Page 9 of Madly Deeply

"Are you kidding--" She caught herself just as the words left her mouth.

The table went quiet.

Bronagh and Wren exchanged glances. Duncan bounced in his seat, fit to be tied, dying to accuse her of something.

"Who were ye talkin’ to, lass?" Wyndham asked carefully.

"I was just thinking out loud." Alexandra forced a smile. "Bad habit I've developed lately."

"Nothing wrong with that," Bronagh said quickly. "I talked to Wyndham all the time, before I ever knew he was real."

"Sure," Wren agreed with a laugh. "We all do it. I talk to Shug more when he’s out of the house then when he’s with me. Cursing him, mostly, but still."

But Shug hadn’t seemed to hear the joke aimed at him. His expression made her wonder if he knew more than he was lettingon. He'd been nearby when she’d gone out into the fog, keeping an eye on her. Had he followed? Had he heard anything?

"Careful, love," Spreag whispered. "He smells a rat."

She smiled and nodded, as if in response to Wren’s confession. Everyone else was doing the same.

The moment passed and the men began clearing the table. The women returned to the living room, but seated alone on the couch, Alexandra caught snippets of whispered conversation from the kitchen.

"--just grief--"

"--still so fresh--"

"--needs more time--"

Spreag sat on the edge of a chair off to her right. "They mean well."

She gave a slow nod while pretending to be absorbed in the scrapbook, but she didn’t recognize any faces and continued turning pages.

"I’ve made it too difficult for ye. I must cease speaking to ye with others about.”

"Alexandra?"

She jumped at Shug's voice behind her.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle ye."

"It's fine. I was just..." She tapped the scrapbook. “I guess I don’t know any of these people.”

He glanced at the others chatting on the other side of the room, then took a seat beside her. “T’is none of my business, sure, but I was wonderin’…what might have happened last night, in that fog, that has wrought such a change in ye?” His voice was gentle, but his tone was clear—he expected her to be honest with him.

She met his eyes, saw the concern there, and something else. Understanding? Before she could respond, he was roped into theother conversation and invited to retell the saga of Duncan’s first encounter with a microwave.

"Which ended in flames," Shug blurted, breaking the tension. He patted Alex’s knee, then muttered. “We'll talk later, lass."

Spreag had positioned himself near the window, his form solid and reassuring. The other men came in from the kitchen and the chairs were quickly arranged in what she recognized as a casual intervention formation--all facing the couch.

Spreag must have recognized it too. "Maybe we should go."

She squared her shoulders and slowly, indiscernibly shook her head. To Shug, she said, “Maybe you’d better tell it from the beginning.”

Alexandra sat contentedly on the couch and watched the interplay between her new and dearest friends. She chalked up their bond to having gone through the terrifying ordeal together-- of the wedding and Tulloch’s death--which they all took nearly as hard as she had. After all, it could have been any one of the men to have run off to Simon’s aid, any one of the former ghosts who could have been the first to die a second time.

The banter between the men was akin to close brothers who knew just how to push each other’s buttons. But the better teasers were definitely their wives who knew them best.

Duncan was in the best shape. His fit body would have drawn plenty of attention even without his attachment to his ancient kilt. He was funny, yes, but he was no match for his wife, Meg, who constantly surprised him and made him laugh himself silly. Her short dark hair and knowing dark eyes made her impossible to ignore, but even more so for him. When the room grew quiet, his attention always returned to her.

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