Duncan half listened to John, now eight years old, enthusiastically identify the sea shells he picked up, inspected, and stuffed in his pockets. Most of Duncan's attention, even though he tried to hide it, was on John's father: his kinsman. Connor was sitting on the beach, seemingly oblivious to the brisk fall breeze and Duncan's concern.
"You're worried about him, aren't you?" John asked.
The automatic denial died on Duncan's lips when he saw the expression on John's face. "Yes," he answered, "yes, I am. Connor seems," Duncan paused, searching for a word to describe the melancholy he felt from his old mentor, a word that John could understand and one that wouldn't frighten him. How Connor had the strength to raise a child and raise one alone was beyond his comprehension.
"Daddy's sad." John supplied, his dark eyes meeting Duncan. "Aunt Rachel says it's because Brenda died during this month and because it didn't work out with Terri. I liked Terri," John explained. "She liked Chinese food and had a dog."
And she also had the gall, Duncan thought, trying to keep a murderous expression off his face, to call Connor nothing more than a serial killer, unfit to raise a child. Duncan felt like throttling her if ran across her. Connor was never one to give his heart lightly and for someone to tromp on it was unpardonable to Duncan. "Your father loved Brenda very much," Duncan answered. "They were both so excited when they called me to tell me the Clan would have another son."
John grinned. He knew the story; he was special. "Hey, Uncle Duncan, look!" John pointed to the tell-tell sign of a burrowing crab. He dropped to his knees and began to dig. "I'm going after him!"
Duncan started to tell John that he'd never catch it, but vaguely recalled it was sometimes more the thrill of the chase than the apprehension that was the appeal. "I'm going to go talk to your Dad, sport. Stay in view, OK?"
John nodded, laughing as he dug in the sand. Duncan gave him a fond smile and looked back at Connor. Connor's immortal constitution had quickly righted the ravages that a long weekend of drinking would have taken on a mortal. It had just been by chance that Duncan had read about the auction at Christie's in New York while airborne, returning from a trip abroad. He had been scheduled to have a 4-hour lay over in New York and on a whim he had decided to stay the weekend. He hadn't seen Connor in quite a few months and it had been in the back of his mind that he might be able to check out the new girlfriend. His phone call to the shop had gotten no answer, so he had called the upstairs residence. No one had answered there either, and he had started to leave a message when Connor, hearing who it was despite or because of being drunk, had picked up.
Connor, already a bottle of Glenmorangie ahead of him by the time Duncan arrived at the loft, had been, for the normally reticent man, fairly communicative. Duncan gathered quickly that Connor and his girlfriend of almost a year had broken up the night before.
Connor had surprised Rachel and John with tickets for a weekend jaunt to Vermont to check out the fall foliage and Connor had been drinking and brooding since they had left that morning.
"She broke my fucking heart, Duncan. How could I have been so wrong? I introduced her to John and to Rachel. I was thinking of marrying her. I'm such a stupid fuck," the inebriated immortal had lamented.
It had not been pretty to see Connor so, but Duncan had listened, argued with him, drank with him and his heart had been gladdened to hear Connor murmur before he had slipped into the nothingness he had sought, "Aye, Donnachaidh. You're a good friend, clansman. Good to have you at my back and my side."
It was now Tuesday. Rachel had brought John with her to work this morning and the boy, pleading a visit from Duncan was reason to miss another day of school, was allowed to stay home. After a late breakfast of only coffee for Connor, Duncan had suggested an outing somewhere to let the boy run some. He had also thought it might be good for Connor to get some fresh daytime air. The elder MacLeod had always loved the sea. Duncan still found it hard to believe the stories Connor spun of being like most Clansmen of the time, afraid of water, until meeting Ramirez.
The last three days had been a blur of self-indulgent whisky soaked excess. Duncan was tired and he had only been accompanying Connor. He sat down beside Connor without asking if he wanted company. "I can't believe how big John is getting. He's a great boy, Connor. You're raising him well."
It took a moment for Duncan's words to register, but when they did, Connor turned and stared into the guileless brown eyes. "He's a good lad; curious, bright. What do you think he'll do when I tell him what I am?"
Duncan swallowed, "You're going to tell him soon? He's so young... "
Connor's gaze intensified.
"You're his father, Connor. He'll love you same as he does now."
Connor kept his face unreadable, but his thoughts weren't silent. That was my hope with Terri. He had fought the attraction in the beginning. It was only going to be a fling that would burn itself out like all the others, but then it changed into something more. Gradually, she had become a part of his life, a part of John's life. Dim sum and videos every Friday night, pancakes on Saturday morning, and runs in the park Sunday afternoon with John and her dog.
Now that part of his life and John's life was gone. Gone because she couldn't accept his immortality, couldn't accept him. Would John accept it? Rachel, a child desperate for aid and love had. She had been a child in need of magic. The things she had seen and lived through had prepared her to accept that death was the unavoidable price of his immortality. How Connor hoped Duncan was right.
"He is young," Connor considered, "maybe I'll tell him gradually. Start with the good points and then in time, tell the rest."
Duncan smiled, "You could be quite useful to him in school. A living history reference and all."
Connor shot him a look trying to keep a smile off his face, "At least I have heroic, important historic tales to tell."
"Yes," Duncan nodded his head sagely; "There was the lone Scot who mooned the English at Falkirk, nights of wenching with Robert Burns, dueling drunk on Boston Commons, gun running on the high seas, spring training with Babe Ruth and no doubt a score of other incidents I'm overlooking."
Connor smiled, all good memories even if not quite what you wanted your son to know. "Like I said, all heroic, important doings. He'll be proud of his old man, and there is more to know but you're too young, laddie."
"You're going to be all right." Duncan made it a statement, not a question--trying to give Connor no other option.
"I'll be fine," Connor answered, "I always am." He would be, he realized. Life had been good. There had been loss and sadness, but greater joy. He had known great love; his father and mother, Heather, Brenda, Ramirez, children he had raised, others almost as near and dear and there was Duncan. "And you will be too, Duncan." Connor turned piercing eyes on him. "Even if I'm not, even when the time comes that I'm not here, because of me you will be fine."
Duncan started to argue with him, but stopped, understanding. He felt a lump in his throat and swallowed, nodding.
Connor smiled a rare smile with no malice or pretense, "I love you too, Duncan."
Duncan almost thought he hadn't heard him because Connor continued on as if he had never spoken, "Where did you leave John?" He paused, "I'll race you there."
Duncan sprang on his feet and took off like a shot. Connor sat watching him run like a fool down the empty beach, and because he had tricked him, and because they were alive, and because Connor had known love--he laughed out loud. Laughter bubbling up from down deep, the joy of the past giving hope for the future.