Truly, Madly Viking

  "Are you wearing undergarments?" he asked of a sudden.

  "Joe! What a question to ask!"

  "Are you?"

  "What would make you think that I'm not?"

  "A man can be hopeful, can he not? Methought you might have wanted to surprise me, since I must go celibate today."

  "I think celibacy refers to a longer period than three or four hours."

  " 'Tis a long time for me," he grumbled. Sighing with disappointment, he stared out the window on his side at the passing scenery.

  "I'm not," she said softly, "wearing underwear."

  His head swerved to the left. She was blushing profusely. Suddenly he decided shopping would not be as boring as he had contemplated.

  Mag-he returned her attention to her driving, and went on talking, probably to cover her embarrassment. "Many of the spectacular buildings erected then are still in existence on the Strand, surviving even a devastating storm in 1900. I think you'll like it."

  He thought he would like to go home and practice some more oral sexing, or mayhap he would just polish Mag-he's belly button ring for her... with his tongue. And he still wanted to try licking her toes, which he had discovered were very ticklish.

  "What are you grinning about?" she asked.

  "Toes," he said, and winked at her.

  She blushed again. But she did not turn the car around. Apparently she was bound and determined to go shopping.

  He slumped down into his seat, disgusted. Oh, it would be interesting to watch Mag-he today, knowing she was nude for him beneath, but there were dozens of sexual exercises he wanted to experiment with, and only a limited number of hours left till the girls came home tomorrow night. And what did the feckless wench propose? Shopping!

  In truth, women were the same throughout the ages. It mattered not if it was a shopping mall in a city or a trading stall in a market town. He didn't doubt that the first Christian man, Adam, was as beleaguered by his woman, Eve, as all men were. It would not have mattered to Eve that she had everything she could possibly need, living in the Garden of Eden. She would have wanted to go shopping, he would warrant. For apples.

  "Did you see that?" He sat up straight, undid his seat belt, rolled down the window, and leaned his head outside.

  "What? What?" Mag-he asked, swerving her car over to the side of the roadway, then turning off the motor.

  "Out there." Jorund pointed over the water. "I thought I saw a killer whale jumping into the air. Do you think... Yea, it must have been Thora."

  The Strand area was located on the opposite side of the island from the Gulf near a thriving commercial port. Surely a whale would not swim into those congested waters. But then, this was not a normal whale.

  Much as he and Mag-he peered over the water, there was no sign of Thora. Perhaps he had been mistaken, but he did not think so. There had to be a reason for her showing herself now. What could it be? Was it a sign, or a warning?

  "You're not going back to your time now, are you, Joe?" Mag-he asked him in a tear-filled, panicky voice.

  He brought his head back inside the car and stared at her, horrified. That thought had never occurred to him. It was too soon. Oh, he had been complaining for weeks about not being able to go home. But now that the possibility loomed on the horizon, he realized that he did not want to go... not yet. Conflicting feelings battered him. He had to go, for his brother Rolf's sake. He had to stay, for Mag-he's and her daughters' sakes.

  He could not think about all this now. Instead he made a tsking sound and put his arms around her, kissing her face and neck and lips. "I am not going anywhere, sweetling," he assured her.

  But a whaley-like voice inside his head clicked and squealed in orca language, adding to his words an ominous, Yet.

  "Hey, Dr. McBride. How's your belly button?"

  Maggie's head jerked upright with surprise, but then she noticed the young man with purple spiked hair. He was standing in the doorway of the tattoo parlor where she'd had her body piercing done earlier this year.

  "Just great, Orvis," she answered. Orvis was the son of the owner, Herbert Dupree, a longhaired, graying, sixties hippie who had never really grown up.

  Before she could turn and introduce Joe, he set their overflowing shopping bags on the ground and stomped forward, grabbed Orvis by the front of his raggedy T-shirt, which read, A Hangover Is the Wrath of Grapes, and lifted him off his feet so that the young man was at eye level with him.

  "Troll, do you dare speak of my lady's intimate body parts?"

  The kid appeared as if he might pee his pants, so surprised and terrified was he. Even worse, they were garnering attention from the shoppers and tourists in the busy Strand district.

