PART 4: "I should have known. Montauk. It's always Montauk."

Chapter 2

The buzz of "presence" pulled Methos out of the sidebar he was writing about medieval swordgrips. He looked over his shoulder at the window as the sound of a vehicle pulling up out front followed on the heels of the feeling of presence.

Looking at the screen in front of him, Methos tried to decide what to do. He knew it was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Sometimes the results of a Double Quickening were beneficial, but why was the Highlander here? How did he know where to find him? What did he hope to accomplish by this visit?

Going over to the window, Methos looked out in time to see Duncan starting up the walk to the house. The Highlander stopped and looked up. The world stopped as their eyes met, Methos in the yellow-lit room and Duncan in the cold, dark night.

Turning away, Duncan continued up the walk to the house. Methos let the curtain fall back in place as the last two years fell away.

Methos had refused to meet Duncan at or near the Paris Watcher Headquarters. "I don't want to get too close to that place," Methos had told Duncan, so they met at a café several miles outside of Paris.

Methos watched the burly Highlander delicately sip at the fine vintage served by the café. Duncan's hair was short again, thick, black wings combed back from his face. Other than that Duncan was unchanged from the last time Methos had seen him not long after Stephen Drake died. His skin was still olive-dark, he still had his bold, expressive eyebrows and deep, soulful brown eyes. Inevitably, Duncan noticed the scrutiny.

"And what are you looking at?" Duncan asked him.

"You, a Watcher." Methos shook his head. "I can't believe it. And a new name, Sean MacDonald. Will wonders never cease?"

"What's the wonder? You change all the time. When we first met you were the epitome of the young graduate student or a struggling assistant professor. Now you look like a disheveled drifter, a transient just looking for a place to light for the night. Besides, you've been a Watcher, several times."

"Yes, but that was to keep away from other immortals. But you've always been friends with your Watchers. Why, all of a sudden, are you a Watcher?"

"That's exactly why. I've always been friends with them, and I've always respected what they did. I thought that it was finally time to give it a try."

"You sure it's not because it's easier to find immortals, easier to hunt them?"

Duncan frowned. "Of course not! I'm doing what you did, keeping away from them."

Methos raised an eyebrow. "So you're out of the Game?"

Duncan shrugged and took another sip of wine. "For now. I understand, finally, why you drop out of the Game every now and again. It's liberating not to be part of that for a bit, to just--be--for a few years." After a short pause, he continued, "So, tell me, why are we here?"

Methos smiled briefly at the quick change of subject. "I need some help."

"Okay."

"I heard that someone was hunting me. They're hunting Methos, not Adam Stratton, and I need a little intervention."

"Who's hunting you?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need the help, now would I?"

"How did they know who you are?"

"There was a leak from the Watcher organization, apparently. The story of Kallman and Pierce has made its way into my Chronicle and I need you to get rid of it, or at least rewrite it. There may also be pictures so I also need you to get rid of any images of me that might be in the database."

"I don't understand."

"Look, whenever I became a Watcher again, I had to go into the database to remove any pictures of me in there."

"Why?"

"Well, you don't think that Jesse Williams could have been made a Watcher if they found Adam Pierson's picture in the database, do you?"

Duncan sighed deeply. "So you just removed it?"

"Yes. I don't understand the problem here. Didn't you get rid of images of Duncan MacLeod before you joined as Sean MacDonald?"

"No."

"No? You're telling me that you don't understand the consequences if someone who knows Sean came across a picture of Duncan MacLeod in the database?"

"No, I'm saying that Joe Dawson did it, some years before he died."

Methos was silenced by the reference to a man dead for over 300 years. "Of course he did," the ancient immortal muttered tightly. "Of course, he did. Even . . ." he shook his head, "even from the grave he's taking care of you."

"I'm not going to be drawn into that old argument again. What I want clarified is that you're saying that you just expunged all references to Adam Pierson from the Watcher database?"

"No, of course not. I left all references to him. What do you think I am? Pierson was part of the Methos Project. His absence would have been noticed and they would have known that they had been hacked, but who remembers what had photos and what didn't, especially since I was part of the Methos Project."

"That's right. The best way to hide is to be in charge of finding yourself and then not find you."

"Right."

"And you want me to do the same." It was a statement.

