Anew: The Epilogue (4 page)

“I
have a surprise for you,” Ian says.

“Another?” At my exaggerated look of alarm, he grins. We’re
having breakfast in the garden, just the two of us, enjoying a meal provided
once again by the ultra-discreet staff. After the night we just shared, I’m
especially glad of our privacy.

Innocently, he adds, “I thought you might like to spend some
time this morning exploring the grounds.”

I’m torn between disappointment and thinking that our
libidos might benefit from a little rest. After all, as I’ve learned thanks to
Ian, restraint only heightens ultimate release.

“What do you have in mind?” I ask.

“I thought we’d go fishing.”

All I can think of is chilly water, slimy bait, and snagging
a finger on a hook. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” He tilts his head toward the edge of the garden.
“I’ve got our gear all ready to go.”

When did he arrange that? While I was struggling to take
down my hair--finally--and brush out the wild mass of tangles resulting from
our hours of sensual debauchery?

“You should know,” I say, “that I have no clue how to fish.”

My husband appears not at all dissuaded. “You’re going to
love it.”

I can’t begin to tell him how sadly misplaced his confidence
is so I don’t try.

A black all-terrain vehicle is waiting for us just beyond
the two-storied entrance of the palazzo. Ian stows the gear in the back, then
hands me into the front passenger seat.

“Buckle up,” he says with a grin,

I do so while experiencing a quick sense of déjà vu. When we
were last together like this, I had fled from him. Ian being Ian, he came after
me. In what followed, I discovered that no matter how angry or provoked he
might feel, he would never willingly cause me harm. Everything else, all that
brought us to this day, flowed from that.

“Where are we going?” I ask as we leave the grounds of the
palazzo and drive into the surrounding wilderness. A single road cuts through
the estate to the main highway but we avoid it. Instead, we follow a trail that
curves around the thickest woodlands toward low-lying hills.

“My favorite fishing spot,” Ian says. “A lake about a mile
from here.”

“Is that still on the estate?” I ask.

My husband nods. Until now, I haven’t thought about how large
the property is. That it is measured in miles astounds me.

“How much land do you own here?” I ask.

 “About ten square miles and we own it. Remember, we talked
about that.”

I sigh and do my best to dismiss the memory of that
particular conversation, not to mention all the documents that were presented
for my signature before the wedding. Documents that took me from being a
non-person hiding under a false identity to one of the wealthiest women in the
world. No, I definitely don’t want to think about that.

“Never mind,” I say. “Is it all nature preserve?”

“Most of it. But there are several small towns, villages
really, within the boundaries. They’re self-governing, I don’t have much to do
with them. The people are hard-working and decent. All they want is a fair
deal.”

I know without having to ask that he is doing everything he
can to make sure they get that. If Ian and I, and others like us, have our way,
our world will change for the better. Instead of wealth and power being ever
more concentrated in the hands of a ruling elite, there will be a rebirth of
freedom. Ordinary men and women will have a much greater say in the ordering of
their own lives and in shaping the future for all of us.

“You know what?” I say on a lighter note. “I’ll bet that in
at least some of those towns, there are places where you can
buy
fish.”

He laughs and turns onto a trail that crosses a meadow
filled with wild flowers. Beyond it, I catch a glimpse of sunlight glittering
on a ribbon of water.

“Have faith, woman,” my husband says. “I promise you won’t
go hungry.”

“Really? If we’re depending on me to catch anything, I hope
you brought a snack.”

Ian laughs and pulls up in a clearing a few yards from the edge
of a small, fast-moving river that sparkles in the sun.

“You’re not squeamish about catching your own food, are
you?” he asks as he helps me out of the vehicle.

“I have no idea since I’ve never done it. But just as a
possible clue, in my perfect world steak grows on bushes.”

He grimaces. “Give me something that’s been on the hoof. Or
swimming around in nice clear water. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Hand-in-hand, we walk to the edge of the river over wild
grass that emits a sweet, fragrant scent. The branches of tall willows lightly
brush the earth. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“This is perfect,” I say.

Ian squeezes my hand. “I thought you’d like it.” He gestures
toward a patch of moss-strewn rocks in the river bed where the eddy of water
has created a deep pool. “Look, right there.”

I do and a moment later see a streak of dappled brown and
green flash by.

“A fish?” I ask.

“A brook trout, to be specific.” With an abashed grin, he
says, “I took a twelve-pounder out of here last summer.”

“Wow,” I offer, as though I’m fully up on fish weights.
“That big?”

He nods and sets down the gear he took from the car. “Maybe
you’ll do better.”

“Why don’t I just watch?”

“No way! You’d miss all the fun. Here hold this.”

I stare at the rod he hands me. It feels light enough. I
could probably manage to get a line in the water without completely disgracing
myself.

Or not.

 “Worms?” I don’t even try to hide my disgust. Not that
there’s anything wrong with being a worm. They have an important role in
nature, aerating soil and so on. But that’s just another good reason for
leaving them alone, the first being their general worminess.

Tearing my gaze from the squirming reddish pink mass, I
encounter Ian’s grin.

“What about fly fishing?” I demand. “With those cute little
lures that people spend hours hand-crafting?”

“Brook trout like worms,” he says, as though that makes
everything fine.

I can’t look away as he selects one of the fat pink things
and puts it on the hook. To my untutored gaze, that looks singularly
self-defeating.

“Won’t that kill the worm?” I ask. Surely, discerning brook
trout aren’t attracted to limp, dead worms?

Ian shakes his head. “They’re hardy little buggers. At least
until the fish eats them.”

