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"Damn!" Duncan swore, snatching his hand out of the sink of soapy water, watching as the bubbles took on a pinkish hue. Carefully groping through the suds for the offending knife, he swore again. And again. Removing the chef's knife from the sink and placing it carefully on the counter with the rest of the clean dinner dishes, he looked to assess the damage to his finger. A small cut, about an inch long, and maybe all of an eighth of an inch deep. Just bleeding like crazy, and stinging from the soap. Under normal circumstances, it would already be beginning to heal. Now, it simply served as another reminder that he still had a way to go to get back to full Immortality. Just like all the black and blue bruises, and the purple ones, and the ones turning yellow, that adorned his body. He had half a mind to give them names. That one was from running his shin into the coffee table; that one was his encounter with the edge of the kitchen counter; and how could he forget the one on his hip where Methos had gotten past his guard with a quarterstaff?
Darkness had blanketed the rest of the loft while he was doing the dishes. He turned on lights as he crossed into the bathroom for a band-aid. He couldn't remember the last time he'd needed a band-aid for himself. As he opened the cabinet, his frustration suddenly overpowered him and he threw the box of plastic strips across the room. The small cardboard box barely made a sound as it skidded across the floor towards the bed, giving him no satisfaction at all. Taking a deep breath, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod centered himself and walked resolutely over to the box of bandages. Removing a strip from its protective wrapper, he carefully covered his wound.
*You're overreacting again. Relax. You're already healing faster than you were two days ago. This will pass, and you'll be back to normal,* he thought to himself. For about the hundredth time. His radar was working at what seemed to be full strength. The last remaining vestige of his bout with the 'immortal flu' was this very mortal healing rate. At least now he could take some solace in the fact that some of his Immortal acquaintances had suffered from the same misery he had. Joe Dawson and Methos had uncovered reports of almost a hundred cases, and Duncan took some guilty pleasure in knowing that some Immortals not so very near and dear to him had suffered as much as he had.
In fact, the epidemic was serving almost as a 'Dispersal' rather than a 'Gathering' of Immortals. As word of the flu traveled, Immortals began keeping their distance from one another rather than take the chance of being subjected to its effects. Amanda, for one, was in Bali, and probably would not return until no traces of the flu had been reported for months. The supporting evidence that the healing would come back had helped to allay his fear that he would have to live out the rest of his life as a mortal while avoiding other Immortals intent on taking his head. Meanwhile, he was riding it out as patiently as he could.
Duncan fixed himself a cup of herb tea and tried to pay attention to the news on television. He turned it off halfway through when he realized he hadn't processed anything the local newscaster had said. Methos had left two days ago at Duncan's insistence; he was confident any approaching Buzz would awaken him. The nightmares had lessened both in intensity and frequency, and although he was not yet sleeping through an entire night, at least he was able to get back to sleep without much difficulty. He got into bed and picked up the Clancy novel. As usual, he was asleep before he read ten pages.
Saturday dawned crisp and clear, one of those rare fall days that was an unexpected gift from whatever power thought Seacouver was better served by a constant drizzle. It was too good an opportunity to pass up, so he pulled on his running gear and headed over to the park.
The Canada geese raised their long black necks, their white cheek patches glistening in the sunlight as he passed the pond by the marina, but otherwise ignored him. The squirrels, fattened for the coming winter, chattered and scampered out of his way, but quickly returned to their foraging. As he headed into the woods, the sunlight filtered through the pines, dappling the trail with sparkling points of light. His brain was cleared of all but the dull thudding of his footsteps and the even rhythm of his breathing. There was no flu, no Anne leaving with Jared, no Game - just the trail through the woods.
His workout route normally covered five miles. Today, in deference to his recent illness, he stopped running after about three, and walked the rest of the way back to his car, allowing his heart rate gradually to return to normal. He felt good. He smiled at the geese as he got back into his car, put the top down, and returned to the dojo. He caught up on some of the accumulated paperwork, then went upstairs for lunch, and once again picked up the Clancy novel. Only two hundred pages to go, and he just might finish it this weekend.