  "Put him down. Right now," she ordered Joe as she tugged on his arm to pull him back. "He's just a college student who works in this shop, where I had my belly-button ring put in." In fact, as Maggie recalled, he was a prelaw student at UCLA.

  "Oh." Joe looked from her to the dangling boy in his hands. "I thought perchance your braies had dropped down a bit, and he could tell you were not wearing undergarments." He snaked out a hand to palm her behind then, and squeezed. His other hand was still holding Orris up in the air by his T-shirt.

  She yelped and jumped away.

  "I was just checking," he said, and smiled widely, apparently satisfied that she hadn't lied. Then he turned back to the boy, inquiring, "You meant no insult?"

  He was still not convinced the kid wasn't some dire threat to her reputation. The kid just shook his head, speechless.

  Joe dropped him unceremoniously to his feet.

  "Apologize at once," Maggie told Joe in an undertone, "or else we're going to have police here, arresting you for assault."

  "Assault? That was no assault." He blinked at her in incomprehension. "An assault would be a blood eagle to his back, or sword dew spilled. This youthling is unharmed." He turned his attention back to said youthling. "Is that not true?"

  Orvis nodded his head like a dashboard doll. Joe reached out a hand then and shook Orvis's hand vigorously. "I am Jorund Ericsson. How do you do?"

  Orvis shook his hand back, but under his breath Maggie heard him mutter, "Holy shit!"

  Joe glared at the ogling shoppers who still stood about, till they finally slunk away, figuring he might start on them next. Then he turned his gaze to the storefront. "Ah! A body-piercing market stall. Mayhap I should have one of my body parts pierced, too."

  Maggie inhaled sharply, and the air went down the wrong tube. She began to cough uncontrollably.

  Joe just blathered on: "I can think of one body part that deserves particular homage after all of last night's bedsport. What think you of—"

  "No!" He barely had time to gather up the shopping bags before she grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the store and down the unique street, with its high curbs and overhanging canopies. Horse-drawn carriages passed by slowly, contributing to the Victorian ambience of the place. A Viking in Dickens's world, she thought with a shake of her head. But actually, anything went on the Strand.

  Even the occasional oddball shops, selling body piercing, kites, and army surplus gear, somehow seemed to fit in with those carrying fine antiques, gourmet chocolates, imported cigars, and designer clothing.

  "I was jesting, Mag-he. Dost really think I would mar such perfection? Or sustain such pain for the sake of vanity?" He winced and pretended to cross his legs.

  Where had this playfulness and sense of humor come from? Joe had been such a grim fellow when she'd first met him. Hmmm. Maybe she was a good influence on him. But she couldn't let his outlandish statement stand. "Perfection, huh? A little full of yourself today, aren't you?"

  "With good cause, m'lady," he bragged, pointing out, "You would know that best of all."

  Maggie couldn't stop her face from heating with embarrassment.

  "Mayhap I should get a tattoo, then," Joe offered, stopping in his tracks and resisting her efforts to move him along the sidewalk.

  "No!"


  "I could purchase a tattoo of a killer whale," he suggested. "Mayhap that would be a good thing to do, Mag-he, like an offering to the gods to appease their wrath."

  "The gods of orcas?" she inquired with raised eyebrows.

  He shrugged. " 'Twould appear anything is possible."

  His forehead creased with thought. "Yea, I could put a drawing of a whale on my arse. Thora has a fondness for my arse, you know."

  "You are impossible," she said with a laugh, shoving him into the Old Strand Emporium, where they soon ordered deli sandwiches and mugs of draft beer. From the back could be heard a cacophony of musical sounds coming from the Wurlitzer Band Organ, player pianos, and oldtime banjo-player jukeboxes.

  "Mayhap I will buy one of those music machines for Sue-zee for Christmas," Joe suggested as he took a long swallow of beer.

  "Are you crazy?" she asked, then immediately ducked her head with shame. What a question for a psychologist to be asking... especially of a former patient. "I mean... do you know how much those jukeboxes cost? At least five thousand dollars."

  He pulled out a wad of bills from his back pocket and laid them out on the table. "Don't I have five thousand dollars?" Joe hadn't yet mastered the currency system.

