San Francisco, Summer 1971 

Barnabas’ shoulders slumped in dejection as he sat staring at the clock. A few moments before, in sleep, he had felt truly human for the first time in two centuries. Now he sat alone in a strange hotel room in a strange city robbed by reality of the hope and joy the dream had provided to him. And in place of those emotions was a profound sense of dread, dread that the end of the dream meant that Julia would never be his. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the object he had placed there. Julia’s glove. He had wanted it with him on the plane for comfort and for inspiration. The feel of it, the scent of it, made him feel closer to her, and when he had been nervous on the flight, he had slipped his hand into his suit coat to caress it.

He looked at it now and thought that it mocked him once more. Again, it seemed that this was all he would ever have of her. He sighed and began to lay it down on the bed when a chirping sound in his head stopped him:

Barnabas, this may be your last chance with her. Do you wanna blow it?

Willie’s words, Willie’s wise words. No, he did not want to blow it.

He stood and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, much as his handyman would have done. He needed to find Julia and to talk to her, to convince her…. But how was he going to find her short of sitting in the hotel lobby for hours until she eventually walked by? He was afraid to ask to be connected to her room; it would be too easy for her to refuse to see him over the telephone. He walked over to the mirror as he considered bribing the desk clerk for her room number.

Since the removal of his curse, Barnabas Collins had actively sought out mirrors. Whereas once he had steadfastly avoided them, he now craved seeing his reflection at every opportunity, less from vanity than for the affirmation of his new life as a human being. But this was one time that he turned away from his image, for the man who looked back at him was not the Maine gentleman that he recognized. This man looked haggard and tired, his eyes smudged with black. His clothing was rumpled and askew, and he was honestly afraid to contemplate his own aroma. But the most disturbing characteristic about this man was the look of defeat that defined him from head to toe; there was no chance that this could be Barnabas Collins.

He quickly stripped off his clothing and stepped into a hot shower. In a short period of time, he had bathed and changed into a fresh navy blue suit. He contemplated his options as he perfectly knotted his striped blue tie but was stopped by a loud and painful rumbling in his stomach. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the meal they had euphemistically called breakfast on the airplane. Remembering the restaurant he had passed in the hotel lobby, he decided to have dinner there as he developed a plan to contact Julia.

Pocketing the room key, he started out of the door when he noticed the taupe glove lying crumpled on the bed. He crossed the room and picked it up, smoothing out the wrinkles and bringing it up to his face to inhale her scent. With a smile of renewed hope, he put the glove back into his pocket - where it belonged.

*****

Barnabas walked through The Neptune Bar on his way to The Trident restaurant. The bar was decorated with an under-the-sea theme: the walls were adorned with paintings and pictures of all manner of fish and underwater flora and fauna; the carpeting was various shades of aqua with all types of seashells stitched into it; even the barstools had been carved to look like seahorses. Otherwise, it was like any other bar in any other restaurant - the same sights and sounds and smells. It had the prerequisite smoke-filled and hazy air and the frenzied clink of glasses as the bartender worked to make concoctions with names like the Mermaid Margarita and Poseidon’s Pina Colada.

It was like any other bar – except for the sound of husky laughter that unexpectedly erupted from a table a few feet in front of him. There was no mistaking that laughter. It was a sound that he had heard rarely in their years together, but it was a sound that unmistakably belonged to her .

Collins stopped suddenly, his eyes trained ahead of him, narrowly avoiding a collision with a waiter carrying a tray of empty glasses. Julia Hoffman sat with her back to him, and he readily recognized the regal set of her shoulders, the fiery glow of her red hair in the dimmed lights. He knew he was too far away to smell her perfume, but the scent still filled his head, flooding his mind with images from his dream.

It was a moment before he registered that Julia was not alone – and that her companion sat facing him. The realization caused him to completely freeze in place. The man across from Julia Hoffman was broad-shouldered and blonde with eyes of clear and honest blue. Barnabas thought that he was the personification of a Nordic god. He also was a little shocked by the man’s age; he looked to be several years younger than Julia. It did not occur to his old-fashioned mind that most of the women he had “loved” over the past few years had been as much as twenty years younger than he was.

The man seemed utterly captivated by Julia. His eyes shone with affection for her, and she had his full attention when she spoke. Collins watched as the man said something that looked particularly sincere, then reached over to claim Julia’s hand.

Barnabas’ stomach twisted, tied itself into a knot, then twisted again and double knotted itself. He stood there paralyzed, unsure of what to do. He had found Julia, but how could he speak to her now? Did he want to meet his rival or run the other way?

The decision was taken from him; the Nordic god saw him and gave him an odd look, murmuring something to Julia as he did. She turned around then, the expression of curiosity on her face quickly turning to surprise and alarm. She stood so abruptly that her chair tipped over, and only the quick reflexes of her companion saved it from crashing to the floor.

“Barnabas! What are you doing here?”

*****

The air in the bar seemed to suddenly thicken as he moved forward, and each step he took was like treading water. He called on every reserve of dignity and charm that he possessed, but the smile he forced to his face was ghastly instead of winning. A century later, he had arrived at her table.

“Hello, Julia,” was the most he could manage to say.

Her eyes sparked green fire, and her jaw was rigid in an expression he knew well; she was furious with him. “What are you doing here?” she hissed again.

There was nothing he could say to her here. There was no way to explain his presence. He decided to exploit her manners and sense of decency to his own advantage. He saw no other strategy open to him.

“How wonderful to see you, Julia. Won’t you introduce me to your friend?” He was surprised by how calm and even his voice sounded.

The doctor glared at him looking like a cobra ready to strike. She started to say something but bit back the words. Was it his imagination or had she really growled at him?

The blonde god was standing slightly behind her, a perplexed look on his face. Having no choice, Julia stepped back slightly and looked from one man to the other. Her face was ashen, her voice strained with anger when she finally spoke.

“Barnabas Collins, this is Dr. Stephen Stephens.”

Part Eleven