The Outcasts Page 5

  Forty-five minutes later, we pulled up in front of The Swan.

  Everything was clean and fresh and new. The building was serene and peaceful. I'd seen pictures of it online but they didn't do it justice.

  Large gray stones covered the siding, giving it a cottage-like feel. There were two-stories, and the vines and vegetation covering most of the second story reminded me of those quaint little Hobbit homes in Lord of the Rings. If Frodo Baggins had stepped outside and helped me with my luggage, I would've only been mildly surprised. Thinking about Hobbits and elves brought a smile to my face. Corinth would appreciate the building’s façade. Once again, I wished he were here to appreciate this moment.

  Paul, who was very un-Hobbit like, helped me with my meager belongings and I handed him the cab fare. “Thank you for your kind words,” I told him with a shy smile.

  “My pleasure, love.” His mustache twitched; there was a glint in his eye as he stuck his hand out and I shook it for the second time. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “See you around, Miss Larna Collins.” He gave me a wave and as he pulled away, he lit another cigarette. I had a feeling if he’d had a big ten-gallon hat on, he would have tipped it before riding off into the sunset. It was a comforting feeling that made me think about home. It wasn’t uncommon to see the ‘sea of cowboy hats’ in Fort Worth.

  As I stood outside of the hotel I took a deep reassuring breath, shouldered my bag, and stepped inside. I made my way to the lobby and I'm pretty sure I scared a passing child because my stomach growled its displeasure.

  His mother gave me an odd look and shuffled away. Yes, I am Shrek.

  The small lobby felt warm and cozy and I wished I could curl up next to the fireplace with a book and read all day. A small group of people sat at the bar near the front, enjoying their glasses of wine and beer.

  At the front desk, a woman with graying hair tied in a bun, got off of the phone and nodded to me. Her name-tag read Sarah.

  “May I help you?”she asked politely.

  “Checking in—Larna Collins.”

  The clacking of her fingernails on the keyboard was the only noise in the lobby as I took a moment to admire my surroundings. The décor was rustic and homey, the furniture a mixture of old, dark leather armchairs and bar stools. I could see why my dad had written about it in his journal. This would have been exactly his sort of hangout.

  “All I need from you is your form of payment and a passport, Ms. Collins. You're confirmed for a queen room for a fortnight.”

  “Thank you, ma'am.”

  She handed me my room key and a map of the surrounding area after she studied my passport. “Your room is located on the second floor. Would you like help with your luggage?”

  “No, I've got it, thanks.”

  Sarah nodded. “Enjoy your stay.”

  Barely able to keep my grip on my duffle, I made my way to the elevator and let out a huge yawn. Maybe I should have opted for help. The elevator doors started to close, but at the last second a hand snaked out from the inside and stopped them from shutting all the way.

  My mouth still hung wide as I stepped onboard, and in my usual graceful fashion, I finally noticed the man who'd stopped the elevator for me. Now I knew where the phrase tall, dark, and handsome came from—he was at least as tall as Corinth, maybe taller, and a wee bit older. My Good Samaritan was a heck of a lot more sophisticated than anyone I knew. His blue pin-striped suit was so exquisitely tailored I wouldn't have been surprised if he was superglued inside it.

  He caught me staring and smiled. It wasn't exactly a good natured smile—it was an I'm-used-to-commanding-attention-smile. Some people exude confidence like they eat it for breakfast.

  In a perfectly classy move, I whipped my head down hoping he wouldn't see my now reddening cheeks. If I had a super power it would be me controlling the amount of times I got flustered. My stomach flipped and, at the most inopportune moment, growled. “Um—sorry—it kind of has a mind of its own,” I said.

  I met his amused stare. His eyes were dark, so dark I couldn't tell where his irises ended and his pupils began. I could get lost in eyes like his.

  “Ms. Collins, is it?” he said, surprising me. His voice was smooth with a slight accent I couldn't quite place.

  He could have read me the phone book and I would have happily listened. Fascinated, I watched as he ran a hand through his dark curls.

