she was his Desert Rose. It might have been written off in the way she pressed her head on his shoulder, or in the manner her fingers ran up and down his spine like a musician over piano keys. Very real, familiar, physical proof.  The kind that kept his life in proper order.  Yet in this case, it was secondary to an inner connection that needed no evidence, and the realization of that rolled over him in one overwhelming wave.

           He'd known for a long time that he cared for her more than any of the others.  Needed her in ways that went far beyond the physical.  That had been made clear during their short separation after the accident, somewhere within the weeks of grief and self-loathing that came with the loss of the baby.  Still, he hadn't realized until this very moment how much of him she truly owned.  It both amazed and horrified him.  How could he go off and do the things he did without the armor of complete indifference?  It made things difficult.  Complicated.

           Maureen suddenly broke the embrace, and took a step back.  "We probably shouldn't look so...so cozy.  No doubt Sarah is peering through the upper windows, taking notes on my misbehavior.  That wretched child hates me!"  She wiped at some milk stains on the front of her skirt.  "And it isn't gonna help when I go back inside without any milk.  It took nearly an hour of tugging at that old thing just to get what I did.  Even the cow hates me.  Everyone hates me here."

         Laughing at her trials seemed a bit heartless, but he couldn't help himself.  Despite the different face, the unfamiliar body, she sounded so much like the Maureen of his heart that he couldn't keep the joy from spilling out.  It started as a chuckle, and once let loose, churned out in eye-watering peals of laughter.  Beckett looked back at the cow who did seem to give his wife the evil eye, and laughed even harder.

        At first she seemed bewildered, then pissed, and he realized in the short time they'd been together, she'd never seen him laugh this way, with total abandonment and loss of control.  Truth was, he couldn't remember a time either.

        "I'm glad you think my problems are so damn funny, Ted Beckett!  Here I am...shoved into a strange body.  Stuck somewhere in a time warp, and you think the whole damn thing is Comedy Central.  You can really be an asshole, you know that?!"

         She must have expected a terse comment in return, and when it was replaced with a lingering giggle or two, she eyed him warily.  He wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve, and then reached over to tuck a stray strand of dark hair back under her her mob cap.  "I'm sorry, love.  I don't mean to laugh at your trials, or make light of them.  I'm just so happy to find you safe and sound, in one piece, and unchanged.  I am grateful beyond belief."

          "Unchanged?  Are you crazy?  Look at me!  I'm somebody else!  I'm...fat!"

          "Outside, yes.  Inside, you're my Desert Rose.  Of that I have no doubt."  He grinned, and glanced down toward her bosom.   "Though, I must admit to admiring those bigger tits.  You wear them well."

          Maureen placed a self conscious hand over the bodice of her dress, and smiled.  "Yeah...I do kinda like them myself.  Never filled out a blouse like this before."  Then her face fell, and he could feel the fear and uncertainty rise between them.  "Why am I here Ted?  Why did this happen?  Please tell me you know how I can get things back to the way they were?"

           He resisted the demanding urge to pull her back into his arms, to kiss the fear right out of her, and let her know how much she meant to him.  She was right.  No doubt they were being watched.  A "cousinly" embrace of welcome could be explained.  A make out session in the back of the house... not so much.  "That's why I'm here, love.  To help you make the switch."

          "How?"

         "Please tell me you have a certain gold pocket watch still in your possession?"

         Maureen turned away from the direction of the house's windows, her back to them, and dug into the bodice of her dress, pulling the pocket watch out by its chain.  Beckett could hear a very low humming sound pulsing from it as it swung from her hand.

          "Does it always make that sound?  That humming?"

          "You hear it now too?  That's what made me find it in the first place!  I heard that noise coming from Kevin's attic.  It was driving me crazy, so I kept trying to find out where it was coming from.  It finally led me to the old dresser in the corner of the rectory attic.  It was in the bottom drawer, under a stack of old linens.  I pulled it out, and then all the hair on my arm stood up.  Next thing I know, I'm waking up here in a strange bed."  Seeing his face, she quickly added, "By myself.  I haven't even seen my husband...I mean Paul...Paul Revere...wow...that sounds weird...at all.  The children looked at me like I was crazy when I asked were he was.  Apparently, Mr. Revere takes off on a regular basis, something I'm supposed to understand.  I never was much interested in history, you know.  My Dad kept trying to get us kids to take more of a liking to the historical aspects of Boston, but only Patrick and Kevin were really very gung ho about it.  Wished I would've paid more attention considering what's happened to me."

