Hand Me Downs

Chapter 6-1

Chapter 6

Branwen Rundell Falconer closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as her husband accelerated to the left out of a busy traffic circle. They were avoiding the worst of the morning traffic by heading away from the center of Manchester. John’s unusual choice of a big Audi sedan—better to deal with extra luggage for such a long stay—instead of his usual tiny sports car helped. The speeding mass of cars and trucks all on the wrong side of the road was bad enough.

He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the airport, but she’d bet her life John hadn’t forgotten about her being sick.

She wished his driving reflected his worry a little bit more.

He hadn’t even slowed to ask with his usual smile if she were sure which way she wanted to go out of the airport, something he’d never failed to do every time they’d landed here. One way led to North Wales and her family home, the other much farther north to his home in Glasgow.

Saying they’d gone the wrong way on the M56 had turned into the sweetest joke between them, a wonderful way to recover after making some kind of mistake. Or to deal with whatever family frustration they found themselves in the middle of.

Neither of them mentioning it was another sign of how badly things were going.

Talking would be the best way to distract him, but she was afraid if she opened her mouth she’d be unable to stop her unruly stomach. Just one more way her body would betray her.

She knew morning sickness passed for most women after the first trimester. At least it had with Kim, John’s lab partner and Branwen’s friend, a few short months ago. Branwen had no intention of finding out how long it lasted for herself.

If John saw she was ill again, she’d lose any chance she had of solving this mess.

“Can we stop to get a drink?” she said.

He pulled off at the first petrol station without a word. The quickness of her adaptation to the UK surprised her, as it had throughout her life. Less than twelve hours ago she would have thought gas station.

Branwen scrambled out of the car before he turned off the engine.

“Want anything?”

Instead of his usual protest that he’d get it, John only watched her. Branwen willed her face to stay calm and not turn any shade of green.

Just get away from him and into the restroom. Just get away.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She made it, barely.

Carrying something carbonated and caffeinated for both of them, she stopped in her tracks at the sight of John. He’d gotten out after all, leaning against the car. Something in the set of his shoulders said he wasn’t admiring the view of the planes circling the airport, glittering against the clear winter blue sky.

His whole body seemed sad, frustrated, somehow smaller.

Her gut twisted again, this time with regret. She’d brought that into their marriage, that loneliness and uncertainty he’d been trying to solve for the last month.

His deep green eyes lit up when she reached his side. Branwen stepped into his embrace, burying her face in the curve between his neck and shoulder. Even after the long flight, he smelled wonderful, safe. Like home.

Breathing him in, she almost believed everything was normal. She felt his lips against her hair, then he leaned down to kiss her.

She turned aside, afraid he would smell the stomach acid she’d tried yet again to cover with breath mints. He smiled and turned away. Not his usual smile, so open and joyful, but a sad smile that never touched his eyes.

The nausea subsided as the industrial busyness of Manchester gave way to the smooth M6 motorway heading west. Branwen was surprised to feel excited to be here despite her whirling thoughts and stomach.

Wales felt more like home to her than the US ever had. The twice-yearly visits always seemed like fairy tales come to life when she was a kid, with her imagination wide awake here more than anywhere else.

Her wistful daydreams and particularly vivid night dreams were always set in her family’s sprawling estate, with her mother re-cast as the stepmother. Not exactly wicked, just distant, much like her grandmother. That game got a lot easier when Branwen was thirteen, once her mother left Branwen and her father behind.

Branwen’s Aunt Cian played the role of the missing fairy godmother, ideal partly because she had disappeared shortly after Branwen was born. No one in the family seemed to want to talk about what might have happened to Cian, unlike two older brothers who’d been killed in two different wars when Branwen’s mother was a teenager.

And no one wanted to talk about how much Branwen looked like Cian.

The lack of knowledge only intensified Branwen’s youthful curiosity.

With nothing but Aunt Cian’s old trunk and occasional adult conversational slips to go on, she’d been free to create quite the tragic and wonderful story. Gallant and brave Cian, wandering the worlds, trying to escape the spell or captors or amnesia that kept her away.

Lucky Cian, surviving dungeons or grave dangers, always focused on home. Courted by princes, making and losing fortunes, hunted and desired by many.

And the reason for her obsession with returning, despite her exotic and exciting life? To rescue Branwen, of course. To keep her at the magical estate, shower her with love and affection, and protect her from problems and tedium.

Versions of that fantasy had gotten her through isolation, pain, and just plain boredom since she was a girl.

John’s deep voice reminded her she was long past childhood.

“Right on cue, every time. I wait to see your face like that, you know.”

He made rare eye contact with her while he was driving, and his smile brought her all the way back to reality. Not open and joyful or false and sad, but a secret one he kept only for her.

The promised time alone made her quite glad she was no longer a little girl.

She twined her fingers through his, enjoying the warmth and the way they fit together.

His hands were always warm, unlike her own. He claimed it was his Glaswegian origins. He said her American father had diluted her bloodline too much, and that’s why her hands stayed cold.

The predictable motorway fell behind, leaving only the well-maintained but twisting roads through the mountains of Snowdonia National Park. Unlike their crowded drive during summer holidays, no one else seemed to be out here.

“It is lovely with the snow,” John said.

She looked around, not sure what he meant. She glimpsed her Grandmother’s house in the distance, just for a moment before the curving narrow roads of the national park hid it from view.

Dreaming of Cian had made the time fly by, as usual. The only one who’d ever provided a better alternative to her fantasies sat beside her, dropping her hand to downshift, then taking it again right away.

This space between them was intolerable. She had to find a way back to him, a way to escape the nightmare she was in.

With perfect timing, she felt another wave of sickness, but this one faded almost as soon as it started. On the pavement just ahead of them, SLOW flashed by followed immediately by the Welsh word: ARAF.

She wished John would take that to heart a bit more as he accelerated through the steep curve. He loved driving these roads on what was the right side to him, even after sixteen years in the US.

Branwen closed her eyes and leaned against the window. The cool glass dispelled the last of the nausea, but they still had a long drive ahead.

Despite the caffeine, she hoped John would be less observant than usual. He hadn’t really slept for nearly twenty hours, and this was nighttime for them. Even though she’d slept most of the flight away herself, the smooth hum of the engine, the rhythm of his driving, and the familiar sway of the roads made a welcome home lullaby she couldn’t quite resist.

John always noticed everything, remembered everything, and what he couldn’t see he’d find out. She’d never met anyone so determined to know.

That made the times he pretended not to even more precious.