Dead But Not Forgotten

by Charlaine Harris

  Some may see this as a story of betrayal and infidelity. Others, a story of a good woman beguiled against her will by a beautiful creature. Sookie never told me how she felt about it. I suspect, knowing her as I do, that she might see it as I do . . .

  A love story.

  SUNDAY, JUNE 27, 194–

  I’ve never been one to write down my thoughts, to keep a diary or journal. I don’t know why I feel the need to do it now. No, that’s not entirely true. I think this is my way of being sure I’m not losing my sanity. If I record the events as they happened, maybe I can make sense of it all.

  It began two days ago.

  Mitchell had left for Baton Rouge during a terrible thunderstorm early Friday morning to pick up work supplies. I was alone, sitting on the porch, watching lightning bounce from treetop to treetop in the woods, wondering if he would turn around and come back. Hoping that he would. Our fifth anniversary had just passed and instead of marking the date with cake and candles, we marked it as another reminder that we were still childless. Oh, not in words. Rather as a weight we try our best to ignore though it bears down on us more and more. It colors everything we do in a pale wash and makes us hesitant to express our love the way a married couple should.

  So I sat alone, feeling lonely and depressed. Normally, I love the rain, even when it pounded like it did that morning, stripping leaves off the apple trees and making miniature lakes on the dusty ground of a dry spring. Life quickened as I watched, reviving, grass and flowers lifting their faces to capture the moisture like a child opening his mouth to catch a snowflake. Something loosened in me, too. I was spellbound by nature’s majesty.

  A flash of lightning split the sky, followed immediately by a roar of thunder . . . then another sound. I watched as a huge pine failed, shuddering, creaking, screaming as it crashed to the ground, its thirty-foot length blocking the road onto our property.

  My first thought: Mitchell couldn’t get back to the house now even if he had a mind to.

  My second thought: However was I going to move that tree?

  Even as these ideas formed, the rain stopped. As abruptly as it started. The clouds parted so quickly and the sun returned so blindingly that steam rose from the ground like smoke. I pulled on mud boots and walked out to survey the fallen tree. We had no close neighbors except the snooty Comptons across the graveyard, and no telephone to call them even if I thought they would come to help. Seemed to me my only choice was to hack away the middle, leaving a path a car’s width. Mitchell could clear the rest when he returned, but I faced a monumental chore. The tree was green and at least three feet across. With a sigh, I went to the toolshed to fetch a saw.

  Mitchell was the handyman. I looked around stupidly to decide which of the two or three saws hanging in his workshop would do. I chose the biggest one and hauled it back to the tree.

  It was slow going. It seemed as if I had been sawing for hours and I had just barely cut into the tree’s girth. My shoulders and arms ached. I finally decided to take a break and go back to the house for a cold drink. I had hung laundry out back before the storm hit and knew it would be hopelessly drenched, so I thought I might as well bring it back inside. Another rinse in the tub, another crank through the wringer, and maybe there would still be enough time to let it dry in the sun.

  All these little details are so sharp in my mind. As if leading up to what happened next made them important. I took down the laundry and put it back in the tub.

  But somehow I knew I couldn’t put off the real chore any longer. I had to get back to that tree.

  Back in the yard, that’s when I saw him. No, that’s not quite right. I felt him first. A tingling on the back of my neck. Not like when you’re frightened. More like when you anticipate something happening. Something you know is going to change your life. Something you want.

  Then there was a scent on the air. Like the earth. Rich, fertile, full of the flowers of spring. Feminine yet darkly masculine, too. Musk. I’d never experienced anything like it.

  He appeared out of the woods. He was mist, then fog, then fully formed. I should have been frightened—I knew about ghosts and spirits said to populate the forest and graveyard—but he was so beautiful. And he was smiling. At me. I had to resist the urge to run to him. I held my ground and watched him as he approached. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until he spoke to me and, like a spell had been broken, I felt my chest heave.

  He held out a hand. “Are you all right?”

  I clasped my hands to my chest and nodded. It was all I was capable of doing.

  His smile widened. “You need help with this,” he said, gesturing to the tree. “Let me take care of it.”

  I stepped back, still too brain numb to form words. He took off his jacket and laid it on the ground, and I thought he would reach for the saw embedded in the tree trunk. Well, he did, but only to pull it free and place it on the ground beside his jacket. Then he put both hands close to the tree trunk and, with no effort at all, raised the tree and moved it with nothing more than sheer force of will. The entire tree slid back into the forest to the point where it had fallen. It just moved, as if pulled by an invisible truck. After the first shock of watching the tree, I studied the man.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered, slim at the waist and muscled where the cloth of his shirt pulled against his chest. His face and body looked human, but after watching him materialize as he did from the forest and then move the tree, I knew he couldn’t be—at least not completely. And his eyes. He had eyelashes women covet: long, dark, curled at the tips, framing the bluest blue eyes I’d ever seen. His mouth was full, his lips . . . Well, I wanted to kiss those lips, heaven help me.