***
Later that evening, Duncan decided to treat himself to dinner out. He drove to the outskirts of town, to Mario's, his favorite trattoria, and enjoyed some genuine Italian cooking. He chatted with Mario, lingered over his after dinner coffee and watched young couples enjoying their romantic evenings out. It wasn't until then that he remembered all the evenings he and Tessa had spent here. Fighting the knot that was starting to form in his gut, trying to remember only the pleasant times, he paid the check and drove back home. When he got to the loft, the moonlight streaming in through the window provided enough illumination so that he didn't bother turning on the lights as he went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink. He had driven home with the top down, and the first sip of the fiery liquid took away some of the night's chill.
He finished that glass and was halfway through another before something snapped, and he didn't care that it had been a wonderful day. He hated that he wasn't himself. He hated that Tessa had died. He hated Anne for leaving and taking Mary. He hated himself for not being able to be happy for Anne and Jared. He ripped the bandage from his finger and hated that the cut bled again. He finished the drink in one swallow and began drinking straight from the bottle.
*Who is this person in my body?* he thought. *Am I that self-centered?* He rose on unsteady legs and headed toward the bed. The nearly empty whisky bottle slipped from his fingers, knocking the unused glass from the table. He watched as it fell, as if it were happening in slow motion. At the last second, he grabbed for it, but the alcohol had slowed his reflexes. His hand connected with the glass just as it broke, sending shards of glass into his palm.
***
Duncan opened his eyes to the daylight and promptly shut them again. A carousel came to mind. The room was going up and down and spinning in circles at the same time. He had vague recollections of whisky, lots of whisky. There was a relentless pounding in his head. His hand throbbed painfully, and he slowly opened his eyes again, trying to look at it without moving any part of his body. It was wrapped in a thick covering of gauze splotched with rust colored stains. He remembered a falling whisky bottle. But nothing after that. He closed his eyes again.
"Good morning," came a familiar voice from across the loft.
Duncan tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak. His mouth tasted like ... he didn't want to think about what it tasted like. Something very unpleasant, that was for certain. He forced his eyelids apart once again, and saw Methos standing above him with a glass of what he hoped was water. He was also holding a large yellow plastic bowl.
"Drink this. It'll help."
Duncan took a sip of the water and swirled it around in his mouth. "What's the bowl for?" he asked once he was able to talk, then greedily gulped down the rest of the cool liquid.
"I'm not sure you'll make it to the bathroom after you finish the water. The first glass is a killer, but once you throw up, you should feel a bit better."
Sure enough, the old Immortal was right. The nausea overcame him almost without warning, and he leaned over the basin, emptying his stomach.
"Looks like you've got an old fashioned mortal hangover. How's the head?"
"Shut up," he groaned. "And what are you doing here?" Duncan pulled himself to a sitting position, then quickly lowered his head to his knees. The room stopped spinning. Now, if it would just stop that annoying up and down motion.
"You called me. You don't remember?"
"No... I don't remember anything after dropping the bottle. What did I say?"
"Actually, nothing. Your name came up on caller id, but you didn't speak. I was afraid you'd had an encounter with another Immortal. I came over and found you passed out on the floor next to an empty whisky bottle, bleeding rather profusely from your hand."
"I guess I'm glad you came over. It seems I owe you yet another 'thanks.'" Duncan spoke softly, not looking up to meet his friend's eyes.
"It would appear that at least you're willing to call for help, even if you have to be blind drunk to do it. I will accept that as a small step in the right direction."
Duncan raised his head, willing his stomach to stop churning. He had embarrassed himself enough in front of Methos. If he vomited again, it would be in private.
"Speaking from someone who's been in your condition, and more than once, I might add, I would suggest you move very slowly, and try to re-hydrate as much as possible. I've mixed up some orange juice. Do you think you're ready for some?"