"Only the pictures, MacLeod, not any other kind of references. As for the story of Kallman and Pierce, just the name of the Watcher they hunted. Jesse Williams has to stay mortal and he has to remain in the database since he was a Watcher as well. I don't want to get rid of Jesse or Adam, just their pictures and anyone connected to them that might look like them, or any other immortal."

Duncan shook his head. "I'm sorry, Methos, I can't.

Methos looked genuinely flabbergasted. "What!"

"I'm sorry, I can't."

"Now I don't understand."

"I can't just go in and alter the database."

"Why not?"

He held his arm up, displaying the distinctive tattoo on his wrist. "It goes against my Watcher's oath."

Methos's jaw fell in stunned surprise. Momentarily silenced, he stared at Duncan. Finally getting his voice back, he said: "I don't believe this!"

"Believe it, Methos. I can't do it."

"MacLeod, how often have you asked Joe to betray his Watcher's oath for you? How many times did he do it because you asked? You just told me he altered the database for you. Didn't you just hear yourself?"

"That was different. I was trying to save lives."

"Oh, and what am I doing here, trying to die? Come on, MacLeod, you were asking Joe to betray his oath even when lives were not at stake. And what about me? How many times did you ask me, forget that, demand that I get you something you wanted, knowing quite well that it would mean betraying the oath. But that was okay, right? Because you needed it. Joe and I, and Joe's daughter, and who knows how many other Watchers over the years, all betraying their oath for something you needed. This is the first time anyone has ever asked you. How could you say no?"

"It's an oath, Methos, and I can't betray it."

"An oath you can't betray," Methos muttered. He nodded, his lips tightening. "Fine. Forget about it. You keep your precious oath. I don't want to see either of you again."

Getting abruptly to his feet, Methos stalked away, leaving Duncan to pay for the fine wine.

The front door chimes pulled Agnes away from the damp hills and moors of ancient England. With a muttered curse, she carefully closed the book on a bookmark she had found in its pages, a bookmark as well designed and beautiful as the book she was reading. Adam had let her read one of his books, the ancient Mists of Avalon. She had read it before, but that was an e-book. There was nothing like reading it from a real book. It was a classic, written well over 300 years ago, and it pulled her into a world of fantasy and sword and sorcery. She was having fun being there. Now someone had shown up at her front door, once again unannounced, on a dark, cold night. This could not be good.

With a sigh she opened the door to tall, strapping young man. "Yes?"

The man looked down at her, a frown creasing his dark brow. Deep brown eyes narrowed as he turned his head, studying her.

"Well, what is it, young man?'" she asked, growing impatient. What is it about strange young men coming to her door on a winter's night? They all stare at her as if she had two heads!

"Um, ah, I--um--I'm sorry to bother you, but do you have an Adam Stratton staying here?"

Now it was Agnes's turn to stare. The man had a deep, rich voice colored by an accent of some kind.

"Who's asking?"

"My name is Sean MacDonald. Mr. Stratton and I are former associates."

MacDonald? Agnes thought. That accent must be a Scottish burr. "The house rules are that here are no visitors unless I'm told about them in advance."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stratton didn't know I was coming."

"You could have called ahead."

Sean MacDonald's mouth tightened and he looked down. He shrugged, suddenly looking lost and very young, like a kid getting caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

Agnes frowned thoughtfully. "You thought about calling but didn't, deliberately."

Sean MacDonald's head came up. His eyes narrowed again. "How would you know that?"

"Oh, please, young man, I may be old, but I'm not stupid. Why didn't you call?"

He shrugged again. "He wouldn't have taken the call, and he would have refused to see me."

"Why?"

A hot Celtic temper suddenly flared. "What business is that of yours?"

"He's living in my house, and you are visiting my house." Agnes's answer was cool and unemotional. "I'm making it my business."

The cold response completely deflated Sean MacDonald's anger. He sighed. "We're old friends. We had a falling out and I'm here to try and make amends."

Agnes nodded, believing him. She opened the door wider and stepped out of the way. Sean MacDonald smiled slightly and entered the house. She brought him into the parlor. "Have a seat. I'll go get him."

"I can go up, if you like."

"No, Sean MacDonald. I'll go get him."

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

Agnes turned back to the young man.

"He will say to tell me that he's not here, but I know he is."

Agnes looked at the young man a moment with a puzzled frown. Then she nodded and left the parlor.