  “Adele?”

  When he spoke my name for the first time, I realized I was staring at his face, at those lips, and the smile on his face made my cheeks flame with embarrassment. He seemed to know what I was feeling, what I wanted, and while his smile wasn’t exactly smug, it was perceptive. I didn’t even think to ask how he knew my name. After watching him move a tree, it didn’t seem too important.

  I got hold of myself long enough to remember my manners. “Thank you,” I said, regretting the words as soon as they left my mouth. What a stupid thing to say to this otherworldly creature! I should be asking who he was, what he was. Then I asked the second stupid question. “Do you have a name?”

  He laughed and the sound was musical. “Of course. It’s Fintan.”

  He held out his hand for the second time and I took it. His grasp was warm and firm, and electricity sparked from his fingertips to mine. Startled, I pulled back, but he held on.

  His eyes locked on mine and I found myself stammering, “Would you like something? A drink of water?”

  He nodded, continuing to hold my hand as I drew him toward the house. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t even question the wisdom of bringing a stranger into my house. It felt as natural as rain to be with him. And more than that, it felt natural to want to be with him.

  In the kitchen, he released my hand. I fetched a glass of water from the tap and held it out to him. Once again, when his fingertips brushed mine, it sent a current rushing through me, a burst of energy that traveled up my arm and sent heat to parts of my body—it embarrasses me even now to think about it. (If Mitchell ever finds this journal, I will be mortified. I love him. More than anything. But God help me, his touch never evoked such passion in me. My mind can deny it was desire, but my body knew the truth.)

  I turned quickly away from Fintan and went back to the sink. I got myself a drink of water even though I wasn’t really thirsty. I just wanted to put distance between myself and this stranger who seemed able to evoke emotions in me so powerful I was afraid of losing control.

  I felt Fintan watching me. He had taken a seat at the kitchen table. My hands were shaking. My head spun with feelings of guilt. For what? I’d done nothing. Yet. Oh, but I knew. I knew. Wha
tever happened next, no matter the provocation, my life was about to change.

  I wanted it to.

  My back was still to Fintan. His chair scraped against the linoleum. I didn’t turn around. When he placed his hands on my shoulders, the glass slipped from my hands and shattered in the sink. Neither of us moved.

  Then Fintan spoke. “Adele. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “I’m not afraid.” In spite of how my heart was pounding, I was proud of the steadiness in my voice. I lifted my chin. “Should I be?”

  His grip tightened ever so slightly so he could turn me toward him. “No. I have come today because I know your heart’s desire. I have watched you from the forest.”

  That was the first thing he’d said that sparked a tiny flame of protest. “You’ve been spying on us?”

  He shook his head. “Not spying. And not on Mitchell.”

  A burst of fear made my shoulders jump. Illogically, I hadn’t questioned that he knew my name, but that he would know Mitchell’s somehow alarmed me. “How do you know my husband’s name?”

  Again, he shook his head, smiling gently. “I mean your husband no harm. Mitchell is a good man. He treats you well. You are content when you are with him. But he cannot give you what you want most. He cannot complete you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He took a step closer to me, so close I could see the tiny laugh lines that radiated from his eyes, so close I could breathe in his intoxicating fragrance. I closed my eyes. Was this what being under a spell felt like?

  “No.”

  My eyes flew open.

  “You are not under a spell, although I could certainly influence you if I chose.”

  I drew in a breath. “What are you?”

  “Human. Partly.” He glanced toward the forest outside the open kitchen window. “Partly supernatural being. You have lived in Bon Temps for a long time. You know there are others who walk among you. In the world, but not necessarily of it.”

  I found myself nodding. Still, I’d always believed those “others” were to be feared. I searched his eyes. “Why am I not afraid?”

  “Because you know me. You’ve felt my presence before. Think about it.”

  I turned away from him then, to scour my memory. There had been times in the past when I felt a presence. Especially growing up. I told my mother about it at first, but she’d wave it off, tell me I had an active imagination. Still, a cloud would pass over her face and she’d quickly change the subject.

  “You’ve been watching me since I was a little girl?” I asked.

  “You know I have.”

  I faced him again. “Why have you chosen to show yourself now?”

  His hand brushed my cheek. “Because it is time.”

  “Time?” But even as I said the word, I knew instinctively what he meant.

  Time.

  I bent my head. I was in the middle of my monthly cycle. Five years without a child. Mitchell’s face, so understanding when my menses arrived, yet the disappointment in his eyes . . . He’d wanted five or six children—a big brood to match the big love in his heart.

  Still.

  I couldn’t fool myself into thinking what I’d be doing was all for Mitchell. I wanted a child, yes. But I wanted this stranger, too. I was raised a churchgoing Christian. What would my pastor think if he knew what was going through my head? Could I live with the guilt?

  Why was I so sure making love with Fintan would result in a child? And, more important, what kind of child would it be?