“And then we eat the fish…the ones that ate the worms?”

“Not these worms,” he assures me, as though that somehow
makes a difference. “There won’t be time for the fish to digest these.”

“So we eat fish containing undigested worm bits.” I swallow
with some difficulty. “That’s it. I’m becoming a vegetarian. Possibly a vegan.”

Undeterred, my husband laughs. “You’ll change your mind. Nothing
beats fresh-caught trout cooked over a wood fire.”

I look away as he baits my hook for me. In the back of my
mind, I’m a little surprised that he’s brought me here. Ian knows why I cried
in the shower, not because of what I did but because I had to do it. I had to
kill. This is so small compared to that but still--

He’s killed, probably more times than he wants to remember.
Not that he’s the kind of man who would ever forget. He watched me so carefully
in the days that followed the bloody end of our engagement party and in the
nights…

He wouldn’t touch me while I was so much more fragile than I
was willing to admit, at least until now. But several times, I woke to discover
him seated in a chair drawn up beside my bed. His silent presence kept nightmares
at bay and allowed me the rest I so desperately needed.

If he wants me to do this now, I will simply have to trust
that he isn’t just being an insensitive jerk. He has a good reason.

With rod once more in hand, and keeping my eyes off the
still-wriggling worm, I follow Ian’s instructions and try casting. On the third
attempt, I manage to plop the line into a deep enough part of the river to
satisfy my exacting instructor.

“Now what?” I ask.

“We wait for a hungry trout to come along.”

“And if one doesn’t?”

“We try again.”

Well, no wonder people like doing this so much. I don’t say
that, of course, but I think it loudly.

Ian expertly casts his own line into the water. The fluid
motion of his body distracts me. I forget about the worm, the fish…everything except
my husband and the sweet, fragrant grass where we could be lying.

“Just give it a chance,” he says with a look that suggests
he knows the direction of my wayward thoughts and is amused by them. “You’ll
see.”

I’m hoping he doesn’t have a secret passion for fishing that
will keep us here all day when something tugs on the end of my line. My first
thought is that I’m just feeling the strong flow of the water but a moment
later, I realize otherwise.

“Uh…Ian?”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“I think I’ve caught something.”

“Good for you! All right now, reel it in, not too fast, not
too slowly. That’s it…steady…good…”

Moments later, I stare at the brown-and-green dappled fish
flopping on the grass. Ian removes the hook and slips the trout through the
slot of a small woven basket that he hangs from a low branch so that the wicker
sides dip into the water.

“That will keep the catch fresh until we’re ready to eat,”
he says. He looks at me carefully. “Are you all right?”

I take a breath and let it out slowly. I’ve caught a fish
and soon I’m going to eat it. Together, they are simple, natural acts, part of
the cycle of life. Ian brought me out here, caused me to experience this
because…

On a far greater scale, killing an evil man to save my own
life and the lives of many others was also entirely natural? Who wouldn’t have
done the same, given the opportunity? But ever since I did it, I’ve questioned what
kind of person I am that I was able to kill without even a flicker of
hesitation or remorse. Is there something wrong with me?

It will take time for me to put that burden down once and
for all but here and now I resolve that I will do so. To accept, with humility
and gratitude, that I, too, am part of the natural order. It gave me life and
with every breath I take, it embraces and sustains me.

The memory of what I did will stay with me forever. But the
self-doubt and the fear engendered by it, those I can let go of with no
regrets.

“I’m good,” I assure my beloved husband softly. Added to
everything else that I have to be grateful for is the supreme gift of his love
and understanding. “You had a great idea, getting out here like this. Being
close to nature is very…clarifying.”

“I’ve always found that to be true,” he says with a relieved
smile. He picks up my rod and hands it to me. Our fingers brush and I feel the
instant, constant connection between us as though fields of energy are
entwining.

“Want to try your luck again?” he asks.

The ordinariness of the moment makes me smile. What a marvel
it is when the mundane reveals what is truly sublime.

A sudden, giddy happiness seizes me. “Absolutely. Bet I
catch more fish than you do.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What do you get if you win?”

“You,” I say and reach for a worm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lying half-asleep on a blanket, I
watch as Ian prepares a fire. I offered to help but he said that after catching
more fish than he did, I probably needed a rest. I suspect he let me win but I
don’t care. I am deeply, profoundly content.

How could I be otherwise? Golden
sun filters through the overhanging branches, warming my skin. I close my eyes
and breathe slowly and deeply. With each breath, images drift through my mind,
scattered fragments of memory--Ian at our wedding, holding me in his arms as we
waltzed…waiting for me at the altar, never taking his eyes from me as I walked
to him…proposing to me on the bridge lit with fairy lights…and further back,
here at the palazzo at our beginning…claiming me in the golden bed, his big,
hard body moving over mine, driving me higher and higher--

The brush of air over my skin
feels like a caress. Like Ian…his lips and mouth, so soft when he chooses, so
compelling, moving along the curve of my body, between my breasts, over my
abdomen to the apex of my thighs, feather light, teasing--

I can feel him there, the hot,
wet glide of his tongue where I’m swollen with need and so sensitive--

My hands clutch the soft wool of
the blanket under me. My back bows, my thighs parting. A low, urgent moan
breaks from my throat. At the sound of it, my eyes fly open. With a shock, I
realize that I must have drifted off and was close to coming in my sleep. So
close that I can still feel the coiled power of my almost-orgasm only slowly
dissipating. With an effort, I force myself to let go of the blanket and sit
up.