54. Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Four

L aura

The roar of the boat’s engine fills the air as we cut through the choppy waters. Varro stands near his seat, his eyes wide with wonder at how fast we’re speeding over the vast sea. I miss his long hair, which would be whipping around his head if I hadn’t cut it this morning in my hopes it would help him fit in.

Last night and this morning rushed by since our violent encounter with Merrivale and his men, but I’ve managed to pull myself together. We’ll tell the boat rental agency (the address and phone number are stamped conveniently on the keychain) that we’ve relieved the crew who rented the boat.

My first reaction was to let Varro bury the bodies and let the miscreants disappear but my Catholic conscience won’t let me do it. It was self-defense and even bad guys have families who will want to know what happened to them.

I convinced Varro to leave the bodies and weapons exactly where they are. There aren’t any predators on the island and the cool late March weather will slow the body’s deterioration. I just need a couple of days for Varro and me to get ourselves organized before I report it .

“It’s beautiful out here, huh? Do you like the speed? Like I told you, there are machines in this world that go way faster than Jenny,” I call out to him over the sound of wind and waves. He turns to me, his eyes narrowed in worry.

We’ve been all business since we decided to leave the island, but I can tell Varro is anxious. His emotionless “yes” to my question tells me all I need to know about his enthusiasm for what’s to come next.

As I navigate using the onboard GPS, my mind wanders back to our frantic preparations. We combed through every inch of the compound and cottage, salvaging anything useful. The gold coins I’d snagged during Garrison’s hasty departure are now safely in my possession, along with a few other choice items that might prove valuable. Of course, Invictus isn’t far from Varro’s side.

Varro leans close, his brow furrowed. “Laura, tell me again about these… cars we’ll see when we reach land?”

I take a deep breath, once again reminded that everything will be new and overwhelming for him. “They’re like chariots, but without horses. They move on their own, powered by engines similar to this boat’s. They’re very much like Jenny, but bigger and will go even faster than this. It might feel scarier because there are a lot of other cars on the road at the same time.”

He nods, trying to wrap his head around the concept. “And the tall buildings? Like the ones in your pictures?”

“Yes, love. Some will be even taller than what you’ve seen on the covers of books on my phone.”

His eyes widen, as though he’s imagining what he’ll find when we reach the mainland. I squeeze his hand, silently promising that we’ll face this new world together.

As the Norwegian coastline appears on the horizon, I run through our plan once more. First, find lodging, then contact my family and swear them to secrecy. After that, I’ll find a discrete way to smelt the gold coins into raw gold. It’ll decrease their value, but it’s safer than trying to explain their origin. I’m not ready for the secret of their provenance to explode on every front page in the world.

“Look,” Varro says softly, pointing to a cluster of buildings in the distance. “Is that where we’re going?”

I nod, feeling a knot of anxiety form in my stomach. “That’s it. You ready?”

He squares his shoulders, the gesture so reminiscent of what I imagine he did in the arena before a fight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Remember, you lost your passport overboard, and you don’t speak Norwegian or much English, so just shrug your shoulders and look bewildered. If they try to speak to you just say ‘ Non capisco ,’ like we practiced.”

“I don’t think looking confused will be a stretch.” His voice is rueful.

As we dock, I’m acutely aware of Varro’s discomfort. The noise, the smells, the sheer number of people—it’s all so foreign to him. His face is flat, unemotional, though I imagine a thousand thoughts and emotions are whirling through his mind.

I guide him gently, explaining things in hushed tones as we make our way through the town, which is less than one hundred thousand people. I can’t imagine what he’ll think if I ever take him to Rome, which has almost three million people.

Baby steps , I remind myself.

Our first stop is a small hotel. It’s a spare, no-frills affair, but it’s clean and warm and contains the first real bed I’ll share with Varro.

I perch on a cushioned armchair, heels on the seat as I wrap my arms around my legs and take a deep breath before I dial my parents.

Varro senses my nerves, shooting me a smile that makes my belly swoop as he investigates how the light in the mini-fridge works, opening and shutting it a half dozen times.

The conversation with my family is emotional and filled with tears. They shoot questions at me in such quick succession I barely answer one before they launch the next. They knew I was somewhere off the Norwegian coast, though I was so stupid I never told them the coordinates.

I’ll have to contact the embassy and tell them I’m safe—just another thing on my growing to-do list—but I’m not ready to talk to them yet. I assure Mom and Dad that I’m safe, but ask them to keep my reappearance quiet for now. There’s so much to explain, so much they wouldn’t understand yet.

I’ve always known they loved me. They were terrific parents, but their tearful relief that I’m alive reminds me how lucky I am to have them. I end the conversation with the promise to call again soon and keep them in the loop.

Over the next few days, Varro and I navigate our new circumstances together. I watch indulgently as Varro sees my mundane world through an amazed and wondrous lens. It’s a pleasure to watch him traverse the unknown landscape with the grit and determination of a New-World explorer.