               Beckett made note of the fact he could now hear the time piece humming.  On the day of Maureen's disappearance, he'd heard absolutely nothing, even though by Kevin's own later admission, he had heard it too.  He weighed the reasons for his new found sensitivity, and wondered if it was the Fey spell that brought him here, or his commitment to the Queen herself, that had made the change.  Whatever the explanation, it was a benefit to now be in the loop of the supernatural oddities that seemed to affect those he held dearest.

                "Anyway, since the watch was still clenched in my hand when I woke here, I assumed it must have something to do with my situation, though I've tried countless times since then to wish and pray myself back.  Nothing's worked so far.  I hope you have the missing piece I need to get back to...well...myself.  It's been a frickin' nightmare."

             "I believe I do.  But I need to explain a few things first.  In private.  The shed will work just fine.  How 'bout I see if I can get you another pail of milk while I tell you what needs to happen?"

             "You know how to milk a cow?"

              "I've had some experience with goats.  I can't imagine cows are any different."

              "Then lead the way, 'Cousin Ted', and tell me what the hell I have to do to fix this whole mess."

_____________________________________

              Patrick's visit was an unfolding disaster.  Even if Mrs. Revere had access to a phone, cell or otherwise, she wouldn't have a clue as to what she should do with it.  They all had decided that the least she knew of life in the future, the easier it would be for her to slip back into her given life.  There seemed no good reason to expose her to the wonders of modern technology, other than indoor plumbing and electricity, which could hardly be hidden in a space the size of the apartment.  Rachel was a woman of sound judgement, and her calm, gracious nature made it easy for her to be comfortable without the things modern young people took for granted.

             She was quite content without television and the internet, finding great joy in cooking over a flame she didn't need to light herself, reading her way through Maureen's collection of Jane Austin and Charlotte Bronte, and amusing herself with a gift of sketch pad and water colors that Beckett had procured for her before he'd left.  In less than a day, she had created several beautiful drawings of birds that had landed on the tree outside the kitchen window.  Each was carefully taped to the walls, showing talent his sister never possessed, something that would immediately raise Patrick's curiosity.

           His brother could not be swayed from visiting their "sister", and as they walked the block and a half to the deli, Fr. Kevin frantically wracked his brain for some excuse he could use to postpone the inevitable.  He was still fumbling around with crutches, and his slow pace did nothing but annoy Patrick further.

           "For Christ sakes, Kevin...why didn't you just stay back at the rectory.  I'm perfectly capable of walking the ten steps to the apartment myself.  You just gotta stick your nose in everybody's business, don't ya?  Especially when it comes to Red.  She's a grown woman.  A married woman.  She doesn't need her big brother holding her hand.  She has a husband now to do that."

           "I figured I'd take this opportunity to spend some time with you too, Pat.  Hear how the family is doing...and stuff."  As the white lie slipped from his lips, he mentally mouthed a silent prayer asking for forgiveness.  Desperate times took desperate measures.

              Pat stopped in his tracks, and gave the priest the stink eye.  "Just what are you cooking up, Kev?"

              He tried hard not to blush, his lack of a poker face notorious in the family chronicles.  "Geez, Pat.  Can't a guy want to spend time with his brother without you making a federal case about it?"

             Patrick continued his stride, shaking his head.  "You are the shittiest liar I know, Father Kevin.  There's something you're not telling me about Red, and I mean to find out."

              He prayed again, this time calling on every saint known for assistance with hopeless cases.  It wasn't going to take a genius to realize something was terribly different about the sweet nature of the woman inhabiting Maureen's body.  There were a lot of wonderful adjectives one could use in describing Maureen O'Kenney Beckett, but 'sweet' was not in the collection, at least among the people who knew her well.

              It seemed one saint must have been listening to his pleas, for when they arrived at the deli, Mrs. Schiller tempted his brother into the store with a slice of fresh apple and cranberry strudel.  Pat's penchant for desserts was as well founded as Mo's ability to find trouble, leaving him a few stolen minutes to warn Mrs. Revere what was about to go down.

             Racing up the stairs, he found her seated at the table, furiously working to scrub up a dark buildup of burned gunk on the bottom of Maureen's best saute pan.  She looked up, a worried frown replacing her usual smile.  Holding up the pan in horror, she apologized,  "It appears I have ruined your sister's lovely cook pot in an attempt to fix myself some dinner.  The poor fish has gone from over done to completely ruined.  Perhaps I shouldn't have let it fry so long."