"God, no!" whispered Duncan as he lurched for the bathroom.
Rising from his knees in front of the toilet, Duncan leaned on the sink and looked into the mirror. What had happened to him since yesterday morning? Yesterday he felt well on the road to recovery. This morning he saw matted hair, pasty face, red-rimmed bloodshot eyes with blue-black circles beneath them. He brushed his teeth and started running the water for a hot shower.
The water was running cold when Duncan finally stepped out of the shower. He dried off, pulled the sodden bandage from his hand, and wrapped a towel around the freshly bleeding cuts. Emerging from the bathroom, he saw Methos going through his closet and dresser drawers, stuffing clothing into a duffel bag. "What are you doing?"
"Something I should have done last week. By the way, the orange juice is on the counter. You really should drink some. Let me re-bandage your hand." The ancient Immortal's tone was calm and matter-of-fact, and for that, Duncan was grateful. He couldn't handle another lecture.
Duncan sat down on the bed and offered his hand to Methos. "I don't want your damn orange juice. I asked you a question."
"It's obvious that you're still vulnerable," said Methos as he spread antibiotic ointment on the cuts and re-wrapped the hand with sterile pads and gauze. "We're getting you out of here. I've got your clothes; anything else you need, you pack."
Duncan reflexively reached for the Clancy. "Where are we going, or is that some deep dark secret?"
"No secret. The roads are finally open; we're going to your cabin."
"But..."
"No buts, no backtalk. Grab what you need and we're going."
"At least let me make sure that the dojo's covered."
"Done that. And Dawson will keep an eye on the loft."
Duncan threw his duffel bag into the trunk of Methos' car and climbed into the passenger seat. He slouched down and tried to keep his features as neutral as possible, camouflaging the maelstrom of emotions surging through him: anger, frustration and embarrassment all took turns rising to the surface. Methos stopped at his house for a few minutes and came out with a large tote, which Duncan assumed held clothing, and probably a supply of beer as well.
"How are the food supplies at the cabin? Do we need to stop for food?"
"There are canned goods, basic pantry items, but nothing fresh. It probably wouldn't hurt to make a stop at the store for a few vegetables, some frozen food and the like."
"What about the first aid kit?"
"Fully stocked. Anne and I used to go out there from time to time; she upgraded it considerably."
"Good. One stop at the supermarket coming up."
The rest of the drive was a blur for Duncan. His hand throbbed, his head still pounded, albeit not as loudly, and he still felt a little shaky. He dozed off and on; Methos selected a jazz station on the radio and kept the volume low. When they reached the water, Duncan tried to help paddle the canoe despite his injured hand.
"Mac, just put the paddle down and let me do the work. I have done this before, you know. All you're doing is pulling us off course. And if you're going to get sick again, try to do it over the side without falling in. The water's cold and I'm not going in after you."
"I'll be careful, Methos," said Duncan as he stowed the paddle beneath his seat.
"Then sit back and enjoy the ride. You want me to recite some poetry? 'There was a young lady named Myrtle...'"
"Shut up, Methos!" The day was cloudy, but not raining. The breeze raised ripples on the water, but for the most part, it was a smooth ride. Here and there a trout jumped, and Duncan enjoyed the sight of a bald eagle swooping down to the water and rising with a fish clutched in its talons, automatically rotating it so that it faced front to back and created the least wind resistance. He wished his own instincts were as strong as the eagle's. Following his gut just seemed to make him miserable.
Arriving at the cabin, Duncan helped carry the totes from the canoe. He was pleased to see that the recent storms had caused no more disruption than the occasional felled tree. The cabin was intact. He started removing dust covers from the furniture and putting away their provisions while Methos fired up the generator.
Methos uncovered the woodpile outside the cabin and brought in enough logs for a roaring fire. It was early afternoon, but there was a chill in the air. "Today," he said to Duncan, pointing at the couch in front of the fireplace, "you rest. Tomorrow the work begins."
