With a shared nod, for no words more were necessary, Emmy got out of the limo as the chauffer held the door and pulled her bag up onto her shoulder one last time. Duart loomed before her and she closed her eyes.
“Are you sure ye know now, lassie?”
Emmy opened her eyes to find Donell in the chauffer’s uniform standing next to her. “Where have you been? I looked all over for you!” she hissed.
“The time wasn’t right, but are ye ready now?” he asked.
“I am and if you give me one moment of mystical destiny crap about it, I swear I will beat you senseless where you stand,” she threatened getting nose to nose with him.
“Not even a wee bit?” he questioned with a straight face though his eyes twinkled merrily. “I told ye I’d be around when ye were ready for me.”
“Don’t make me hurt you, Donell,” she whispered through narrowed eyes. “I will take you out, I kid you not.”
“Ye’re verra fierce, lass.”
“I am not giving up my chance this time, old man. This is it.” Her voice was solid and assured. “You said to come back when I was ready? Well, here I am.”
“No doubts? No reservations?” he confirmed.
“Just anticipation,” her eyes turned back to the castle. Anticipation and joy at the life that awaited her filled her. She could feel the pull already. Her eyes closed as she turned her face to the wind and called to him with all her heart and soul. ‘I’m coming, Connor, my love. I am coming.’
“I’m waiting, Donell,” she called in an annoyed tone.
The old man chuckled. The wind changed blowing strongly from behind her now. There was a loud rush. Then nothing. Silence.
Epilogue
Manhattan
October 28, 1956
Emmy MacLean shuffled slowly across the room with a bottle of Coke in each hand, outside the windows the bright lights of Manhattan sparkled against the dark sky. Life, her life in particular, had seen many changes from new to old and back to almost new again. Buildings and inventions that amazed others always brought a secret smile to her lips. ‘You think that was something?’ she’d think. ‘Just wait and see.’
It had been a good life, just as her grandson had told her.
When she had walked back into Duart on Christmas Eve, Connor had stared at her for a long moment in disbelief before meeting her headlong rush into his arms. He had swung her around as they had laughed and cried in each other’s arms. The joy on his face had matched her own. His devastation over her disappearance had been awful, Dory had told her later on, but the family had banded together determined to help him through it.
On her return, Connor had told she was never allowed to leave his side again and, for almost twenty years, she rarely left his side and was never out of his sight. When she worked, he came along. When he traveled, she went with him. But they had never minded. She never tired of living in his pocket and he never tired of her being there. As Connor the Fourth had predicted, they often fought, difference of opinion and such, but always loved truly.
They had traveled the world together allowing Connor’s brother and cousins to take a greater part in the family businesses that benefited them all.
They had had three sons and a daughter together, Connor, Jamie, Cam and Meagan, after Emmy’s mother. All three boys had fought bravely, despite Emmy’s arguments that they not, in World War I. They had lost Jamie to gunfire in Germany. The others had married and had families of their own. Connor, the third of his name, had stayed on Mull while Cam moved on to London and Meagan had gone on eventually with her husband to do the same. And they had had many grandchildren including Connor the Fourth whom she had always been especially close to.
Thanks to the black notebook Emmy had filled with every significant fact she could find about the early part of the twentieth-century, the family’s investments and fortunes grew. She knew just when to invest and when to withdraw. There had always been whispers about her incredible luck. They had weathered the years well. Duart had thrived and the MacLean’s had gained back nearly all the land they had lost hundreds of years before.
Through the years, Emmy had delivered almost 500 babies on Mull and in other areas of medicine, felt that she had saved a life or two that might have been lost before especially during the influenza epidemic in 1919. In her tote when she had returned that fateful day, she had brought her own medical bag stocked with a true stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, and other modern goodies. The rest of the bag had held hundreds of bottles of Motrin and a dozen bottles of penicillin, all that she could get away with after breaking into the medical fridge at the clinic.
The simple fever reducer had saved the lives of dozens during that year including Ian’s.
Emmy had also carried a picture of herself with her mother and a printed copy of the picture she had taken of herself and Connor in front of Duart. Dozens more in black and white had followed over the years. Her black notebook had also contained sheet music for the piano from musicals of her time, favorites she wanted to share with Connor and teach her children.
They saw every movie they could. They had read Gone With the Wind together when it was published and gone to the movie premier in Atlanta. As for the rest, Emmy had eventually learned to appreciate the oldies.
Yes, she had had a good long life, but there was still one more thing to do. She eased herself down on the couch and passed one of the Cokes to Connor who took a long drink and
