Excerpt from

Lady Irina

By Josh Lockwood

Copyright 2006 by Josh Lockwood

Saying goodbye. That would be the hard part.

He stood then, eyes downcast, pacing in circles, and tried to manufacture the scene in his mind. Him standing on the porch, his hat in his hands ... except he wasn’t wearing his hat ... her on the other side of the threshold watching him.

And the words ...

The words ...

I’m no good for you, Irina ...

No, she’d never go along with that.

I don’t have anything to offer you. I’d be gone all the time. You’d be completely alone down there.

Better, but still not good enough.

And he had to have something to hold in his hands.

His eyes settled on the tiny, blue wildflowers growing in the meadow then and he shrugged. What the hell, it was better than nothing.

He shook his head, appalled at the hopelessness of it all, picked a handful of the flowers, and started back toward the settlement.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Why him? Why now?

And there were no answers.

The Petrov house stood - just as it always had - under the huge and ancient spruce, and he stopped at the foot of the steps for a long minute. Apprehension and regret stifled his senses.

Seagulls over the harbor cried raucously – mocking him – and he shook his head in despair.

He’d never be able to meet her eyes. He wouldn’t be able to think if he did. And he knew he had to. Sooner or later.

Swallowing harshly then he climbed the steps to the porch, sorrow and a gut-wrenching disillusionment building in his soul with each unwanted step.

He knocked softly on the door and stood for a moment staring down at the braided doormat. He didn’t want to be there and he knew the small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand was a weak offering to counteract what he was about to do.

It was wrong. All of it was wrong. And there was nothing he could do to correct it.

Behind him, down in the sunlit harbor, his crew was making preparations for getting underway, bringing the anchor apeak, tightening shrouds and backstays, and he didn’t have very much time.

The door opened, the maid stood aside motioning him to enter, and he didn’t want to. He choked back the pain, the anxiety, tried to remember the feeble words he’d practiced in the meadow, and wished to hell he didn’t have to say them. Wished to hell he could just sail out of her life on the ebbing tide. Without all the sadness. Without all the tears and hurt.

He stepped through the door then, eyes still averted, his teeth clenched, and waited for someone to speak.

It was Irina.

"Nezabudka," she murmured. "Forget-me-nots. Is that an omen?"

 

Copyright © 2006 by Josh Lockwood