Sean MacDonald went to the couch that had a beautiful afghan draped over it and sat down to wait.

Methos was sitting at this desk, staring off into space when the expected knock came.

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Stratton? Adam? Someone is here to see you."

"Who?"

"A Mr. Sean MacDonald."

They had not spoken in two years and now, all of a sudden, here he was. A mean little thought wormed its way through Methos's head: "I wonder what he needs now?"

He roused himself. "Tell him I'm not here," he said.

"He said that you'd say that, so he told me to say that he knows you are."

Methos said nothing.

"I really think you should see him."

Methos looked at the closed door. "Why?"

"Just a feeling, I guess." Methos could hear the shrug in her voice. "Come on, he's waiting in the parlor."

With a sigh, Methos got up and opened the door. He looked down at the deceptively frail-looking woman. "You are really stubborn, you know that?"

She grinned up at him. "Yeah, I know."

He smiled and shook his head and went down to see MacLeod.

Agnes closed the door as she left the parlor. The two men looked at the door then, still without speaking, they looked at each other. Duncan was standing in front of the couch and Methos near the door. Finally Duncan said: "Does she know?"

"Who?"

Your landlady. Does she know that she's pre-immortal?"

Methos shook his head. "No. I don't think so. She definitely has no idea about me, of course."

"She's old, for a pre-immortal."

"She's not that old, MacLeod," Methos shot back defensively. "She's only sixty-five. In this time and place, that's middle-aged. Sixty-five today is like being forty when we first met."

Duncan's eyebrows lifted at the defensive tone. "Yeah, I know." He suddenly frowned. "Is there something going on between the two of you?" he asked, his voice dropping.

"Of course not. She's a good lady, and she's been a good friend to me. Better than she's had reason to be, and I don't want anyone speaking ill of her."

"I was just making an observation. What I meant was, if she hasn't had her first death by now, she most likely won't, that's all. She'll probably die without becoming immortal. Why are you being so defensive?"

Methos shrugged. "Maybe because you're trying to stay away from what you're here to talk about."

Duncan smiled slightly. "Maybe you're right."

"Maybe I am. So let's start at the beginning. How did you find me?"

"I read your Watcher's reports."

"My Watcher? I have a Watcher?"

"Yes, but don't worry. Methos doesn't have a Watcher. Adam Stratton does."

"How do the Watchers even know about Adam Stratton?"

"Barry Green's challenge."

"Barry . . . Green?" Methos frowned, trying to place who Duncan was talking about. He reached into himself for the answer and his face suddenly cleared as he remembered. "That was fifty years ago!"

"I know, but Barry's Watcher was there. He saw the whole thing, as short as it was."

Methos shook his head. "Damn it! That whole incident was a waste. A waste of energy, of a Quickening and it was really a waste if it blew my cover."

Methos went over to the winged-back chair and pulled it away from the fire and further away from Duncan. He sat down as the incident relived itself in his memory. Duncan returned to his place on the couch.

"Barry was a fool," the older immortal continued. "He was drunk on being newly immortal and wanted a Quickening, any Quickening. I happened to show up so he wanted my Quickening to be his first. He didn't know anything. He had not been trained properly and didn't know how to pick his battles. I refused the challenge but he wouldn't leave me alone. He said I couldn't refuse. Of course I can, I said. He mentioned the rules, I just shrugged. Then he said that he'd run me through the back if I didn't fight him." Methos let out a brief, bitter laugh. "I believed him, too. He had Quickening fever. Once you've seen it, you never forget what it looks like." He shook his head again. "Such a young, stupid fool," he finished quietly, unable to keep the regret out of his voice.

"So it was a short fight."

"A very short fight." Methos paused a moment. "So was the Quickening."

After a moment of silence, Duncan said: "Well, it was long enough for Barry's Watcher to chronicle it, to get the name and image of the unknown immortal who got the Quickening, and enter it into the database."

"So I've had a Watcher all this time? Ever since Barry Green they've had a Watcher on me?"

Duncan nodded.

"You could have told me!"

"I just found out recently," Duncan protested.

Methos shivered. "I hate having a Watcher," he said through clenched teeth. "I hate it!"

"Yeah, I know. You did it so you know exactly what it entails, and just how personal it can get."