  When I could finally clear my throat, I said a little too breathily, “How do you know my name?”

  The Good Samaritan bowed slightly. “Forgive me for being rude, I overheard you talking to Sarah. I thought I'd introduce myself.”

  Why he would bother introducing himself to someone like me was a moot point. He stuck his hand out—and because I'd never been good at shaking hands with good looking men, I bungled it by gripping his first four fingers in a clumsy squeeze.

  He glanced down in amusement. “Gabriel Stanton. It's a pleasure.”

  I found myself struggling to find something else to say to drag the conversation out before the elevator dinged for my floor. “Nice to meet you.”

  Lame, Collins.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay with—us,” Gabriel purred.

  Emphasis on us.

  He touched the side of his olive-toned cheek and for the first time I noticed the outline of a four inch scar. It was the only thing that wasn't perfect on his symmetrical face. He saw me staring and dropped his hand. With a shrug he said, “Accident. A long time ago.”

  “I didn't mean t-t-o stare,” I stammered.

  Without warning, he stepped closer and I found myself momentarily too stunned to react. It was like he the shiniest piece of gold in a pile full of rusted metal. Maybe it was his cologne that left me feeling woozy; it smelled of yachts, trophies, secret clubs, mansions, the ocean and I'm pretty sure heaven.

  He opened his mouth but before he could say anything, the elevator doors opened onto my floor.

  With a final glance, he stepped back and held his arms out toward the hallway. “I believe this is your floor, Ms. Collins. I'm certain I'll be seeing you, again.” He moved deftly out of my way as I grabbed my bag and dragged it out behind me like a sack of potatoes.

  “Would you like some help with that?” His eyes narrowed and for some reason he reminded me of a wild animal.

  “Uh, n-n-no thanks.” There I went again. My chest tightened, and I couldn't tell if it was from anxiety or me wishing I'd taken him up on his offer.

  Before the doors slid all the way shut his smile grew wider, as if he was used to this sort of reaction.

  Chapter 7

  MY ROOM WAS ALL the way at the other end of the hall. By the time I dragged my weary body inside, I was ready to collapse.

  The space I'd be occupying for two weeks was clean and sparsely decorated. The bed had a white down comforter that looked extremely inviting, so it wasn't long before I found myself face down in a heap on top of it.

  After taking a second to let my muscles cry in relief, I finally pulled my head up to search for a room service menu. As predicted, I found it on top of the nightstand and groped for it while moving as little as possible. My grubby little fingers curled around the laminated edges and I sighed with relief, like Gollum holding his Precious. Perusing it over, the selections proved to be appetizing yet expensive, but because I was ten seconds away from eating my own arm, I didn't care. A burger and some chips—that's what the Brits call fries—was what I eventually settled on.

  While I waited for room service, I checked my phone for messages to see if I had anything from Corinth or my mom, but neither of them had answered and I suddenly realized I was on a nine hour time difference. Even though it was mid-afternoon here, all I could think about was taking a long siesta—but it wasn't long before my thoughts drifted from Corinth to the scrumptious smelling stranger, Gabriel Stanton. His name seemed to roll off the tongue like a finely aged cheese (or queso). Gabriel Stanton, Gabriel Stanton, Gabriel Stanton. I couldn't help repeating
his name over and over again. Something tugged at the edge of my memory when I thought about his name, but I couldn't quite grasp what it could be. Maybe he just had one of those faces. In my mind's eye, I imagined Dwarves spreading tales of his heroism and bards singing about his rugged good looks. Apparently, they fed people from the hot trough around here. I snorted. Hot trough.

  Concentrating on anything right now seemed impossible, so I closed my eyes and the next thing I knew, a knock sounded on the door, and my eyelids fluttered open. Hoping it'd be Gabriel with my tray of food and some grapes, I hopped out of bed and pulled it open.

  It wasn't Gabriel.

  Instead, a portly red head bustled in with a cart. She laid out the tray, gave me a stiff smile, and held her hand out. I tipped her what I thought was a fair amount and she bustled out of the room without another word.