             And though it seemed totally inappropriate to use a worn out cliche at a desperate time like this, he couldn't resist.  "Mrs. Revere...I'm afraid we have bigger fish to fry."

Copyright  Victoria T. Rocus 2105
All Rights Reserved.



   



       

                 
         

Affairs of the Heart

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

                         

A ride to the Revere's house in Ian's wagon

       She probably should have paid more attention to the stuff around her.   After all, how many people ever got the opportunity to see history as it happened.  This was Boston!  Home of the Sons of Liberty.  She should've been sucking up every damn detail, able to write some fabulous dissertation on life before Lexington and Concord.  Instead, she was practically drooling on herself, grinning like a mad man while Ian pointed out things of interest to the "deaf boy" next to him.

       At one point, he took her hands and placed them on the reins, allowing her to take lead of the horses and the wagon.  That small exchange of contact made her heart race, and the chest binding a vise squeezing the air out of her.  Get a grip, Spinelli!  He's just a guy.  A drop dead gorgeous guy, but a guy just the same.  No different from the hundreds of jerks back home.  All nice and shiny on the outside, and selfish to the core.  No need to go looking for trouble in 1775.  Plenty of that where you come from.  Besides, he thinks you're a disabled kid. A boy.  He's just being polite.  Calm yourself down girl.

       Too soon, Sawyer pulled the wagon to a stop, and turned to speak to Beckett. "Revere's place is just down there's a way.  If it's all right with you folks, I'd rather not take my wagon down this bit of road.  Spring rains have made it nearly impassable, and I'd rather not risk gettin' stuck.  You can't miss it though.  Three story.  L-shaped."   He jumped off the driver's bench, and offered a hand to the "deaf boy", allowing her one last spark of contact.

      Beckett and the man shook hands, making meaningless promises to talk again.  Roxanne looked away, composing her face into a mask of indifference, and when he patted her on the shoulder to say good bye, she stared dumbly ahead, giving no sign she understood.  He climbed back into his wagon, and continued down the road, giving them a final wave as he left.

       Roxie and Beckett stood in the road for a minute or two watching him leave, until the Sheriff abruptly turned without a word in the direction Sawyer had pointed.  She hesitated a moment, reluctant to lose sight of a dream, and then scrambled after him, fully expecting he'd have something to say.  She'd caught a few of the looks he'd given her from the back of the wagon, none of them suggesting he was even mildly amused.

        "What the hell was that about?"
     
        "What do you mean?"

        "You know exactly what I mean.  Those flirty, puppy dog eyes you were making at Sawyer.  Are you out of your fucking mind?"

         "I wasn't..wasn't doing any such thing.  I was just trying to look...simple.  Like you said to do."

         "Knock off the innocent act, Spinelli.  I know very well when a woman's flirting.  You were flirting.  I can't imagine what you thought you'd gain from it."

         Embarrassed, she worked to defend herself.  "That's not true.  I...I was just trying my best to act like someone lost in their own world.  I'm sorry my performance didn't meet with your damn approval, Mr. Perfect."  Once said, she immediately wished she could swallow back the words.  The tone and the attitude.  She'd known going into this it was a test of sorts.  That he would measure her ability to follow orders, and physically keep up with him.  And now, it was obvious she had failed on all levels.

         Before she could apologize, he stopped dead and turned to her.  "I'm gonna state three facts, Spinelli, and I want you to listen carefully.  Fact # 1...we are here on a mission.  Our mission is to retrieve the target, my wife, and return her to her own body.  Nothing else matters.  Not your issues, or mine. Are we clear on that?

          She could only nod, a knot growing in her throat, her cheeks hot with shame.

          "I didn't hear you.  Are we clear on that?"

          "Yes, Sir."

          "Good.  Fact #2...the less interaction we have with anyone or anything in this time period, the better.  We do not want to draw any unnecessary attention to our presence here, because doing that puts our mission at risk.  Complicates things, and I don't like things complicated.  Understand?"

           She looked away, unable to face him.  "Yes, Sir."

          "And Fact #3...Mr. Sawyer was flirting back.  Which means one thing.  He is most likely gay, and possibly a pedophile at that.  You are posing as a teenage boy.  He has no reason to believe you are anything but what we say you are.  Yet, he goes out of his way to please you.  To try and make you happy.  Think, Spinelli!  Why else would he do that?"