"So my having a Watcher meant that it was pretty easy for you to find me."

One of Duncan's shoulders lifted in a contrite shrug. "Yeah, it was pretty easy."

"Which means that it's going to be pretty easy for the people who are hunting me, and who also happen to be Watchers, to find me as well."

There was a brief pause. "Yeah."

"Fine. You can leave now."

"But I wanted to warn you . . . "

"You did. You've warned me. Your duty has been discharged." Methos stared at his former friend, the bitter betrayal quite evident in his eyes. "You know, you didn't have to come all the way here. I've known for years that there are people hunting me. You've known. It's why I asked you to get rid of my images in the Watcher database. Two years ago I asked you. You wouldn't, so I had to go to plan B."

"You went underground."

"Right. Then I came here. I've got to get this book written and I've got to lay low. So, here I am."

"You mean, you really are writing a book about medieval weapons?"

Methos's face tightened. "Gods, they don't miss much, do they?" he gritted out. He looked around the quiet, cozy room. The walls suddenly seemed closer and the shadows ominous. "But it was all for nothing," he muttered. "If you were able to find me this easily, they will. If they haven't already."

"That's one of the reasons why I'm here, Methos. I want to help."

"Help?" Methos frowned. "What d'you mean, help?"

"You have several immortals hunting you. You can't face them all. You have to have help."
 
 

His face growing cold and still, Methos stared at Duncan. "I needed your help two years ago, MacLeod," he said, his voice deep and devoid of any emotion. "You couldn't help because it would violate your Oath. 'Observe and Record, but Never Interfere.' Well, don't you think that helping me now would violate that Oath even more? You don't think that fighting my battles for me could be considered interfering? So, just watch, MacLeod. That's what you are now, a Watcher. So, Watch. Observe, record, and don't interfere." These last words were bitten out.

"I just thought--I just wanted to--"

"Watch my back. Yeah, I know, but no thanks. Been there, done that. Look, why don't you give me all the information you have so you can get on your way?"

"I don't have much more than that but I do know which immortal infiltrated the Watchers."

"Who is it?"

"A guy by the name of Josh Davis."

"I don't know him. Do you?"

"Not personally, but I've seen him at a distance and I know what he does. He's in research, like me, but I'm pretty sure he joined the Watchers specifically to get information on immortals for hunting."

"Dammit," Methos muttered. "How did you find out about that?"

"There was an increase of immortal fatalities by an unknown immortal or immortals. I figured that something was not right about it."

"How could you know that?"

"When I did a search, I found that all of the Watchers of the dead immortals had some kind of relationship with Josh Davis. Since he's not a field agent, he had no direct contact with the immortals. He found out about them through their Watchers or their Chronicles. I don't think he killed the immortals. I think he passed on the information and someone else got them. I wasn't sure if this made him mortal or immortal, so, on a hunch, I followed him when he was well away from Watcher headquarters. Sure enough, when I got close enough, I felt him. I didn't stick around. I got out of there immediately and went back to HQ to do some research."

He looked at Methos and, to his surprise, found a slight smile on Methos's face. "What?"

"I still can't see you poring over a computer doing research and combing through a database or hanging out in the stacks going through books."

"Well, keep trying. I do it all the time now." He paused briefly. "I like it. I can understand, now, why you were so drawn to it, why the histories and Chronicles were so important to you. I didn't appreciate how much they meant to you the last time we spoke. I was so new at it. It was so novel and the work hadn't really begun. It's addicting and fascinating. I'm glad I did it," he finished quietly.

Methos merely nodded. The smile was gone and the tight, hunted look was back. "Is that it?" he asked.

"Just a bit more."

"Well, let's have it."

Duncan sighed. "If you count Davis there are three of them. Davis leaked the information about you to a friend of his, an unknown immortal, a woman. From what I can find out, they're traveling with someone else. At least there's evidence of one other person, but I can't pin him or her down."

"How did they make the connection between Adam Stratton and Methos?"

"I'm guessing from an image in the database."

"An image."

Duncan nodded, staring intently at his hands, which were twisting at each other. "I think they had to know you as Methos from somewhere else to make the connection with the image. I have some calls in. I'm trying to track Davis down, and if I can prove that he did this--leaked information to an immortal--he'll be out of the Watchers, and open for hunting down. As for the rest, we know they're coming and we should be prepared."

