Unbound (8 page)

“Can
I get you something?” I asked, re-entering the room, too late remembering my
duties as a hostess. The mental inventory I performed on the contents of our
refrigerator told me he’d better like Diet Coke.

“No,
thank you.” He turned to look at me with a small smile. “You have quite a
collection.”

I
walked over to stand beside him as he scanned the titles of my classics
bookshelf, arranged in alphabetical order – Alcott, Austen, Bronte,
Carroll, Dickens...

“I
like to read,” I said.

“Yes,
I know.”

I
groaned. “You have to stop doing that. Do you have any idea how unfair it is
that you know so much about me and I know nothing about you?”

“That’s
not entirely true.” Shaking his head, he turned and gazed at me intently.
“There are a great many things about you I’ve yet to learn.” His eyes narrowed
slightly. “No, Rachel, you are still quite a puzzle to me.” He paused and then
smiled disarmingly. “On the other hand, you know more about me than most other
living mortals in the world.”

Finding
it hard to think, let alone debate when he looked directly at me, I simply
raised an eyebrow doubtfully.

“There
is no rush, Rachel,” he said quietly, looking back at the books that lined my
shelves. “We have all the time in the world.” He seemed to find something
terribly funny in his last statement and smiling wryly, he strode to the front door
of my apartment and pulled it open with a flourish. “My lady,” he said, only
half-mocking. I didn’t even think about checking the front door after we left.

The
night had turned colder and I was glad I had dressed warmly. Yet despite the
cooler temperatures, the sidewalks were crowded with Friday night revellers,
the atmosphere festive, the mood vibrant. Raucous music spilled out from the
bars and clubs, couples stepped out of taxicabs, people laughed and moved along
in groups of two or three. And amazingly, I was one of them tonight. For once,
it felt like I was moving through my life and not around it.

Eaden
led me through the lively throng, discreetly shielding me from the worst of the
noise and jostling, positioning himself closest to the street as if protecting
me from the traffic. I wasn’t sure if his chivalry was ingrained, a holdover
from earlier lifetimes, or if after eighteen years of surveillance, he was no
longer even aware that he was actively protecting me. With every breath, I
hoped that his attentiveness meant something more significant. I wanted it to
mean that he thought about me as something more than a child, more than a
friend.

He
asked me questions about my job at the library as we walked, wanting to know
what I liked about it, why I was so interested in history. I gave him brief
answers at first, unsure if, like most everyone else, he was just being polite.
No one had ever really been interested in my work before, in fact, talking
about my love of history was pretty much a conversation killer with people my
own age. Yet, Eaden asked and seemed genuinely interested in my responses. He
knew an enormous amount about our archives and the collections we’d amassed. We
spoke so easily as we walked, that for a time I forgot who he was. More than
that, I forgot what he was, and I just talked, as I would have to any friend.

Taking
a deep breath, I realized that I had just delivered an enthusiastic monologue
on our latest acquisition of scrolls believed to be from twelfth-century
Persia.

I
groaned inwardly. “I’m sorry,” I said, embarrassed by my academic zeal, “I can
get a little worked up about this stuff.” It really was no wonder I didn’t have
a boyfriend.

He
frowned. “I don’t accept your apology. I asked because I was interested. I’m
grateful you shared your excitement with me.” He eyed me patiently. “I can see
it will take some convincing for you to understand what you really are to me.”

“What
am I?” My breath caught; hope was a tenuous, dangerous thing.

“Compelling,”
he responded, the devil in his smile.

Doubtful,
I said nothing. But my heart, my heart was not nearly so unflappable. My chest
thudded vigorously with that one simple word. “Where are we going?” I asked, wanting
to redirect the conversation for the time being. My palms were sweaty and I was
finding it hard to focus. Why did everything he said have to be so perfectly...
perfect?

 
“Do you like theatre?” He looked pleased
with himself. “I’ve made arrangements for us to see a play.”

“Very
much,” I said. But I was puzzled. “Didn’t we pass the theatre district a few
blocks back?”

“It’s
not that kind of theatre,” he assured me. “You’ll see.”

We
strolled towards another city park, this one much larger than our little park,
thick with maples and oaks. With an inward smile, I realized I did think of the
other park that way, as our park. Eaden’s and mine. I liked that we shared
something, a physical space in the world that we both felt we belonged to.
 