           That thought had been a tiny bug burrowing in the back of her head, but she had squashed it before it could take hold.  She knew a lot of gay guys.  All types.  And Ian hadn't given off those vibes.  Then again, since the time travel, she hadn't been herself.  Hadn't felt...well...right, as if part of her hadn't made the trip.  She wondered if it had anything to do with the whole "lost part of the soul" theory.

          "Is it possible Mr. Sawyer is just a nice person, Sir?"

          Beckett made a face, and shook his head.  "You really can't be that naive, can you, Deputy?  You're no simpering virgin, of that I'm sure.  And by your own admission, you've had more life experience in the seedy underworld than most people.  If you look at this logically, you'll come to the same conclusion.  And even if he is a straight guy, or even bi-sexual, if the case may be, he's from this time period, and you are not."

          "I understand, Sir."

         "I sure as hell hope so, Spinelli.  Do not make me regret bringing you along.  Please restate our mission for me."

         "Our mission, Sir, is to locate the target, and use whatever means required to return the target to her own body with minimum interaction among or with the locals."

         "That is correct, Deputy.  And we will successfully complete that mission."  He turned and walked away, leaving her to swallow her shame, disappointment and broken heart in one sour mouthful.

___________________________________________

     Part of him felt a twinge of guilt.  She wasn't a trained operative.  Truth was, she wasn't a trained anything.  But she had shown more perseverance, more commitment than a lot of newbies he'd worked with.  Plus, she had volunteered to accompany him for purely altruistic reasons.  Part of it had to do with Kevin, for whom she obviously cared deeply.  But he had a soft spot towards her for her genuine concern over his Desert Rose.  She understood how confused Maureen would be at all that was happening, how desperate was her situation, and had offered herself up in the rescue of his wife.

     Still, that whole interaction between Roxanne and Sawyer was odd.  The colonist hadn't struck him as gay, not initially, but people had a way of hiding their true desires.  He himself was a perfect example of that. Throughout his career, he had prided himself on the ability to see beneath the surface of human masks.  It was what made him the successful operative he was.  Find the weakest link, the chink in the armor, and go in for the kill.  In Sawyer's case, he'd hadn't felt anything that set off his radar.  He appeared, as Spinelli had stated, a nice guy.

      Discussion didn't matter. It was best for all involved if they left Ian Sawyer to memory, and focused on the task at hand.  Until this moment, he hadn't let him self think about actually seeing Maureen in Rachel Revere's body.  How it might make him feel.  How he might react.  It hadn't made sense to dwell in emotions when there was cold, hard obstacles in the way.  But now that he was minutes away from facing that dilemma, he was a tad concerned, though he'd never admit it.  Not to anyone, even Maureen.

      Would he recognize her somewhere in that strange body?  Would she recognize him?  If it was the same for Maureen as it had been for the others, he'd recognize her eyes.  Once it had been pointed out to him back home, he'd been able to see the differences.  In the eyes, as well as in the gestures, the speech pattern, the little idiosyncrasies that made each human being unique.  And Rachel in Maureen's body had seemed to be able to access some of his wife's memories, something that made him more than a bit uncomfortable.  But if she held him in any distaste, she hadn't made it public, and for that he was grateful.

      Then there was that whole... intimacy thing.  Because he had the benefit of Kevin and Roxanne's experiences, he had quickly come to the realization that the woman in the flat over the deli was not  his wife.  He hadn't needed to deal with the issue of being intimate with someone who wasn't Maureen.  Mrs. Revere was safe in her modesty and faithfulness to her husband, but he wondered if it had gone the same for his wife.  In this time period, it was unlikely that a wife would not make herself available to her husband as he wished.  For her own safety...her own sanity...it was likely his Desert Rose would have just submitted.  At least he hoped she had.  He hoped that she had enough common sense to do whatever it was that kept her safe and sane, knowing he would fully understand.

        The house came into view just as Sawyer had described.  He'd never paid much attention to it in modern day Boston, hadn't ever taken the tour as part of The Freedom Trail.  But seeing it there, home to Maureen for at least a few days, as well as the famous Paul Revere, gave him a new sense of admiration.  He went around to the front, and knocked at the door, preparing himself for the face of Rachel Revere, or at least a younger version.  He had researched extensively for images of Rachel as she might have been in 1775.  There were several of paintings that had been done when she was a woman of 60, but only a handful of a more youthful Mrs. Revere.  They showed a serene face with high forehead, straight, long nose, and an ample bosom.  He had tried to picture Maureen with big boobs and couldn't.  It would be interesting, to say the least.