"I should be prepared, not you. You are going back to the Watcher libraries, read the Chronicles and keep your oath. That's all that anyone can expect from you." He stood abruptly.

Duncan stood as well. "It's really late," he said quickly, stopping Methos, who was about to walk out of the room. "Do you think I can stay the night?"

"I don't think so, MacLeod. The house rules are pretty clear. She 's got to know in advance."

Duncan looked steadily at Methos, who refused to meet the Highlander's eyes. It was the middle of the winter and the B&B was empty. Duncan knew that the owner would bend the rules a bit, but it was obvious that Methos did not want him there. He shrugged. "Okay," he replied slowly. "I don't want to go against house rules."

He walked out of the parlor. Hearing the men in the hall, Agnes came out of the kitchen. "Are you staying the night, Mr. MacDonald?"

Duncan looked briefly at Methos. "No, Ma'am," he answered. "Thanks, but I have to get going."

As he went to his ground car, Duncan could feel Methos's eyes boring into this back, but he pretended not to notice. So, Methos did not want him under the same roof. Well, that was fine. If he wanted Duncan away from him, Duncan knew that he'd go out of his way to accomplish that. Nobody was as stubborn as Methos. Except for me, Duncan thought, a somber grin lighting his face as he took off in the ground car.

At the front door of The Bluff, Methos watched the ground car speed off and disappear into the darkness. Then he went in, closing the door and locking up. He turned to find Agnes watching him.

"What is it?"

"Why didn't he stay? It's late."

"House rules. No advance warning."

"Bullshit, Adam. Don't put this on the house. It's the middle of the night in winter, you know he could have stayed. You just didn't want him to stay."

Methos looked down at the little B&B owner and shrugged, then headed for the stairs to go back to his room. He was just starting up when Agnes put a gentle hand on the one he was sliding up the banister. The touch stopped him and he looked down into the bright eyes of the older woman.

"Why?" she asked. "Why don't you want him to stay? He said you two are old friends."

"We used to be friends, Agnes. Not anymore."

"What happened?"

Methos shrugged again. "We had a falling out."

"So you're not friends anymore?"

"No."

"Does he agree with that?"

Methos frowned, puzzled. "Agree?"

"Agree that you're not friends anymore."

Methos was quiet for a long moment. "No," he finally answered. "He wouldn't agree." Gently removing his hand from beneath Agnes's, he disappeared up the stairs.

The strange visit from Sean MacDonald left both Adam and Agnes quiet and uncommunicative for several days. Agnes felt that she might have pushed her guest too far, becoming too personal too quickly. So she backed off, talking only about the most impersonal, innocuous subjects.

One night by the fire she was talking to the withdrawn Adam about The Mists of Avalon, the book he had lent her. She talked about the story and about the book itself, asking questions about how books were made.

It was the subject of her questions that finally got Adam talking. Reluctantly, politely, he told Agnes how books were typeset and bound and about the materials that were used to make them.

When she moved on to voicing her thoughts about the old story written about an even more ancient land, Adam at first merely listened politely. Then, as Agnes went on about the story of Avalon, her sense of questioning wonder seemed to bring Adam back to life.

The story of Avalon took place in England at the time of King Arthur's Court in the latter part of the fifth century A.D., the legendary Camelot. It was a time when the British Isles were the target of countless invasions and Christianity was just getting a foothold in Britain and was striving to overtake the ancient goddess religion. Slowly at first then with growing enthusiasm, Adam answered her questions and added to her store of knowledge by talking about the history of the time and the events that occurred. He knew a great deal about that time, things Agnes had never heard about, and he told her all about them with the gift of a storyteller, a bard, or a poet. Agnes was enthralled.

In the cozy parlor, Adam's deep rich voice took Agnes away from the cold ruggedness of Maine to a time and place just as cold and damp but more primitive by far, where men wore armor and fought with swords taller than she and heavier than a prepubescent child.

Something in Adam seemed to respond to her rapt attention. The closer she listened, the warmer he grew to the subject, his voice resonating deeper and deeper as the stories went on. The young man and the older woman sat closer and closer until they were huddled around the fire, speaker and listener lost in a far-off time and place. The time sped by and it got impossibly late when Adam finally paused to look at the clock on the mantle.

"Gods, I've been talking for hours," he rasped out of a dry throat. "I need some water."

