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"I don't care what you call it," she says in an equally soft voice, rubbing her body against me. "Sports are dumb and boring, unless they take place in bed."
"You have a point." I dip my head to whisper in her ear, "Shinty is a real man's game, and we Scots are very serious about it."
A family walks by, the parents giving us odd looks, probably because Erica and I look like we're about to shag right here in front of them.
We continue our tour of roadside attractions, and I find I enjoy seeing the barmy sights with Erica. Her mood improves even more as we go along. The prospect of taking a detour off the interstate to see the first Dairy Queen franchise makes her clap and shout, "Yay!"
She honestly is the most adorable woman in the world.
And I learn that Dairy Queen is a fast-food restaurant that also sells ice cream. I still don't understand why she loves seeing the first example of that restaurant, but I love anything that makes her happy.
On we go, traveling south down Interstate 45, with the scenery whizzing past our windows in a blur. At the town of Loda, I exit the freeway to head for another attraction. When Erica asks me what it is, I simply tell her, "You'll see."
When we pull up to the village park, and the attraction comes into view, Erica goes stone-still and stops blinking.
I can't see what has upset her. On the grassy lawn of the park stands a large metal cage marked with a sign identifying it as the Loda Jail. According to my research, this is a popular tourist attraction and just the sort of thing Erica ought to enjoy. Maybe I need to explain it. She's probably confused.
I point at the cage. "A hundred years ago, they kept prisoners in that contraption. Must've been a pleasant experience, eh?"
She fidgets in her seat, and when she speaks, her voice almost cracks. "Yeah, I'm sure it was a pajama party."
I swerve my gaze to her, noticing the way her eyes glisten. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She starts to lean back as if to get comfortable, but instead, her posture seems awkward and tense. "Jails aren't fun, that's all."
I cup her face in both hands, leaning in until my breaths reflect off her skin, and search her gaze for a clue to her distress. "Erica, please don't cry."
She blinks rapidly, as if to chase away the tears forming in her eyes.
I brush my lips over hers. "I never meant to upset you, but clearly I have. I'm sorry."
"You didn't do anything." She clears her throat, avoiding my gaze. "Can we just go somewhere else, please?"
Nodding, I release her so I can steer the car back toward the freeway. I decide Erica has had enough of the roadside attractions and head for the bed-and-breakfast where I've arranged for us to stay the night. Her reaction to the Loda Jail baffles me, but I can't ask why it fashes her. If she wants to tell me, I will listen. But I won't press her for answers. After all, I'm leaving soon.
This trip is my way of saying goodbye.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Just outside of Champaign, we pull into the semicircular, brick-lined drive of a historic mansion. Sky blue trims the white house, and slender Corinthian columns buttress the wraparound porch while lacy railing lines the porch and the second-floor balcony. I chose this bed-and-breakfast because I thought Erica would appreciate its historic and aesthetic appeal. Once I've parked the car, I hurry to Erica's side to open the door for her and offer my hand to help her get out. I keep hold of her hand as we mount the brick steps toward the mansion's front door.
Her mood has been melancholy ever since we visited the Loda Jail.
A sparrow lands on the brick steps to Erica's left, flutters its wings, and flies away. Her mouth turns down at the corners, and she hunches her shoulders.
Now a wee bird upsets her? I can't ask why.Bloody hell.
We enter the bed-and-breakfast hand in hand, like any normal couple might. The interior is stunning and historically accurate, with hardwood floors and wall paneling along with a crystal chandelier suspended over the entryway. Erica's frown softens into a slight smile as she surveys our surroundings.
A bonnie grey-haired woman called Mrs. Wilkins signs us in while regaling us with tales of the mansion's early days. Erica doesn't seem to pay attention to anything Mrs. Wilkins says, and her unfocused gaze tells me she isn't here with me. She has retreated into herself again.
Mrs. Wilkins hands me our room key, then looks at Erica. "Have a wonderful stay, Mrs. MacTaggart."
Erica startles at our host's statement. "I'm not—"
"Thank you, Mrs. Wilkins," I say, tossing an arm around Erica's shoulders. "I'm sure we'll both love it here."
And aye, I'm also sure Erica had been about to inform Mrs. Wilkins that she is not my wife. I don't see the point in declaring our marital status, and for reasons I can't fathom, I don't want to hear Erica say those words.