       The door was opened by a sullen young girl of about 11, holding a squealing infant in her arms, whose lungs were healthy if high pitched wailing was proof of such things.  She looked at him with gray blue eyes, wary and apprehensive.  He plastered the most generic of smiles on his face, lest he scare the poor thing.  "Good Day, Lass.  Is Mrs. Revere at home?"

        She answered his question with a long stare, then politely asked, "Who be it, Sir, that is asking?"
No doubt Revere had schooled his children to be aware of the danger the climate of the time brought, and he respected the girl's fortitude in dealing with strangers.

       "I am Mr. Theodore Walker, Miss Revere.  Your step-mother's cousin.  From Philadelphia.  I've come to visit with the greetings and well wishes of her family in regards to her recent marriage and the birth of her child."

        The girl weighed his answer, and then, over the squealing of the infant, pointed to the back of the house.  "Ma is back there, fetching some milk."  Then without further information, the girl shut the door, and he could hear her slide the bolt in place.  Where others might have been offended at her  abrupt rudeness, Beckett was impressed.  Paul Revere was a man after his own mind, who obviously instructed his children to the dangers that might affect them, and what action to take.  As a father, he  he'd surely do the same.

          He walked over to Roxanne, whispering to her in a low voice. "You stay here.  Keep an eye out for anyone approaching the house.  If you see anyone, come get me."

          She nodded, knowing better than to ask further questions, and he turned and walked toward the back of the property.  There was a small shed, home to a large cow tied to a post.  The woman sat on a three-legged stool, her back to him, tugging at the cow's swollen udders, and spitting out a furious stream of familiar obscenities.  He felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of relief.  He'd heard those words before. Many times.  His Desert Rose had the face of an angel, all porcelain skin and auburn curls, and the language of the roughest sailor when she was frustrated or angry.

            He stopped a few feet away, not wishing to startle her, and called out, "Mrs. Revere?"  Then, needing to be sure, and unable to wait any longer he added, "Maureen?"

           The woman spun on the stool, and turned to face him.  Her eyes were wide round saucers over the long nose, and her wide mouth dropped open.  "Ted?  Ted? Oh my God...thank you Jesus...is it really you?" She ran toward him, flinging herself into his open arms, tipping the sloshing bucket, and covering them both in a warm, frothy bath of milk.

Rachel Walker Revere

Copyright  2015 Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved

A general note to my lovely, loyal readers...

         You might have noticed a lack of mini scene illustrations in the past few weeks.  We are in the process of a over haul decorating project here at home, that includes refinishing all the hard wood floors, and painting all the rooms.  In anticipation, all the rooms have been emptied out, and safely stored away.  That includes all nine dollhouses, and several sealed totes of mini furniture and accessories.  We still have a few more weeks of work to do.  Then, it will undoubtedly take me several weeks to put everything back in its place.  Until then, I will have to make do with old photos from previous posts, and some google images.  Hoe you'll still come back to read the story, which of course, is my passion.

As always, I appreciate the time you spend reading my humble literary endeavors.

Vicki

   

Green Eyes in the Green Dragon

            An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

                       

Ian Sawyer at the Green Dragon

     As a child living in the heart of Boston, her education had included an abundance of knowledge on the role the city had played in the heart of the American Revolution.  She had studied, at one grade level or another, all the key players and all the important places. But standing in front of the Green Dragon Tavern, in the flesh and in its heyday, was a whole different matter.

      The re-built pub and museum on Marshall Street, in whose embrace she had hoisted more than a few, looked nothing like the rambling barn of a building that was Beckett's destination.  She knew from history that the building itself was currently owned by the Free Masons who used the first floor as their meeting place, while the basement was home to the infamous Green Dragon, though at this time of the day, the pub was clearly without much patronage.

        Its bar keep was a portly man, whose belly hung so low over his breeches, it looked as if he could hide a wealth of Patriot secrets beneath it.  He wiped the same spot over and over again with a tattered rag, all the while keeping a wary eye on his newest clientele.  There were but three other customers in the dark, dingy place, who from all obvious clues, had been there from the night before.  One was slumped in his chair, snoring away, while a stream of drool ran a course down his chin.  The other two were awake in the barest sense of the word, staring out from red-rimmed, half-closed eyes.