Almost blindly, Agnes handed him his cup and he drank the cold tea.

"Ah! That's better, but I think we'd better call it quits for tonight."

Agnes stared up at her storyteller then looked blindly around the room, trying to reconcile where she was mentally with where she was physically. Slowly, with great effort, she pulled herself into the here and now.

"I'm sorry, Adam. I didn't mean to keep you talking so long."

"Please, it was my pleasure. I hope I haven't bored you. I do tend to go on sometimes."

"Oh, no. I wasn't bored in the least. You're a fascinating storyteller and a very good teacher. Thank you so much."

Adam smiled his own thanks and the two separated for bed.

Agnes went to her room in the back of the ground floor with a sense of happy satisfaction. She and Adam were back on friendly, familiar terms. He was fascinating and very personable, and Agnes was sure that as long as she did not talk about feelings or friendship or, especially, Sean MacDonald, she and Adam would be getting along just fine.

Not long after that night, Agnes took a trip to Greenville. She asked Adam if he wanted to go, but the young man declined, saying he had a lot of work. The B&B owner took off in her air car for the city, saying she'll be back in time to make him dinner the day after tomorrow.

Adam didn't hear the car return the day Agnes returned from her Greenville trip, but it was impossible not to hear her preparing dinner. Hearing the unusual banging and clanging coming from the cavernous kitchen, Adam went down to investigate.

He found Agnes buzzing around the large room looking nothing like her sixty-five years. In fact, she looked like a kid. She was the same woman with the same gray hair, but it had come loose from its bun and was flowing over her shoulders, softening her entire look. Her face still had its slight markings of fine wrinkles, the chronicle of her years, but her broad smile and bright, lively eyes made her look like a woman in her early fifties at most. Agnes Vieilame, hard-working entrepreneur, had been transformed!

"Agnes, what is it?"

"Oh, Adam! I'm back. Dinner will be ready soon."

"Dinner's not the question, Agnes. What's happened?"

"Adam, it's unbelievable. I've met someone."

"Who?"

"A woman."

"You mean, like--a lover?"

"Why do you sound so surprised?" she asked defensively, pausing in her clattering efforts. "You don't think I can meet someone at my age? I'm not so very old, you know!"

Adam held his hands up in acknowledgement. "I know, I know! I'm not surprised, I'm just delighted. Trust me, this is not common news at any age, and I'm happy for you. Who is she?"

She smiled, as dimpled and shyly happy as a schoolgirl. "Her name is Wendy and I met her in Greenville."

He shook his head. "I have got to get there. I've been alone a long time. I wouldn't think that I could meet someone in Maine, but," he shrugged, "it doesn't hurt to try. That does it. Next month, I'm going with you when you go!"

Agnes grinned. "Great! It will be fun to have company."

"So tell me, how did you meet?"

"In the grocery store, the produce section." She stared out the window into the darkness, the dinner forgotten.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me she asked you to 'thump a cantaloupe' for her?"

Agnes laughed. "Something like that. She asked me about some fruit I was looking at, we started talking, we went for coffee, then dinner. We're meeting next weekend again."

Adam raised a curious eyebrow. "Next weekend? You're going back to Greenville next weekend?"

A blush rose immediately, gently coloring Agnes's cheeks. "Yes. Why?"

"Just asking," Adam said, with an innocent shrug. "It's a long trip for just, you know, coffee. Will you be coming right back?" He grinned as Agnes's color deepened.

"I'll probably stay at her place for the weekend. Just overnight."

He lifted another eyebrow. "Long trip," he said again.

"Not really. Not with the air car." Then she turned to the cupboard and got some dishes out.

"What's she like?" he asked before Agnes could change the subject.

She turned toward Adam, her cheeks dimpling again, the dishes already forgotten. "Oh, Adam, she is beautiful! The most beautiful eyes imaginable, and masses of curls just flowing down her back, with lovely, smooth, creamy skin." She stopped abruptly. "She seems to like me a great deal," she continued, "but she's a bit young. I actually don't know what she sees in me. Wait until you meet her. You'll wonder the same thing."

Adam smiled gently at the woman he'd come to feel so fondly toward. "I seriously doubt it, Agnes. I can tell you that that Wendy is a very lucky woman. You can trust me with that."