Or at least I did. I hoped that he felt
that same way.

We
entered the park under a canopy of trees, brilliant red and gold leaves lit by
hundreds of twinkle lights strung through the branches. The crisp evening air
held the tang of wood smoke. Weaving through the open woods, Eaden led me to a
clearing where a semicircular wooden stage has been constructed. In front, rows
of benches lined the hard packed dirt, numerous enough to seat a good-sized
audience. Directly in front of and behind the benches were patches of soft
grass. A few people bustled around the stage, looking efficient as they checked
cables and lights.
 

“What
is this?” I asked, enchanted. The strung lights made me feel as if I had been
transported to another world. It was magical.

“Dress
rehearsals,” he said. He looked pleased at my reaction. As we moved closer to
the stage, Eaden explained that this was a local theatre company that performed
Shakespeare in the Park all summer and into the fall. With the advent of cooler
weather, public performances were held only once a week, on Sunday afternoons.

I
looked up at the night sky through the trees, the twinkle lights mimicking the
stars I could see beyond the half-cloaked branches. “It’s wonderful.”

He
nodded in agreement. “Come with me.”
 

We
walked over to a small aluminum trailer that was set well back from the seating
area. Painted dark green, it was almost hidden in the foliage. Squinting, I
could see a stooped figure shambling through the darkness from behind the
trailer towards us; white hair rimmed his head like a halo. As soon as he spotted
us, a broad smile broke across his craggy features.

“Eaden
lad,” he cried in a full Scottish brogue. He reached up to clap him heartily on
the back. “It’s good to see you.”

“You
as well, Hamish,” Eaden said, shaking his hand. For a moment, I thought I detected
an accent creeping into Eaden’s voice as he spoke and made a mental note to try
to find out where Eaden was born. He had to have grown up somewhere, didn’t he?
Even immortals weren’t born full-grown.

With
a twinkle in his eye, Hamish turned towards me. “I see you’ve brought company.”
His tone was jovial, but I saw him glance quickly at Eaden in surprise, a
question in his look.

“Hamish,
this is Ms. Rachel Dawes. Rachel, this man is nearly as old as I am and
reputedly the best stage director in this part of the country.”

Hamish
guffawed loudly. “That’ll be right,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was refuting
the reference to his age or his ability.

Turning
back to Eaden, Hamish asked, “Will it be the usual, then?”

“Please,”
he said, nodding his head in thanks.

With
a wink in my direction, Hamish shuffled off into the trailer.

I
was intrigued. “Does he know about you?” I asked.

Eaden’s
mouth twisted slightly. “He knows something, although I’m not sure what story
he tells himself. He’s certainly known me long enough to recognize that I’ve
not aged, but, he’s never asked.” He looked thoughtful. “I trust Hamish,” he
said simply.

A
few moments later the old man came out of the trailer, a worn rucksack in his
hands. “Here you go, lad. I’ve tailored it a little.” He looked significantly
in my direction.

“Pleasure
to meet you,” Hamish said and then surprised me by grabbing my hand and
planting a kiss on the back of it. “It’s no surprise that the first person he
would bring to meet me,” he jerked his head in Eaden’s direction, “would be a
lovely lass like yourself. You’ve done well, Eaden.” He snorted merrily as he
walked away from us.

“I
know,” Eaden said, turning to look at me.

Was
it possible to die from happiness?

Leading
me back among the trees, he chose a spot beside the benches on the grass and
then, opening the rucksack, shook out a blanket he pulled from inside. He
spread it over the ground and turned to me with a wry grin. “They’re not
exactly box seats at the opera.”

“This
is much better.” With a contented smile, I sat down on the cozy wool plaid.
Eaden smoothly sank down on his heels beside me and dug through the rucksack.

“You
must have made quite an impression on Hamish,” he said as took inventory. “He’s
never gone to this much trouble for just me.”

From
the depths of the rucksack, Eaden pulled out two bright green apples, a large
wedge of orange cheddar, crackers, and a small bottle of wine. Rummaging around
in the bottom, he also retrieved a knife and two plastic cups.