        Their plan of action had been laid out on the walk to the pub.  Beckett was to be a cousin of Rachel Revere, one Theodore Walker, out of Philadelphia, and she was to be his youngest brother, Robert, a half-deaf mute of limited mental capacity.  She had been most annoyed at being characterized as such, but the Sheriff had been adamant, and the look she received in return for her complaints was enough to end them.  In thinking about it, he was probably right.  She was too tall to pass herself off as a youngster, and her voice too high pitched to be believable as an older male teen. In addition, it was their goal to show themselves as harmless family visitors, and as a gentleman farmer and his half wit brother it was felt they could do just that.

         Beckett pointed to a chair at an empty table, and Roxanne sat herself down in it, hands in lap, and did her best at looking "simple".  As was his instructions, she looked straight ahead, careful not to stare at anyone in particular, though she could feel the eyes of the drunken gentlemen resting on her back.  She strained to listen as Ted spoke to the man at the bar.  It was a shock to hear the words coming out of his mouth, as they sounded nothing like the man she knew.  How and when he had learned to speak in such a manner she wasn't sure, but the tone and inflections were different than the ones he used everyday.  There was a British accent of sorts, with an undertone she couldn't place.  Whatever he was saying appeared to be funny, as the bar keep laughed and pumped his hand in response.

        She sat in silence, taking in as much of the place as she dared.  The drunks behind her were now fully awake, raucous in their behavior and calling for additional libation.  The bar man seemed much enthralled with the conversation he was attending to with Beckett, and waved the patrons off.  This did nothing but encourage them further, and they hooted and hollered their displeasure, once calling out that the "boy" could bring them their pints.  Beckett caught her eye, and waved her over.  Once there, he gestured to her to bring the tin cups over to the gentlemen at the table behind her so he could continue his conversation.

       As an exotic dancer, she had dealt with her share of obnoxious drunks. Plenty of them.  Knew what to do, knew how to handle them.  But as "Robert", she walked slowly and carefully, staring straight ahead, a benign smile plastered on her face.  Maybe she was working too hard at being simple, as she did not notice the big guy with the messy hair stick his leg out in front of her.  Down she went, catching her head on the corner of the table, the ale spilling over her, face meeting the floor.
For several seconds she lay there in a puddle, the world fuzzy and disjointed, her head pounding, until she could feel two strong hands pull her up by the fore arms.  She expected it to be Beckett coming to her rescue, but when her vision cleared, and she wiped the ale off her face with her sleeve, she was staring into a pair of the greenest eyes she had ever seen.  Not the pale spring leaf green of Kevin's eyes.  No.  These were darker.  Much darker.  Like the soft moss on trees, almost velvet in their nature.

        "Are you alright, boy?  Can you speak?"

        Roxanne opened her mouth, then remembering who she was, where she was, closed it, instead choosing to stare back at the hottest man she had ever seen with a stupid grin that would have made the village idiot proud.  Beckett was now at her side, taking hold of her arms, and pulling her towards him.

         "My brother is a deaf-mute. Simple-minded.  I'm sure he doesn't understand what you're saying.
But I myself am very grateful for your assistance, Mr...?"

         "Ian Sawyer, Sir, at your service."

         The two men exchanged general pleasantries, while Roxanne swayed on her feet, embarrassed, aroused, and confused.  The drunks were quickly dispatched with threats to not return, and the bar keep offered a fresh round for hero and visitors alike.  The conversation turned to the hows and whys, and it was discovered that Mr. Sawyer was a neighbor of the Reveres, and would gladly give them a lift to the house on Square Street, as the boy looked in no condition to make the walk.

       With promises to return to the Green Dragon, the trio left the tavern, Mr. Sawyer insisting that the boy take the spot on the driver's bench next to him so he could see the sights of Boston, a suggestion to which Mr. Walker agreed, though the look he gave the boy was a clue that a discussion on this whole event was sure to follow when privacy permitted.  None of that mattered though, as it was hoped that what they sought would be waiting at the Revere house, and that they would return safely home before the sun set on another day.

__________________________________

       The fact that his brother was standing at his front door at the most inopportune of times was proof enough that the Almighty had a unique sense of humor.  Either that, or he was genuinely annoyed over Fr. Kevin's failed attempt to sacrifice part of his eternal soul to rescue his sister.  For whatever reason, Patrick's presence in Dollyville was a huge pain in the ass.