Duncan didn't need any more explanation. Here, they were on holy ground. There would be no challenges, no swordfights unless he and Methos sparred for practice. Of course, he could always cut off his foot with the axe while chopping wood ... but he wasn't going to think of things like that. He remembered the time he had brought Richie out here to help him train, after he realized he was not going to be able to stay out of the Game any longer. He groaned inwardly as he remembered the aching muscles. They would be even worse now. But Methos was right, again, as usual. This was the perfect place to finish his recuperation.
The two Immortals spent ten days on the island. Methos surprised Duncan by helping him clear fallen trees and other debris left by the storms, and then joining him on runs through the woods. He surprised him even more by not drinking any beer. After the second day, he stopped noticing the surreptitious looks of assessment that Methos gave him regularly, and he stopped trying to prove that he was fit. Instead, he devoted himself to getting fit, and his mental outlook improved along with his physical strength. By day three, his hand was completely healed, lifting his spirits even higher.
Their days were spent in rigorous training, with breaks for fishing - an activity at which Methos proved to be quite skilled - meditating, or just taking long solitary walks in the woods. On one of these, Duncan recalled his previous trips to the cabin with Richie. One trip in particular came to mind, one where Richie had come down with the flu. Duncan shook his head as he remembered how reluctant Richie had been to admit he was sick, and how Duncan had actually felt almost sorry for himself having to deal with the unfamiliar role of caregiver. *If I had that one to do over, I'd be a lot more sympathetic, my friend. I miss you.*
Evenings were spent reading, playing chess, in quiet fireside conversations, reflections, and reminiscences, with Methos frequently directing the topic to the women in their lives. Most of Duncan's stories revolved around the times he spent with Amanda; Methos' showed a lot more variety. By unspoken agreement, they discussed neither Tessa nor Alexa, nor did they talk about the side effects of Duncan's illness.
***
On day five, Methos suggested sword work for the first time. He had observed that Duncan was no longer bruising after sparring, and the Highlander needed to regain his confidence. Methos watched as Duncan picked up his katana, testing the weight of his blade against the strength of his arms. His expression was that of one meeting an old friend after a lengthy absence. There was also a look of resolution in his eyes.
"All right, Methos. Let's get this over with." He moved to the center of the clearing; Methos picked up his own weapon and followed him.
Methos had practiced with Duncan on many occasions. The Highlander's style was hesitant today. He was keeping his distance, being overly defensive. With the grace and speed developed over centuries of practice, Methos feinted, then quickly turned and disarmed his partner, sending Duncan's katana flying across the clearing. The ancient Immortal stepped back, lowering his sword. What he saw in Duncan's face was first embarrassment at having been so easily separated from his sword, then frustration, and finally, anger.
"Let's do that again," he said as he walked over to pick up his katana.
This time, Duncan fought with more confidence, moving forward instead of backward, attacking with impunity, recklessness, overcompensating for his earlier errors. Methos suddenly changed the pace of his blows, and carefully nicked Duncan's left arm. The younger man stopped and pulled away, grabbing his arm. His eyes showed apprehension as he looked at the wound, and then relief as both men watched it heal. Duncan looked skyward and smiled broadly.
Methos raised his sword once again, and the two men resumed their sparring. This time, Methos recognized his opponent as his old and familiar friend. The two men fought back and forth, panting for breath, sweat dripping from every uncovered portion of their bodies. Both men drew blood, but neither slowed his pace. After about half an hour, Methos stepped back and lowered his sword. There was no need to determine a victor; the match itself was the victory.
The ancient Immortal watched as Duncan strode back to the cabin, smiling at the lightness of his steps; had he been a child, he would have been skipping for joy. "Welcome back, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he whispered.
That night over dinner, Methos had his first beer, and offered one to Duncan. The bottles clinked together in a wordless toast. The two men finished eating in silence, then moved out to the porch and sat under the stars, listening to the sounds of the night.