“How
do you two know each other?” I asked, breaking off a piece of cheese to nibble.
I hadn’t thought I was hungry, but suddenly I was ravenous.

Eaden
grabbed an apple and took an enormous bite. Chewing thoughtfully, he stretched
out his long legs, leaned back on his elbows and looked up through the trees
into the clear night sky. He seemed boyish suddenly, his expression, for once,
matching his physical appearance. “We met at the airport. Hamish was emigrating
from Scotland and I was flying back after a visit home.”

I
smiled inwardly as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. That explained
the Scottish brogue I’d detected. I added this to the ridiculously short list
of things I knew about Eaden. Immortal. Check. Scottish. Check.

He
went on. “Our connecting flight was cancelled after a particularly vicious
winter storm. It was 1950, I think.”

He
was so nonchalant that I made a concerted effort not to react to the date.
 

“Twelve
hours and a bottle of fine malt later, we were back in the air and had become
fast friends.” Eaden smiled at the memory. “Hamish was the principal actor for
the Stratford Festival that summer. He made a wonderful Hamlet, tortured and
passionate in equal amounts.” He chewed reflectively. “We kept in touch from
time to time after that. He’s been with this troupe for the last ten years or
so. Hamish knows I prefer dress rehearsals, so he’s been kind enough to make
provisions for me when I attend.”

“Why
dress rehearsals?”

“Partly
because it’s easier to avoid being around other people,” he said, “and partly because
I like when the actors are still fresh. If you do anything often enough,
something is lost.” The words hung in the air for a second and then he took the
last bite of his apple and shrugged, “I’d much rather see productions before
they are perfected. They seem more real to me that way.” The way he looked at
the stage made me think he was remembering a much different time and place.
“Shakespeare’s original productions were a great deal more interactive.”

My
eyes widened as I digested this and understood what he hadn’t said. “You
actually saw Shakespeare’s plays, didn’t you? I mean... you saw them live, at
the Globe Theatre.”

He
nodded, hesitant.

I
took a steadying breath and shook my head. “This will take some getting used
to.”

I
regretted my words as soon as they left my mouth.
 
The shadow passed over his face again.
He leaned forward and looked at me warily. “Is it too much?”

I
wanted to kick myself. Finally, Eaden was beginning to let down his guard, and
I had to spoil it.

“No,”
I said, stumbling, “it’s just...honestly it’s... extraordinary. It’s just a bit
hard to process sometimes.”

“It’s
difficult to know what’s appropriate to tell you.” He sounded discouraged.
 
“I’ve had very few friends like you in
my life, Rachel.”

My
heart twinged in sympathy. I knew what if felt like to be lonely, I understood
being on the edge of things, feeling as if you stood apart.

“It
sounds like Hamish was a friend.” I said, wanting to lessen his pain.

He
looked thoughtful. “I suppose we have been friendly. But friendship requires
much more than acquaintanceship and fond regard. To have a friend, you must be
a friend, and therein lies the problem.”

I
said nothing, not sure what else to say, not sure how to ease the hint of grief
and loneliness that had crept back into his eyes.

He
sighed and raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me for being maudlin. There is little
reason for it, given present company.”

He
opened the bottle of wine and poured us each a small cup.

“To
good friends,” he said, raising his wine.

“Friends,”
I toasted, unable to stop my heart from sinking again. As honoured as I was to
be considered his friend, I knew I wanted so much more.

A
flutter of activity on the stage indicated the rehearsal would soon be
underway. As the actors appeared on stage, Eaden leaned over close to me. “Have
you ever seen
Macbeth
?”

I
shook my head. “Nope, first time.”

There
was meaning in the smile he flashed that I didn’t quite understand. “So much
the better.”

Smiling
back, I silently prayed he would find reason to lean close again. His nearness
would undoubtedly be more enjoyable than any production, regardless of the
skill of the troupe who performed it.
 
As magnificent as the immortal bard was, there was no way he could
compete with the allure of my own immortal.

As
it turned out, Eaden did find reason to get closer as the night wore on.
 
Halfway through the second act, the cold
began to seep through the thick blanket. Unable to control myself, I rubbed my
arms and shivered. Noting my discomfort and completely ignoring my adamant
denials, he pulled me gently over towards him so that I was nestled against his
shoulder, and wrapped an arm around me.