Page 2 of The Scald Crow
Dear God, I hoped that wasn’t true. I had banked on some anonymity here—a land where no one knew who I was or what I was––the strange girl who saw things others didn’t.I have a gift. I call it a curse.
“Are you Oisin?” I realized he wasn’t driving a tractor or hauling a load of turf. His attire suggested someone else. Tan cargo pants, snugged tight over thick hips, complemented the khaki-colored combat boots. My gaze followed each button of his matching button-down shirt. Hard muscle shaped the canvas fabric and kept it wrinkle-free. He exuded a rugged charm belonging to the wilderness or a desert storm. He seemed a man not to be underestimated.
“No. I’m Colm. Colm O’Donnell. Oisin’s my brother. It sounds like ye got into a bit of trouble.” He lifted his eyebrows, his blue eyes catching me in the riptide of a turquoise sea.
“I did. Yes. Well, thanks. You, Colm O’Donnell, are a lifesaver.” I lifted my shoulders and preened like a delicate little dandelion.
“You’re a bit wet.” Pink waves flooded his face––the moment etched itself forever into my mind until my realization of my situation crashed down on me again. I could look. I couldn’t touch.
“I lost control of the car. Crashed into the bog.” I plucked a loose twig from my sleeve, scrunching my nose at the rising stench.
“Aye, are ye all right then?” He towered over me, ravishing me with more than his scent.
“I’m fine.” I gazed into those eyes. Oh yeah, that man could easily rob me of my soul.
“I’m sorry, luv, but have we met before?” He blinked once, then twice, his head tilted perfectly so. Copper pennies fell from the sky, framing his long face, full lips, and square jaw.
“No. You don’t know me.” My mouth dried, and a vibration settled deep in my soul. I wondered whether he had been there forever.
“Aren’t you the girl on the telly? You are, you’re Calla Sweet.” His knowing gaze set me back on my heels.
“Excuse me? How did you know?” My mouth dropped open, my gaze zeroing in on the big Irish lad standing in the middle of the clear blue sky.
“Look, it is you.” He fact-checked his phone’s browser and then offered his screen—my face smiled back.
“Well, yes.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. How long could I play that charade? I was not that girl, not anymore. l had loved my job. Frontline anchor on a major television network, in line for advancement, my future golden. But then, after a few too many pops at the last office party––kaboom. Cat out of the bag, secrets revealed. It was bad enough when they believed my affliction was a simple case of Tourette’s.Breathe, Calla.Let. It. Go. It’s a new day. It’s a new life. That’s a song, isn’t it?
“Are ye sure you’re all right, luv?” He peered at me, his gaze inviting conversation.
“Oh yeah, just great. How about you?” I bobbed my head up and down, forcing a smile.
“My day just got immeasurably better.” He extended his hand, a long, smooth hand with neat fingernails trimmed into perfect ovals.
I stared at his boots, noting the intricate ladder lacing finished with a neat bow. Not a speck of mud anywhere.
“I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t do that anymore.” There’s no way I’d shake his hand––not now, not ever, uh-uh, no way. I bit down on the inside of my mouth, taking one giant step backward.
“You don’t do what?” He seemed oblivious to my discomfort, ushering me toward the passenger seat with a sweep of his big hand.
I avoided answering his question.
“Are you sure about this? Do you have a towel or something?” I gestured toward my disastrous state: my bog-soaked sneakers, my denim street coat, and the dripping brown stench in them.
“Not to worry. It’s a rental.” He smiled through those shining baby blues and climbed in behind the wheel of the compact car.
“A rental?” I slithered into the bucket seat, setting my backpack on the floor. I inhaled his scent––all sunshine, lollipops, and hot chocolate swirling in minty froth.
That life-changing moment, when disaster struck, floated through my mind.
“We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors. You showed such promise, dear. We are sorry things didn’t work out.”
“Excuse me?”
“Budget cuts, dear. Your position has been terminated.”
I couldn’t sugar-coat that, no matter how hard I had tried. I chewed my lower lip, quelling the heat gathering beneath my eyelids. I would not cry. It was only a job—it was all I had.
I left my career behind and trudged out the door. A cardboard box packed with my laptop, my coffee mug, and the photo of my adopted family—the chances of finding another position in the broadcasting industry were slim to none. People talked. They didn’t whisper. They shouted it for the world to hear. Snide comments between friends––not friends, not anymore. And word traveled fast, Calla Sweet, the crazy girl. She’s trouble. She’s troubled. That’s what they thought. And I take all the blame. I could not deny it. I said things, blurting out the obscenest prophecies at the most inopportune times. At first, people found it funny, but then it morphed into something ugly. I made them afraid. That’s what I did.