***
On the ride back from the cabin, Duncan tried to find the words to thank Methos for what he had done. How could he repay him for being a friend who ignored rejection, for seeing through his fears, for outlasting his anger, for not judging, but simply being there? For not telling him what to do, for waiting until he found out for himself? For accepting him unconditionally?
Methos dropped Duncan off in front of the dojo. As Duncan lifted his bags from the back of the car, he looked at his friend. The old Immortal was staring straight ahead, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Methos?"
He turned his head to look at Duncan. "Yes?"
"Thanks. And your next month's tab at Joe's is on me."
"I'll make sure it's a good one, then."
Duncan turned and walked into the dojo, and heard Methos drive away.
He crossed the room to his office and picked up the pile of his personal mail from the desk. Riding up in the elevator, he flipped through the assorted correspondence and solicitations until he came to a square, ivory-colored envelope addressed in Anne Lindsey's familiar hand. His heart rate quickened. He opened the elevator, dropped his bag on the floor near the door and took the envelope to the couch, where he sat down before opening it. "Please join Anne, Mary, and Jared on Saturday October 12th for a barbecue" was printed on the card, along with time and address. Added in bright blue ink was a note from Anne. "Duncan, please come." And on the left side of the card was a crayoned picture of a little girl with a huge smile on her face, with "Love, Mary" printed carefully below in pink.
He certainly wanted to see Anne and Mary again. He had even accepted the fact that they were leaving so Anne could take on a better job. It was meeting Jared that got his stomach churning. He'd never even asked what Jared did for a living. Probably a sleazy lawyer or nerdy accountant. But Anne would never fall in love with a man like that, would she? He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to relax, and picked up the phone to accept the invitation.
***
The drive to Anne's was reminiscent of the last time he'd gone to visit. Many of the deciduous trees had begun to shed their leaves, but there was still enough color interspersed with the greens of the pines to brighten the ride. As he neared the house, the street was lined with parked cars stretching out for about a hundred yards. Duncan pulled in behind the last car, put the top up, removed his coat from the back seat and began walking the rest of the distance. As he approached, his senses were filled with the smells of outdoor grilling and the sounds of live music and laughter. There was a large catering van proclaiming "The Best Bar-B-Q in Seacover" in foot high letters painted to resemble flames. He permitted himself a smile as he realized that the guests would not have to rely on Anne's limited cooking repertoire for sustenance.
The Buzz of another Immortal cut through the crowd. Duncan adjusted the grasp of his coat, providing himself quick access to his sword if necessary. Looking around carefully, he was relieved and even happy, he admitted to himself, to see Methos heading toward him, dressed in his standard oversized sweater, two beers in hand.
"Hello, Mac. You're looking good," said Methos, handing Duncan one of the beers.
"Thanks. I'm getting there." He heard a squealing laugh and saw six year-old Mary, pigtails flying in the breeze, hurtling toward him. He quickly handed his coat to Methos as the youngster tackled him around the knees.
"Hi, Uncle Duncle!"
"Hi, yourself, Mary Berry," he said, picking her up and swinging her around.
"Are you all all better now? Not just mostly all better?"
"I think I'm almost all all better. All I need is a kiss from a special six year-old girl named Mary who's wearing red pants and a polka dot t-shirt. Do you know where I can find someone like that?"
"Right here, silly," said Mary, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "This is for you," she said, handing him a small origami crane. "My teacher showed us how to make them. They're for good luck. Do you want her to show you how to make them? She's over there." The youngster pointed to a table across the yard where a petite young woman was folding paper with a group of children; Mary's classmates, he guessed.
"Sure, Mary. That would be fun." *Any excuse to put off the inevitable,* thought Duncan. He deposited the girl back on the ground, and she took him by the hand and tugged him toward the table. He glanced back at Methos, who smiled and followed a few paces behind, beer and coat in hand.
