Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

T he plane banked gently away from Scotland's coast, and Alexandra pressed her hand against the window in a silent farewell. Beside her, an empty seat held her mostly-opaque husband—a convenience provided by a queasy businessman who'd asked to move the moment she'd mentioned morning sickness.

The aisle seat was occupied by a young man in a hoodie with earphones in his ears. He looked terrified the one and only time he’d glanced at Alex before the plane took off. Shy or prejudiced, it didn’t matter. She could imagine how easily he might freak out if he noticed her talking to the empty chair between them, so she was careful to raise her phone to her mouth whenever she had something to say to Spreag. At least it would look like she was dictating.

"Good thing that bloke moved," Spreag murmured. "Though I'd have haunted him the whole flight if he hadn't."

Alex bit back a smile, remembering their flight from Scotland to New York nearly a year ago. The customs agent's suspicious glare, the way Spreag had sworn never to travel in anything but denims again. His outrage.

"Never in all my years has a man asked what was under m' kilt!"

Now, watching Scotland and the Atlantic disappear beneath the clouds, she marveled at the difference between this journey and the one she’d dreaded during those dark days in the hotel room. She swore she’d never return to Arizona, not wanting to face their home and their lost dreams alone. Yet here she was, going home with him after all—just not in the way she'd wanted.

She wasn't complaining.

The flight attendant offered ginger ale, which she accepted gratefully. Morning sickness and air sickness were extremely close cousins.

"Remember the pros list?" Spreag asked as she sipped. "Duncan was right about the spyin'. I'll ken it for certain if anyone gives ye trouble. I'm just not sure, yet, how I can do aught about it."

"You are not spying on my colleagues."

"Not even that pompous architecture professor who keeps stealin' yer parking space?"

She pressed her lips together, fighting another smile. Their friends' pros and cons list had been brief, but the men had been most excited about Spreag’s ability to spy on her behalf. But the real advantages were things that hadn’t been listed. Like knowing that even though she couldn't touch him, she'd never have to face another sleepless night alone.

She closed her eyes, remembering their farewell party at the Black Isle Bar. Wyndham had insisted on one dance, and though his arms had been warm and solid, she'd imagined Spreag holding her instead. The way he used to, strong and sure, making her feel safe. Loved.

"I love you to the ends of the earth and back again," he whispered now, as if reading her thoughts.

"I know." She pretended to adjust her blanket so she could face him. "I just miss..."

"Aye, love. I’m just grateful for the warm memories we made. For they shall have to sustain us for a good long while."

The kid on the aisle blushed profusely when he had to let her out so she could go to the loo. She didn’t mind waiting in line because it gave her a break from his nervous glances. He watched her closely each time she crossed her legs, so she was pretty sure he was just intimidated. But thankfully, Spreag hadn’t noticed or he might have found a way to give the kid a black eye.

“Lord A’ Mighty!”

“Sorry?” Alexandra turned and looked up, half expecting God to be coming through the top of the plane, looking for the spirit of Spreag Tulloch to take back with him. But it was only a man. A tall one, who couldn’t take his eyes off Alex’s head.

His red curly hair went to his shoulders, and when he caught himself staring, he tucked it behind his ears and blushed, his fair face a dark pink in the low cabin lighting. “Beg pardon, miss. Lovely hair. Like Queen Matilda’s it is.”

“Queen…Matilda?”

“M’ Prize ewe. Of course, ye smell much better than she ever will.” The sparkle in his eyes let her know he was teasing. His eyes slid down her and he tilted his head to see her left hand. His head hit the bulkhead and he sobered when he saw her ring. “Beg yer pardon, madam. I’m Callum Fraser.”

“Madam?” She laughed and looked at her ring. “Yeah, I am a madam. Alexandra Tulloch. I’m trying to place your accent. My husband came from Huntly.”

“Auch, a Huntly man, is he? I’m from Blairgowrie m’self. Farmer.”

“I’m not sure where that is.”

“Two hours sooth o’ yer man. At least ye got the Scottish part right.” He tugged on his curls. “Some see red and assume I’m from Erin.”

“Erin?”

“Ireland.”

“Ah. I see.” It was her turn to use the bathroom, so she waved her fingers and ducked inside. The tall farmer was going to have a hard time doing the same. When she stepped out again, he was gone, probably in the other bathroom, and when she returned to her seat, she was still smiling.

Spreag waited for her to explain.

“I’ve never been compared to a sheep before.”

“What? Who compared you to a sheep?”

She pointed to the big farmer as he passed on his way to first class. “He meant it as flattery,” she said with a laugh, then pointed to her Jheri curls. “A black sheep named Queen Matilda.”

“That’s terrible.” The kid on the aisle had assumed she was talking to him.

“It’s okay,” she said. “He was trying to be nice.” Then she bit her lips together and faced the window, and laughed quietly.

The rest of the flight passed uneventfully. Even customs went smoothly—though Spreag couldn't resist threatening the agent who passed her wand up between Alex’s thighs. Laughing at him helped her get through the embarrassment.

It was late. Instead of calling friends for a ride, she took an Uber. The driver, a chatty woman named Susan, filled the car with talk radio and questions about Scotland that Alexandra answered vaguely until she finally got the hint.

The faculty would know she was a widow now, would treat her with kid gloves and concerned looks. But they didn't need to know about the baby yet. And they certainly couldn't know about Spreag.

"You should tell yer friends ye’re back,” he said, as they pulled onto their street.

She whispered, "I'm thinking practically. If anyone catches me talking to thin air..."

"They'll cart ye off to the psych ward and take our babe." He sighed. "I ken it. But ye dinnae have to be completely alone. What about yer friend Rachel?"

"No." The Uber stopped in front of their house. "No one. Not yet."

She thanked Susan and dragged her suitcase up the walk, refusing help. The porch light winked on automatically. The house looked exactly as they'd left it, thanks to xeriscaping and a weed warrior for a neighbor.

"Home sweet home," Spreag said softly.

Alexandra pretended not to notice the forlorn edge to his voice and fitted her key in the lock, thinking only about the short term. She could justify being a hermit, at least for now. She had a brand-new excuse, after all—plenty of new mothers were too queasy to socialize. And it might end up being true.

But as she stepped into their home, breathing in the familiar scent of books and wooden floors and remembering all the life they'd lived here, she realized she hadn’t escaped the mourning process after all. The pregnancy was a happy distraction. Having Spreag near her again had given her something to focus on. But now that she was back in the real world, she was going to have to face the truth.

Soon.

Just not yet.

As they walked the long hallway of their Spanish style home, she traced her fingertips on the textured walls. It had taken so long to find this place. Large enough for kids without being gaudy. Though now, there would be only one child.

"Must be the hormones," she whispered, wiping her eyes.

"What is, love?"

"All these tears. I'm not sad, not really. I have everything I need here."

"Not everything you want, though."

She swallowed hard. "I hate that we can't touch."

"I know." His form wavered slightly. "I hope ye'll not regret coming home. We could have stayed in Scotland, with the others who understand..."

"This is where we belong." She reached for his hand without thinking.

He reached back, their fingers nearly meeting. Nearly, but not quite.

He grimaced as if in pain and let his hand drop to his side. "Turn out the lights, love. I always feel closer to ye in the dark."

She flipped the switch, and in the shifting of shadows, she could almost feel him against her.

It didn’t matter if it was all illusion. She’d experienced nothing already, and illusion was a thousand times better.