  She motioned for him to put the money away before the bug-eyed diners at the other tables decided to help themselves. "Joe, you have sixty thousand dollars left. That's not the issue. You can't be buying such expensive gifts for people."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you already bought a laptop computer for Beth and a pricey video-game system with a dozen cartridges for Suzy, both against my protests."

  "You wouldn't let me buy that word-shert that proclaimed, I Love Cats. They Taste Just Like Chicken."

  "Get real," she commented. "Rita would never forgive me."

  He raised his chin stubbornly. "Viking people love to give gifts, and to receive them, too." He was back to the subject of expensive gifts. "Why is it wrong to purchase items that might please someone?"

  "Because sometimes your generosity goes too far."

  "Mag-he," he said with a long sigh, "generosity is when a person gives something till it hurts. Spending a few thousand dollars on people I care about is not going to affect me at all. Further more—I do not care how much you resist—I intend to buy gifts for Steve, Hair-vee, Chuck, Fur-red, Rosalyn, Not-a-lie, and Norse Hatch-her, as well."

  Maggie put her face in her hands. The man just would not listen to her. The hospital gave Christmas gifts—small items, to be sure—to all its patients. It wasn't a good idea to get too personal with the patients.

  Or was it?

  Maggie had seen on more than one occasion how Joe's relationship with the therapy group, even though he was no longer a patient, had helped everyone.

  Treating them as friends, rather than sick people, had raised their self-esteem, and jump-started some real mental-health progress.

  "Okay," she agreed, "but we have to work together on this. You're not going to go off the deep end buying extravagant presents."

  "Who? Me?" he asked. Then, out of the clear blue sky, he commented, "I am picturing you naked right now. Do you like that?"

  The man had a one-track mind. And frankly, she did like it. A lot. But she couldn't tell him that.

  He winked at her. Oh, my. Could he read her mind now? Then he stretched his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. The whole time he sipped at his beer, which he continued to refer to as mead.

  A lot of men and women in the restaurant took note of Joe with surreptitious glances his way, even a gray-haired lady with a sweatshirt saying, Forget Youth.

  How about a Fountain of Smart? And it was no wonder. He stood out in any crowd with his height, good looks, and the proud way he carried himself. Today he was dressed in a long sleeved plaid shirt tucked into jeans. On his big feet he wore the same athletic shoes he'd been given at the hospital. His long blond hair was bound into a queue with a rubber band. But it wouldn't matter how he was dressed. Joe would draw stares even if he wore rags.

  "Well, we could buy Natalie a Patsy Cline greatest-hits CD."

  Joe nodded. He was familiar with CDs, since Suzy and Beth often forced him to listen to their music, especially Ricky Martin, for whom Joe had developed a particular aversion. And he had to recognize the name of Patsy Cline, because Natalie was always belting out her tunes.

  "Maybe we could buy Suzy another Ricky Martin CD. Perhaps there's one she doesn't have."

  "I want to go back to that military surplus store and purchase that Navy SEALs jacket for Steve."

  Maggie bit her tongue to stop herself from pointing out that it was a hundred dollars... too much for a friendly gift, especially since he'd already bought a baseball card of Steve's at a memorabilia store earlier today for a whopping fifty dollars, and it wasn't even in mint condition.

  "Ooh, I thought of something else. We should buy one of those hats we saw in the cow-man store for Dock-whore Sea-bold."

  Maggie smiled. "You mean the cowboy store?"

  "Is that not what I said?" Sometimes Joe got exasperated when she corrected his language mistakes. "We should buy him one of those big ass black hats we saw in the window... that's a word Steve taught me, by the by. With a hat like that, Dock-whore Hairy wouldn't have to worry about his hair drape blowing in the wind."

  "The Stetson?"

  "Yea, that's the one. The stepson."

  Oh, good Lord. What would Harry think of such a gift? Then she giggled, trying to picture her boss in the big-ass thing. Though cowboy hats were not uncommon on a Texas man—or woman—she had a hard time picturing Harry, noted psychiatrist, wearing a cowboy hat. But then, his hair comb-over was out of character, too.

