Page 19 of Madly Deeply

“Sorry?” Alexandra turned and looked up, half expecting God to be coming through the top of the plane, looking for the spirit of Spreag Tulloch to take back with him. But it was only a man. A tall one, who couldn’t take his eyes off Alex’s head.

His red curly hair went to his shoulders, and when he caught himself staring, he tucked it behind his ears and blushed, his fair face a dark pink in the low cabin lighting. “Beg pardon, miss. Lovely hair. Like Queen Matilda’s it is.”

“Queen…Matilda?”

“M’ Prize ewe. Of course, ye smell much better than she ever will.” The sparkle in his eyes let her know he was teasing. His eyes slid down her and he tilted his head to see her left hand. His head hit the bulkhead and he sobered when he saw her ring. “Beg yer pardon, madam. I’m Callum Fraser.”

“Madam?” She laughed and looked at her ring. “Yeah, I am a madam. Alexandra Tulloch. I’m trying to place your accent. My husband came from Huntly.”

“Auch, a Huntly man, is he? I’m from Blairgowrie m’self. Farmer.”

“I’m not sure where that is.”

“Two hours sooth o’ yer man. At least ye got the Scottish part right.” He tugged on his curls. “Some see red and assume I’m from Erin.”

“Erin?”

“Ireland.”

“Ah. I see.” It was her turn to use the bathroom, so she waved her fingers and ducked inside. The tall farmer was going to have a hard time doing the same. When she stepped out again, he was gone, probably in the other bathroom, and when she returned to her seat, she was still smiling.

Spreag waited for her to explain.

“I’ve never been compared to a sheep before.”

“What? Who compared you to a sheep?”

She pointed to the big farmer as he passed on his way to first class. “He meant it as flattery,” she said with a laugh, then pointed to her Jheri curls. “A black sheep named Queen Matilda.”

“That’s terrible.” The kid on the aisle had assumed she was talking to him.

“It’s okay,” she said. “He was trying to be nice.” Then she bit her lips together and faced the window, and laughed quietly.

The rest of the flight passed uneventfully. Even customs went smoothly—though Spreag couldn't resist threatening the agent who passed her wand up between Alex’s thighs. Laughing at him helped her get through the embarrassment.

It was late. Instead of calling friends for a ride, she took an Uber. The driver, a chatty woman named Susan, filled thecar with talk radio and questions about Scotland that Alexandra answered vaguely until she finally got the hint.

The faculty would know she was a widow now, would treat her with kid gloves and concerned looks. But they didn't need to know about the baby yet. And they certainly couldn't know about Spreag.

"You should tell yer friends ye’re back,” he said, as they pulled onto their street.

She whispered, "I'm thinking practically. If anyone catches me talking to thin air..."

"They'll cart ye off to the psych ward and take our babe." He sighed. "I ken it. But ye dinnae have to be completely alone. What about yer friend Rachel?"

"No." The Uber stopped in front of their house. "No one. Not yet."

She thanked Susan and dragged her suitcase up the walk, refusing help. The porch light winked on automatically. The house looked exactly as they'd left it, thanks to xeriscaping and a weed warrior for a neighbor.

"Home sweet home," Spreag said softly.

Alexandra pretended not to notice the forlorn edge to his voice and fitted her key in the lock, thinking only about the short term. She could justify being a hermit, at least for now. She had a brand-new excuse, after all—plenty of new mothers were too queasy to socialize. And it might end up being true.

But as she stepped into their home, breathing in the familiar scent of books and wooden floors and remembering all the life they'd lived here, she realized she hadn’t escaped the mourning process after all. The pregnancy was a happy distraction. Having Spreag near her again had given her something to focus on. But now that she was back in the real world, she was going to have to face the truth.

Soon.

Just not yet.

---