Somewhere My Lass by Beth Trissel Page A

admitted.
    Fergus grinned. “If we had time for a theme I’d be all over Camelot .”
    “Better than Under the Sea , like my senior prom. This occasion calls for something special. What do you suggest? And don’t even think about trotting out Benny and the Jets .”
    Fergus looked askance. “I wasn’t.”
    But Neil knew Fergus loved to sing along.
    “Fine. I’ll see what could possibly top that.”
    To his credit, Fergus roused himself from his absorption in the laptop, lowered the recliner and got to his feet. Even a multitasker par excellence such as Fergus couldn’t do everything from his chair, and this could only mean he was foregoing his iPod and choosing from among his cherished collection of old vinyls. Fergus insisted there was nothing like the sound of an original recording.
    Neil was touched by the gesture from one generally disinclined to put himself out, which required a trip across the room to the oak cabinet in the corner that housed, along with assorted electronics, a record player, also vintage and in prime condition. Fergus would have it no other way.
    His back to them, he opened the double doors to the cabinet and sorted through albums neatly lined on the shelf. When it came to his prize possessions, Fergus was orderly. “What’ll it be? Moody Blues, Elton John, Beatles, Billy Joel,” he read off.
    “Surprise me, but make it a slow dance.”
    “I got that much,” Fergus replied.
    Fortunately Neil had cleared the carpet earlier or he and Mora would have to dodge food wrappers and comics. Curling his fingers around her hand, he rose and drew her up with him. She got to her feet a little unsteadily in the heels. Another good excuse to slip his arm around her waist. The satin rustled and sequins shimmered in the light slanting through the window. This Eighties styled dress was intended for display beneath a dazzling disco ball.
    He smiled to himself picturing her response to a crowded club, flashing strobe lights, blasting music, and then the familiar strains of Simon and Garfunkel’s Are You Going to Scarborough Fair filled the room. He had to hand it to Fergus in making this particular selection. The age-old song based on an ancient ballad suited Mora.
    “Perfect.” He circled his other arm around her back. He didn’t pull her to him as tightly as the fiery surge inside him urged, but closely enough to savor her soft curves.
    Gasping slightly, but not in any way that made him think she objected to his hold, she tilted her head at him. If possible, her eyes widened even further. “I do not know this dance.”
    “I do. Follow me,” he said, realizing his words carried a deeper meaning. He was asking her to trust him, when he didn’t yet know where he was leading them. But he would. Someway, somehow.
    Mora lifted smooth arms around his neck and swayed in his lead as he slowly circled around the carpet. She was a natural, or maybe they were naturally good together. He didn’t doubt that one bit.
    What bliss. Neil wished he could go on and on with her this way. Like being lost in a wonderful dream. The words of the song reverberated in his head, and it seemed to him that she’d always been his true love, his only love.
    All too soon, the haunting refrain of the song came to an end. “Neil,” she summoned, sounding equally transported. “Have you been there?”
    “Where?” Her query totally caught him off-guard.
    “Scarborough Fair.”
    He stopped in mid step and looked down into her face. She was utterly sincere.
    “Everyone goes who’s able. My tutor said ’tis the merriest gathering in all of England.”
    “Holy sh—” Fergus erupted and broke off. “There’s a link I need to double check.” He practically pounced on his laptop.
    But Neil stood still. He had no idea how to reply to Mora. No words were needed, though, to simply hold her. She leaned her head on his chest while Homeward Bound played in the background.
    “I thank ye fer the dance, Neil. ’Twas far lovelier