Agnes colored again, pleased with the compliment, then went back to preparing the dinner. "I'm sorry that dinner is going to be so late. I thought I'd be getting back way before now. If I'd known, I would have left more for you, like I did last night's."

"Well, maybe you can leave it for me next weekend."

Agnes laughed. "Maybe I can at that!"

It would have been a very long week for Agnes had she not had Adam staying with her. The days went faster and she had company for the long winter nights.

One night near the end of the week, she was sitting with Adam in the parlor. They were both reading books selected from Adam's boxes. Adam was reading about the weapons used in the Saxon invasions and Agnes was reading about the Crusades. The room was quiet, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the rustle of real paper.

After a while, Agnes lay her head back against the back of the couch and closed her eyes, savoring the moment.

"Everything all right?"

Agnes looked up at Adam's quiet question. "Oh, yes," she replied, "every thing is just fine. I was just thinking how wonderful this room is now, and how happy I am in it."

Adam smiled. "It is a nice room."

"I didn't think I'd ever grow to love it this much. Maybe I have you to thank for this."

"Oh, I don't know. I think you've put a great deal into it. You've made it comfortable and welcoming."

"Well, I had a guide."

"What d'you mean?"

She looked into the fire, quickly lost in the memory of the house she so loved in Montauk. "This house was not my first choice for my bed & breakfast," she admitted. "When I was looking for a house open up the business, I fell in love with a place I saw in Montauk."

"Really?" Adam asked, surprised. "Where?"

"It was away from the town, up a hill. It was amazing. The owner had bought up a lot of the land around the house so it was sitting in a meadow surrounded by woods, completely cut off from the developments all around it."

"Gods!"

Agnes looked at Adam, startled. "What is it?" The young man had gone pale. His eyes were wide and his cheeks looked sunken. "Adam, are you all right?" She started to get up.

"No, no, please." He waved her back into her seat. "I'm fine. I was just startled. I've been to Montauk a number of times and I was just surprised to hear that not only does someone else know about it, you were thinking of buying there."

She watched him critically until his color came back and he looked normal again.

"Please," he urged, "go on."
 
 

"Well, this house was lovely, perfect, with the perfect atmosphere and the perfect appointments. It was made of wood. Wood! Perfectly preserved, too. I fell in love with it instantly and almost bought it on the spot." She shook her head sadly. "But it was horribly expensive and it was much too small to be a bed & breakfast. It only had two bedrooms and only one bathroom and the kitchen was very small. Completely updated, of course, but small." She sighed. "If I bought it, I would still have to go on and buy another house for a B&B, and I couldn't afford it. So I had to let it go."

After a brief silence, Adam asked: "Why do you think you loved it so much?"

"I don't know. It was warm and old and comfortable. I felt like I had come home." She paused and reflected a bit. "I used what I saw and felt there as a guide to make this room. But this parlor and my bedroom are all I have of that house, of that whole area."

"You were really captivated by Montauk, weren't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I was. The whole thing was captivating. That house, of course, but there was also the town, the beaches, the light, that fabulous lighthouse on that achingly beautiful bluff." She looked off into the fire. "I think that was my favorite part of Montauk, after the house--the bluff."

"The bluff!" Adam cried with sudden realization. "You named this house, your business 'The Bluff'!"

Agnes smiled. "Yes. The secret is finally out. I named it after the bluff in Montauk. I loved it that much. You know, I was only in Montauk once or twice, but I think that place will stay with me for the rest of my life."

Adam looked at her soberly, his lips tightening slightly. "The rest of your life? That could be a long time, Agnes."

Agnes laughed merrily. "From your lips to God's ear, my friend!"

Adam joined her in the laughter. Then, after they sobered a bit, Adam looked at his landlady, his head cocked oddly to the side. He stared at her thoughtfully in a way that reminded Agnes of the way he stared at her as she opened her front door the first time they met. He looked at her that way for a while before he finally spoke:

"You never know what's going to happen," he mused distantly. "Maybe someday you will be able to live there."

Agnes smiled. "It's a nice thought, but I don't think so. It's a wonderful place. I'm sure someone has snapped it up by now."

Adam took a long, luxurious stretch then opened his book again. "Don't be so sure," he murmured into its pages.

The response puzzled Agnes, but when no clarification was offered, she merely shrugged and went back to her own book.

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