"I'll put your coat in the house, Mac. I don't think you'll be needing it."
"Mrs. Denton. This is Uncle Duncan. He wants to make a crane."
The woman, her thick wavy hair only partially contained by a leather barrette, looked up from the table and smiled, holding a red square of paper out to the Immortal. "Glad to meet you. Mary's mentioned you on more than one occasion."
"I hope she's not said anything I'll have to live down." He smiled at the blue-eyed woman. "If you're responsible for teaching Mary, I have to say I'm very impressed with the person she's becoming."
"Thank you. I do enjoy trying to open doors to the world for them. Mary's one of those children who will learn no matter what. And you can call me Lynne. Would you like to join us making cranes?"
Duncan took the paper and began folding the paper into a perfect crane. "I seem to remember learning this a while back."
"I can see that. Very good."
Mary tugged at Duncan's sleeve. "Uncle Duncan, there's Mommy and Jared. Come say hi." She grabbed his arm once again.
"Nice to meet you, Lynne. Looks like I'm needed elsewhere," he said as he let himself be pulled across the yard once more.
Mary was chattering away, but Duncan caught only a word here and there. She seemed perfectly satisfied with his occasional, 'good,' or, 'oh, really.' He was bracing himself, forcing a pleasant expression on his face. He would be cordial and polite. He could do that.
"Mommy! Here's Uncle Duncan."
Anne turned and gave him one of her 'light up the darkness' smiles, and made her excuses to the group. She walked toward him. "Hi, Duncan. You're looking well." She reached up, and he lowered his head enough to accept a kiss on the cheek.
"You're gorgeous, as always."
Anne was wearing jeans and a charcoal gray sweater, her hair windblown. She held a glass of wine in one hand. "Jared, Duncan. Duncan, Jared. I'm sure you two will find something to talk about. I'll check back in a little while," she said with a broad grin, and left them to join a group of her colleagues.
"I've heard a lot about you," both men said at once. Duncan assessed Anne's lover, fully aware that Jared was doing the same to him. He felt himself stand just a little straighter. Jared was a little shorter than he was, and not as muscular. Sandy brown hair worn just a little longer than was stylish, eyes that were neither blue or gray, but something in between. Like Anne, he was wearing jeans. He had on a black turtleneck with a blue plaid flannel shirt buttoned over it.
"Actually, that's not exactly true," continued Duncan with a laugh. "I'm afraid I wasn't my usual self the last time I was here."
"I did hear about that. I trust you're all right now?"
"Yes, with thanks to Anne's expert medical attention."
"Look, I know this can be awkward for both of us," said Jared. "I want you to know that Anne and Mary are the first two priorities in my life, and I will do everything in my power to keep them both happy. They're two very special ladies."
"That they are," said Duncan with a nod.
"You were with Anne when Mary was born, right? I think I'll always envy you that. It must have been an amazing experience."
"That's not the half of it," replied Duncan, remembering being trapped in the subway and trying not to let Anne know he wasn't sure if they'd be rescued in time. "But I didn't deliver Mary; a wonderful experienced mother did that. I'm not sure I would have been able to pull it off."
"From what Anne tells me, there's very little you can't do. You renovated this house, too, right?"
"I enjoyed it. I like working with my hands once in a while."
"Well, you did a great job. I like the color scheme, by the way."
"Thanks," said Duncan. It was getting harder and harder to dislike this guy. He should have known Anne would have good taste in men.
Jared took a beer from a tray passed by the caterers. "I'm sure you have lots more questions. Why don't we take our drinks and you can give me the third degree? You know, ask me how I intend to support your goddaughter and her mother - the whole nine yards."
Duncan shook his head and grinned. It really was going to be impossible to hate this fellow. Unless he turned out to be a sleazy lawyer. "What is it you do? Like I said, I wasn't exactly coherent before."