  While I lay in bed stuffing my face, I pulled out my father's journal and the map Sarah had given me at the front desk.

  A photo fell out from between the pages of the journal and fluttered to land on my lap. It was different from the ethereal looking tree, though. I'd seen this one before too. It was a black and white photo of a group of men. They wore wide-legged pant suits with matching fedoras. Picking it up, I instantly felt a jolt of recognition. One particular person stood out: Mr. Prince of Persia himself. I examined the picture more closely; shocked to see how much the guy in the photo resembled Gabriel Stanton. He appeared to be the same age now as when the photo had been taken. And then I realized this had to be one of his relatives or something. Who cared about an old pic with a bunch of senior citizens? Except that's when it hit me, I remembered why I had that feeling of familiarity with his name.

  Sensing I was on to something, I flipped to one of the back pages of my dad's journal and read:

  September 16th

  In the lap of luxury, as one might call it, sippin' on a cocktail and seated comfortably on a private jet, with all the leg room I could want. And yet I still feel guilty for leaving Larna and Sharon behind once again. Sharon is undoubtedly the best wife anyone could ask for. She puts up with my constant traveling without as much as a single complaint and I love her for it (Sharon, if you're reading this without my permission I'll deny I wrote this).

  I expressed my interest in moving to England to work permanently for Gabriel Stanton but she shut me down pretty quickly (yes, honey, you're head of the household).

  The important thing I have to keep reminding myself is that family's what matters most in my life—not the job. So regrettably, this will be my last venture to Bromham. I don't feel that bad drinking and relaxing a little in the meantime, though. It's not like I'm taking advantage of Gabriel's wealth. I mean I did call him and tell him I wouldn't be taking him up on his offer, but he is tenacious and won't take no for an answer. He told me to tell him no in person. I keep trying to tell him he just needs to find someone to settle down with and he keeps telling me if that were to happen he'd definitely need me to move to England in order to cover all of the extravagant wedding photo ops...

  This was one of the reasons why I'd started with Bromham, first. It didn't surprise me in the least that my dad had written about some of the people he'd met during his work trips. He was one of those guys that never met a stranger. But I had always assumed because he'd left behind his wedding ring and leather jacket, he'd run away with another woman. It was the only explanation I had, other than he just hated us. I thought back to what Corinth said about my father looking spooked the night he left us behind. Maybe there was something more to that then met the eye. For the longest time, I'd blamed myself for his absence, hence my extracurricular activity of over-eating. I kept scoffing at his word choice: 'family's what matters most in life.' The day I'd read that for the first time was the day I chose to ignore all the mushy comments about us. Maybe that's why I skipped over this part, because it hurt too much to pay too close attention to it.

  I pulled my phone onto my lap and dialed Corinth's number. Someone needed to know about my superior detective skills but the phone went straight to voicemail and I groaned in frustration. Gabriel was going to be the first person I needed to track down and question about my father’s whereabouts.

  The next thing I studied was the map. The only thing worth noting was that this village had been built in the 18th century. Bromham was a civil parish inside Bedfordshire—I slapped my forehead when I realized it was within commuting distance to London via the Bedford railway. I'd be taking the railway back and if I saw Paul again, I'd give him a piece of my mind. Though, I guess we all had to make a living.

  There were only three notable things in Bromham that might be worth a visit: a flour watermill, which was open to the public; St. Owens church; and a medieval bridge over the River Great Ouse. When I read the words medieval bridge, the first thing I thought of were trolls, and the nerd in me really wanted to go see that.

  I re-read the passage my father wrote. Was this the same room he'd stayed in? I pulled the sheets up to my chin trying to imagine him in this very room and all of a sudden my eyes felt too heavy to keep open. I struggled to stay awake a little while longer; so once again, I sat up and pulled the map out to see if I could find the town library. It would have information about St. Owens and its history, too. My father's love of old churches meant he'd most likely visited there on several occasions. Maybe I'd run into Gabriel Stanton and give him a piece of my mind in the process. He had to remember my dad.

