A Different Blue(106)

actually didn't want me to go at all, but Wilson just shook his head and took the phone from me.

“She has to go, Tiff. She has to.” So Tiffa decided the next best thing was to just come

along. Jack was going to be in Reno for a medical convention on Saturday and Sunday anyway, and

she had debated joining him. She would just leave a couple of days early so she could be with

me. Baby Mama status was getting a wee bit old, I told myself grumpily. I had been so

independent for so long, it felt strange needing to clear my comings and goings with anyone.

Secretly, though, I was thrilled that she cared so much.

“Road trip!” she squealed, coming through my door two hours later, suitcase in hand,

sunglasses on, wearing one of those big hats you wear on the beach. She looked ready for a day

on a yacht. I giggled and allowed her to pull me in for a big squeeze, a smooch to my belly, and

a kiss to my cheek. I'd always thought the English were supposed to be less effusive, less

demonstrative, than Americans. It definitely wasn't true where Tiffa was concerned.

“We're taking the Mercedes! I'm not squeezing these long legs in the back of the Subaru, Darcy!

”

“Fine. But I'm driving, and you are still sitting in the back,” Wilson said agreeably.

“Please do! I'm just going to sit back and relax, maybe read, maybe kip a bit.”

She didn't read a word. Or sit back. And she definitely didn't kip . . . which I learned meant

to sleep. She talked and laughed and teased. And I learned a few things about Wilson.

“Did Darcy ever tell you how he wanted to trace the steps of St. Patrick?”

“Tiffa..please, can you just fall asleep already?” Wilson groaned, sounding a lot like one of

his students.

“Alice had just turned eighteen – done with school, wanting an exciting holiday. I wasn't even

living at home then. I was twenty-two and working at a little art gallery in London, but every

year we had a family holiday. We would go somewhere for a couple of weeks, usually somewhere

sunny and warm where Dad could unwind a little. Alice and I wanted to go to the south of France,

and Dad was on board. However, little Darcy had gotten a wee bee in his bonnet. He wanted to go

to Ireland – cold, wet, and WINDY just like Manchester was that time of year. Why? Because the

precocious lad had just read a book about Saint Patrick. Mum, of course, thought that was

wonderful, and we all ended up traipsing all over a bloody hill in sloshy boots, reading

pamphlets.”

I giggled and tossed a look at poor Wilson. “St. Patrick was fascinating.” He shrugged,

grinning.

“Oh, Cor! Here we go!” Tiffa groaned theatrically.

“He was kidnapped from his home at fourteen, chained, marched onto a boat, and kept as a slave

in Ireland until he was twenty years old. Then he managed to walk across Ireland, get on a boat,

with nothing more than the clothes on his back, and make it back to England, a miracle in

itself. His family was overjoyed at his return. Patrick's family was wealthy and educated, and

Patrick would have had a comfortable life. But he couldn't get Ireland out of his head. He

dreamed about it. In his dreams, he claimed God told him to go back to Ireland to serve the

people there. He went back . . . and ended up serving the people in Ireland for the rest of his

life!” Wilson shook his head in wonder, as if the story still moved him.