  A mischievous grin appeared on Joe's face then. "And I have thought of the perfect gift for Glad-ass Hatch-her," he announced. "A whip."

  "That's not funny," she said. But it was, kind of. Once again Maggie was surprised by Joe's sense of humor. Maybe he was beginning to put his guilt over his children's death behind him.

  "On the other hand, mayhap we will give Glad-ass some scented skin creams to soften her up."

  Yep, he was developing a super sense of humor.

  They discussed what to buy for the other members of his group, then went out to make their purchases. In addition, there were a few more impulse buys, like the kaleidoscope that Joe just had to buy for Suzy. Maggie would have thought the Viking man was a little boy as he oohed and aahed over all the objects in the kaleidoscope store, finally settling on a brass-plated scope of fine quality.

  He'd also found a cuddly stuffed Keiko to add to Beth's collection. And he'd picked out colorful kites for both of them.

  This was going to be some spectacular Christmas for her daughters. While Maggie wasn't stingy, she had never gone overboard with Christmas gifts, not wanting her daughters to become spoiled, or to take away from the true meaning of the season. She didn't think it would matter if this year was a little excessive, though. Besides, it might be the only Christmas they had with Joe, and she couldn't begrudge his making it memorable for them.

  It was late afternoon, and each of them were carrying two shopping bags, when Joe said, "Do you know what I really want?"

  "A Big Mac and french fries."

  He made a tsking noise at her. "No, I want to go home."

  Maggie closed her eyes for a brief second, savoring the sound of home on his tongue. She suspected what he had in mind, and suddenly even the slight abrasion of her light clothing was like an erotic caress. "Your wish is my command, oh Viking leader."

  He gave her a look that translated to, Since when? They had almost reached her car when he remarked, "Do you know what I want when we get home?"

  The sultry lowering of his eyelids and the husky tone of his voice were certainly big clues. She felt her breasts peak and begin to ache. The man was turning her into a world-class bimbo. "Surprise, surprise!" she responded in a choked voice. Am I really up to another marathon of sex? she questioned,
then immediately replied: Absolutely.

  "Not that, Mag-he," he corrected. "I mean, of course I want to make love after this long day of deprivation." He flashed her a slow grin, then added, "Nay, it is something else I yearn for, and have ne'er done afore."

  Uh-oh! Maggie couldn't imagine anything sensual Joe hadn't done, and that smoky look in his gray eyes certainly bespoke sex with a capital S. The ache in her breasts dropped lower. She waited for him to continue.

  "A bubble bath."

  It was Sunday night, Christmas Eve, and they were attending the choir recital in the church.

  Maggie was wearing a new white silk pantsuit, trimmed with gold cording, over a glittery gold lamé shell, just fight for the season. There was something about Christmas that called for a new outfit, or a special outfit pulled out only at this time each year to fit the occasion.

  Tears filled her eyes as she watched her daughters in small gold choir robes, with wreaths of holly in their hair, singing in harmony with their peers. "Silent Night." "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." "Oh, Holy Night." "It Came upon a Midnight Clear." "The First Noel." But actually, tears seemed to be the norm for Maggie the past few days as one poignant event after another took place.

  Since Christmas fell on a Monday this year, they'd held the Christmas party at the hospital this afternoon, even though many staff members were off on Sunday and outpatients were not usually on the premises. The clinic's standardized gifts were doled out—chocolate Santas and rainbow plaques with motivational poems on them. Then Joe and Maggie distributed their individualized gifts, as well.

  All of the patients from their group seemed stunned by the particular care taken in choosing their presents, but Steve... oh, the moment when Steve opened the gift wrap revealing his baseball card... well, Maggie would never forget it. And neither would anyone else who had been there. Steve had been overcome that Joe—and everyone knew, without being told, that Joe was at the bottom of these special gifts—cared enough about him to buy that particular memento. In the end, he had just stared at him hopelessly and said, "Oh, man. Oh, man. You're gonna force me to straighten out, aren't you?" He'd liked the SEALs jacket, too, and made a big deal of putting it on for everyone to see how it fit, but it was the card that had hit home hardest.