"I work for the Earth Reborn Foundation, for the branch that tries to buy up land to keep developers from getting their hands on it. We like to preserve wilderness areas, or set up limited use recreation facilities. Maybe you've heard of it. We've got some activity going on here in the Seacouver area right now, as a matter of fact."
"I've not only heard of it, I've made a few donations myself." That was it. There was definitely no way now that he could do anything but like Jared. "What is it you're working on?"
"How are you two getting along?" asked Anne as she came up to the two men, putting her hands on Jared's shoulders. "I hope you're not sharing dirty little secrets."
"Actually, sweetheart, I was just going to try to hit Duncan up for some sweat equity in our Wilderness Camp project. And you don't have to worry about us; we're getting along just fine. You can enjoy your party."
"He'd be great, Jared. Duncan, I really think you might enjoy this one." She smiled, and then she went back to circulating among the guests.
"It looks like Anne has decided that I'm doing something for you," said Duncan.
"She's good at that, isn't she?"
Duncan smiled and nodded. "Let me have it. What does she think I'm 'great' for?"
Jared put down his beer and looked directly at Duncan. "The Foundation has purchased some land not too far outside of Seacouver that used to be a church camp. The church wasn't using it, and we thought it would be better put to use as a place where inner city kids could escape the drive-bys for a while. It's amazing what a week away from the city can do for these kids. Exposing them to nature gives them a better feel for the big picture, that there's more to the planet than concrete and guns."
"I'm not a camp counselor, Jared."
"No, we're nowhere near ready for that phase. We have donations of materials for the renovations: lumber, paint, hardware, and tools. We have several teams of volunteers who will come out one weekend day to clear land, repair roofs, paint ... do the fix-up so that the existing buildings are habitable, and add anything new we need. My last task before I leave is to find a foreman. What we need is someone to oversee the volunteers, someone who knows his way around a construction project. From what Anne's told me, and what I've seen, you know what you're doing. I think 'Boy Scout' was one of the terms she used."
Duncan hoped he wasn't visibly blushing. He didn't mention the term didn't really refer to his woodsmanship abilities. As a matter of fact, if he never heard the term again, it would be fine with him. But the project had merit, and it did seem enticing. "Tell me more," he said.
Jared grinned as if he knew he had set the hook, and told Duncan that he'd go over all the plans, blueprints and schedules after dinner. Duncan was somehow not surprised he'd agreed to help.
The background music made its way into Duncan's consciousness, and he realized without looking up that Joe Dawson was taking a turn. "Excuse me, Jared," he said, getting up, "but I hear an old friend, and I'd like to pay my respects."
"Dawson?" said Jared. "I like the man, but I've never really been able to get into the blues."
"No? What about opera?"
"Nope. I prefer *Queen.*"
At last, a flaw in Anne's perfect man. Duncan made a mental note to make sure Anne, not Jared, would be in charge of Mary's musical education.
The two men walked back into the crowd and went their separate ways. Duncan watched as Jared zeroed in on Anne, seemingly without looking for her. He approved of the way their faces lit up when they saw each other, and the way that the two fit together as Jared put his arm around her shoulder.
Duncan picked up two beers and went to find Methos.
"She'll be fine, you know," said the ancient Immortal, as the two men settled on the ground near the band.
"I know."
"How's the new fellow?"
"Almost perfect."
"Almost?"
"Lousy taste in music."
"Ahh. A genuine flaw." Methos raised his bottle of beer. "To new beginnings."
Duncan's gaze returned to Anne and Jared. Jared was nuzzling her neck. Anne reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. Mary ran up and squirmed her way between them; Jared scooped her up to his shoulders and jogged around the yard. Anne watched them, a smile on her face. A smile Duncan used to think was for him alone. But Jared could give Anne the life she needed, one of peace and contentment, unfettered by violence and beheadings. She was wise to know what she needed, and strong enough to have walked out of his life when she had to. And Mary. She was the real winner here.
"Mac?"
Methos's voice broke through his reverie. Duncan raised his beer. "To new beginnings."
The End
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