         "Nice to see you too, Kevin.  Your enthusiasm over my visit is overwhelming."  He pushed his way past the priest, and into the rectory parlor, throwing his brief case and suit coat over the sofa's arm.  He sniffed the air and made a face.  "Your place smells weird, Kev.  Like flowers.  Roses, I think.  You got a woman you're hiding in here, Father?"  He laughed over his own joke, and fell into one of the side chairs with a plop.

         It would be most interesting, Fr. Kevin thought, if I told him the truth.  That what he smelled was the remnants of a visit with a Maeve, the Queen of the Fey, and that the room he was sitting in was recently used for dark magic.  Pat grew up on the same stories about the Fey as we all did.  Would any shred of him be open to belief?  Kevin chuckled to himself in his head.  Pat?  No way.  Pat was a black and white kinda guy.  It either was, or wasn't.  There was no in-between.  No gray area.  Even though he professed to be a practicing Catholic, and even worked for the church in his capacity as lawyer, Kevin had his doubts about what his brother actually believed.  Telling him the truth about Maureen...where she was...what had happened...was out of the question.  Besides, he probably end up blaming him for it all anyway.

         "I'm sorry to sound so abrupt, Pat.  It's been crazy around here.  Too much to do.  Parish business, you know."

        "Well, that's the life of a Pastor, Kev.  Ya gotta suck it up, and get to it.  Actually, I've been hearing good things about your parish around the diocese.  Mass participation and your weekly offerings are up.  The Bishop seems pleased.  Good thing after that whole fiasco with your gardener's murder a year ago.  I for one thought you had screwed up this position royally.  But now things have quieted down, and you seem like you're holding it all together.  Pleasant surprise."

         Gee...thanks for your vote of confidence, Pat.  So nice to have the support of your loving family. You are such a jerk.   "Hmmm...thanks...I guess.  So...you still haven't explained why you're here."

         "What?  A guy can't visit his brother and sister without the third degree?  Actually,  I need to have Red sign some tax papers on the Cape Cod house.  Has she even been there yet?"

        "No.  I don't think so.  She has some...issues about that crazy woman living there in secret.  Ted told her he'd sell it and get her another place, but she doesn't even want to talk about it."

        "Well I hope to hell she doesn't sell it.  It's prime real estate.  Some of the nicest beach front on the Cape.  Have you been up there yet?    Eileen and I spent a week there about a month ago.  Brendan and Sean and their broods were there last week. It's like a slice of heaven, I tell ya.  Red's just gotta her head in the right place.  She'll see it for the wise business deal it is."

         Yeah, Pat.  'Cause everything's about a deal.  "I guess it's up to her.  After all, it was a gift to her.  I suppose she has the right to do as she pleases."

         "Red will do what's best for the family.  That's how we were raised.  How's she and Ted doing?"

        " Alright, I guess.  I don't pry."

        "Why the hell not?  You're a priest.  That's your job.  Tell people how to live the right way.  You and I both know that guy is the best thing that ever happened to Red.  He's good for her.  Keeps her on the straight and narrow.  Red needs boundaries.  She's no good without them."

          Right, Pat.  And his millions have nothing to do with anything.  You don't know the first thing about Ted Beckett.  If you did, I wonder what you'd think then?  "They'll work it out on their own.  I have no intention of butting in.  They seem happy enough to me."  Happier for sure when his wife is returned to her rightful body.  Father Almighty...please help them be successful!

         Patrick O'Kenney pushed himself out of the chair.  "No use sitting around here shootin' the shit.  I only have a few hours before my train back to Boston.  I need to see Red, visit a bit, and get this paperwork done.  She at the deli?"

         Damn!  What a mess!  If he talks to Rachel, he's gonna know for sure something's not right.  Pat's no dummy.  I gotta run interference somehow.  "As a matter of fact, Mo sprained her ankle a few days ago.  Badly. Doc wants her to rest it for a few days.  She's at home. In the flat. In bed."

         "Good.  It will give us a few uninterrupted hours to visit."

          God no!  What a disaster! "Say...what if I take a few hours off and visit with you guys?"

         "What the hell for?  You just said you're swamped.  Besides, you see Red all the time.  Let me have this one on one time, Kev.   Just me and Red."


Copyright  Victoria T. Rocus 2015
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