  I grabbed a pen from the end table and circled the library when I found it.

  Time to find my father—it wasn’t like he left me a trail of bread crumbs. But right before sleep took me I thought about Hansel and Gretel, and then my dad; how maybe he did leave me a trail...

  Chapter 8

  I WOKE UP THINKING about Gabriel Stanton and then I felt even guiltier thinking about a total stranger when I saw that Corinth had left me a message some time during the night.

  I played the message back, realizing how much I missed the sound of his voice as a bout of home sickness hit me. My fingers felt like fat sausages as I fumbled over the touch screen on my phone in order to find my favorites list. The moment I pushed call and the line started to ring, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  He answered as soon as it rang, as if he'd been waiting for my call. “How was the flight?”

  I pictured the look on his face—equal parts adorkable and intrigued.

  “Just like sitting in the pits of hell, except 30,000 feet in the air.”

  He grunted. “You know, you being so far away—I have to admit...I don't like it.” I could hear the hint of teasing, but I also recognized the sincerity in his voice. “I'm glad you made it safely. Now, go find your father so you can come back home.”

  I sat up and pulled at the edges of the down comforter in excitement. “About that. I already have a good lead.”

  “Lead?” He laughed. “You go to London and suddenly you're Sherlock Holmes? Can I be your Watson? No wait, I got a better one, I choose Mrs. Peacock; the wrench; in the library.”

  “Not your best, but speaking of libraries… I'm going to start at the town library here. Hopefully find out where the old churches are in the area. Remember when Dad used to like taking pictures of old places?”

  “Sure. He took lots of photos of old buildings. That’s a good idea, Larns.” As soon as he said it, I couldn’t hide the trace of a smile that lit up my face as he continued, “I don't sleep at night. If you ever want to chat or need anything at all, just call and I'll be there to help you work through this puzzle.”

  “I tried calling you as soon as I got in, but you never answered.”

  He sucked in a breath and blew it out in frustration, and I knew he was running a hand through that thick mane of his. “Yeah, sorry about that, Zoey stole my phone and wouldn't tell me where she hid it.” He was silent for a second and when he spoke, it was so quiet I almost didn't hear him. “I miss you.”

  As soon as he said it, I felt the familiar warm sensation sp
ring up in my cheeks; but this time I welcomed it because he couldn't see my deranged grin. “Don't get all mushy on me, Taylor.”

  “Shut it, Collins,” he said and hung up.

  I sat up and stretched, enjoying the tiny thrill of eagerness that tugged at my subconscious. Would today be the day I found my father? I think if I found him, the first thing I’d ask him is why he left us without a word or a goodbye. It wasn’t a normal move, even if he did leave us for someone else. So, once I knew the answer, whatever it may be, I could move forward from there. That was the plan, anyway. Also, the sooner I found him, the quicker I could get back and figure things out with Corinth—the word boyfriend kept popping up in my head, but I was one of those people that didn't like to count their chickens before they hatched, and firmly believed I could jinx myself if I dwelled too much on it.

  I called my mom next, and then Amber. As soon as she picked up, she gave me a hard time for not calling sooner. The first thing she wanted to know was if I had met any hot guys. I instantly thought about Gabriel Stanton, but I kept my mouth shut. For some reason, I held my tongue and I didn't even tell her about my date with Corinth, either. If I announced the news publicly, I would definitely jinx it.

  After I'd made my phone calls, I plucked my father's journal from the floor where it had fallen off the bed sometime during the night and pored over the contents one more time.

  Sooner or later, I would have to get out of bed to either pee or eat.

  Food always comes first.

  Down in the lobby, after I'd gotten dressed and thrown my blonde locks in a baseball cap, I wandered through the deserted foyer and stopped at the reception desk. Sarah, the woman I'd spoken to yesterday, looked bored with her hand propped under her chin. When she saw me, she pretended to shuffle papers around in order to appear busy.

  “Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you,” I said. “But you wouldn't happen to know where I can find Mr. Stanton, would you? I assume he works here?”