We take a quick shopping trip and as Varro tries to pretend this isn’t his first time buying clothes, I don’t bother to hide my obvious appreciation at just how handsome he is in jeans that fit.

We go to a barber to correct my hatchet job on the poor guy’s hair. I try not to feel too bad—I did the best I could without a scissors.

At a local doctor, we tell him half-truths and bold lies as a backstory, but we get Varro started on all the vaccinations he will need. His system has no immunity to all the modern illnesses, so I’m thrilled we took the first steps to make him safe.

I find a jeweler willing to melt down our coins, no questions asked. Google Translate is my friend, helping me negotiate the ‘ off the books’ deal. The raw gold feels like a fresh start. Unburdened by its ancient history, it will provide the means to pursue our next steps.

The jeweler willing to smelt our gold knew a guy who forged a passport for Varro. That’s a relief. It was one of my biggest worries.

Through it all, Varro remains a constant source of strength, even as he grapples with the shock of modern life. His eyes light up at new discoveries—electricity, television, automatic doors that open when you approach—but I can see the underlying stress in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” I tell him one night as we sit in our hotel room, the muted sounds of the city filtering through the window. “This is a lot to take in.”

I wonder if Varro will act macho and deny how much he’s struggling. To my surprise, he nods, running a hand through his newly shorn hair. “Yes, so many new things. I feel… lost. Like I don’t belong anywhere.”

My heart aches at his words. “You belong with me,” I say firmly, taking his hands in mine. The words feel so right on my lips. Varro belongs with me. It’s as though he traveled through time to meet me. All the rest are just details waiting to be sorted out. “We’ll figure this out together.”

As we settle into bed, my mind races with plans. I called Garrison’s home to speak with him, not divulging who I was. His wife informed me he hasn’t contacted her in over six months. She presumed he was lost at sea. A quick Google investigation confirms that a search was carried out but was too hampered by the storms to find any wreckage.

I’m convinced the helicopter went down on the trip from the island to the mainland. The weather was terrible; the copter was overloaded. It should have never flown with the wind gusting like that.

Part of me wants to tick off the next item on my endless to-do list and put thoughts of Garrison and the other men behind me. Instead, I close my eyes and allow myself to experience my emotions. I fast forward through the moments when they flew away in that helicopter, Garrison practically pulling my fingers off the metal handhold.

Then I recall those terrifying days of rationing my food and fuel supplies and believing there would be a day I would simply freeze or starve to death—alone, with no one to even dig my grave. How many times did I curse that man?

Yet, I take a moment to mourn and say a prayer for him and the men who went down in that cold sea with him. Garrison was heartless and the others could have lobbied harder for me to get onto the helicopter, but being stranded on that island not only saved my life, it brought me love.

I remember the warm feeling of the Goddess Fortuna joining me in my tent, promising me that the Wheel of Fortune keeps turning and you never know what’s coming next. Whether it was real or a dream, her words were true.

One night after we’d professed our love, as we held each other in bed, I told Varro about her visit. “I’m not sure whether it was real or a dream, but I’m positive she was telling me about you.”

Varro’s eyes lit up at the mention of Fortuna. “We should honor her,” he said, his voice filled with reverence. “She brought us together across time itself.”

The next day, Varro created a small shrine in the corner of our cottage. He carefully selected a flat stone from near the stream to serve as the base. With painstaking care, he used some of Tony’s tools to carve a crude likeness of Fortuna’s wheel into a piece of driftwood.

I watched, fascinated, as he arranged small treasures we’d found on the island—pretty shells, unusual pebbles, a bird’s feather—around the carved wheel. He even wove some dried flowers into a small wreath to adorn the shrine.

“In Rome, we would have offered fruit or wine,” Varro explained as he worked. “But I think Fortuna will understand our circumstances. ”

When he finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. The shrine was simple but beautiful, a testament to Varro’s devotion and gratitude.

“Fortuna,” Varro intoned solemnly, “thank you for guiding Laura to me, and bringing me through time to find Laura. Thank you for giving us this chance at happiness. We honor you and ask for your continued blessings.”

As I listened to Varro’s heartfelt words, I was struck by how seamlessly he blended his ancient beliefs with our new reality. I’m still a Catholic, but I think I’ll always want a shrine to Fortuna in any home I share with Varro.

My thoughts return to reality and I consider my next steps. I’ll need to find a boat equipped with sonar and an experienced diving crew to search for the wreck. If Garrison and the others didn’t make it, their families deserve to know what happened to them. And, selfishly, I need closure on that chapter of my life, too. Perhaps it will allow me to release the anger I’ve nursed since they abandoned me on the island. Plus, I need the gold so I can search for the other half of the Fortuna.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow. For now, I focus on Varro’s warmth beside me and his chest’s steady rise and fall. We’ve survived the impossible—a two-thousand-year gap, a deserted island, a violent attack. Whatever comes next, I know we can handle it.

With that thought, I drift off, dreaming of ancient Rome and modern skyscrapers, of gladiators and cell phones, of a love that transcends time itself.