  Fintan had been standing quietly. He hadn’t once intruded on my thoughts to reply, though I knew now he could have. But at the question of what kind of child might we have, he answered.

  “The child would be born of love. Yours and mine. He would be normal in every way. I promise you that.”

  I believed him. God help me.

  “Mitchell.” I half whispered, half choked my husband’s name. “What do I tell Mitchell?”

  Fintan stroked my cheek, a butterfly touch that made me shiver. “Whatever you think is right,” he answered. “My only request is that you wait until the child is born. Watch his face when he holds the baby for the first time. Then decide.”

  “What happens now?”

  He put his arms around me and pulled me against his chest. He tilted my head up to meet my eyes. “This, my sweet Adele.”

  Then he kissed me and my heart soared.

  MONDAY, JUNE 28

  I stopped writing yesterday. Too overcome with emotion to continue. But I don’t want to forget anything that happened these last forty-eight hours. Even the feeling of emptiness when I awoke Saturday morning and found Fintan gone.

  Only his scent remained behind, and the hollow in Mitchell’s pillow where his head had rested. I rolled over in our bed and buried my face in the pillow.

  I can’t explain the feelings that washed over me. All that we did, Fintan and me, came back like a dream, and for a moment, I thought maybe it had been. That I’d imagined the storm and the tree and the mysterious figure appearing out of the forest. The feeling of Fintan’s hands on me and the sweet way he’d made love to me first downstairs, then up here in my bed.

  In Mitchell’s bed.

  I turned over and stared at the ceiling.

  It wasn’t a dream. My body still tingled where Fintan’s hands had touched me. And like the grass and flowers during the thunderstorm, there was a blossoming in me now, too.

  I got up and slipped into a robe. Mitchell wouldn’t be home for another day. I stripped the bed. Reluctantly. I would have loved to keep that pillowcase, even for one more day, to have Fintan’s essence to breathe in once in a while. But Mitchell . . . what if he came home early? He might pick up on the unfamiliar scent and I would never want to hurt him like that.

  I grimaced at the irony.

  I carried the bedclothes downstairs. The tub was still filled with yesterday’s laundry. I went about my morning chores in a kind of trance, wringing the first load to prepare to take to the clothesline, refilling the tub for the bedclothes, hanging everything in the still spring air when it was done. I avoided looking toward the forest. I hadn’t asked Fintan if I would see him again. I was sure I wouldn’t. He came to me yesterday for a reason. And that reason is growing inside me.

  What happens next?

  I’m downstairs now, writing this at the table. The sun beams in, coloring the kitchen in shades of golden warmth. I have to make myself think clearly. I have to make plans. When Mitchell returns, we’ll make love. We hadn’t before he left, the night of our anniversary. Or for days before. We had pretended to be too tired, or too busy (I was to host the next Descendants of the Glorious Dead meeting, and there is always baking to do in preparation) while the real truth was, we couldn’t face another disappointment. If we didn’t try to make a baby, we couldn’t fail.

  But this minute, I’m filled with eager anticipation. This will be an act of love. This time, there will be no disappointment. There will be a baby, a baby that will be ours, Mitchell’s and mine.

  I cannot explain why I have such faith in an act that I should be ashamed of. The guilt may come. Maybe one day, I’ll look back on this and be overcome with loathing. I’ll curse Fintan’s name. Curse myself for succumbing.

  Maybe.

  But please, God, let there be a child. If there is a child . . .

  My life will be perfect.

  I—we—have so much to look forward to. Already, I’m envisioning the bedroom upstairs we’ll prepare as a nursery. And I remembered a wallpaper I saw at the hardware store just last week—fairy-tale characters on a background of pale yellow. My hands clasp softly over my still-flat abdomen. This is a boy. Mitchell would never understand how I can be so sure so it’s going to be a boy. I don’t understand it myself. But I know.

  What will we call him? We’ll
have to pick out two names, of course. One for a girl, one for a boy.

  How long will I have to wait before I tell Mitchell I’m pregnant?

  My period is due in two weeks and when I’m two or three days late, I’ll tell him. I can’t wait to see the expression on his wonderful, handsome face! Course, I’ll also insist we not spread the word until we’re sure. Just to be on the safe side.

  For the first time, I feel a little swell of uncertainty. What if I’m wrong? What if I’ve been tricked by Fintan into giving myself to him for no other reason than to satisfy his otherworldly lust? Has he tricked other women this way? Did I betray Mitchell because I was lonely and weak? Because I blame Mitchell for our being childless?

  And what of the child? What if Fintan lied about that, too, and I give birth to a monster?

  Panic washes over me. What have I done?

  God, forgive me. Please, please, don’t let Mitchell ever find out. Please, if there really is a child, make him normal and I promise, I’ll love him with every fiber of my being. I will bring him up to be a good Christian. I will never stray again. I will honor my marriage vows and make Mitchell the best wife ever.

  As recrimination heaps coals of fire on my head, a breath of air wafts in through the window, carrying with it Fintan’s scent. I rush to the door and fling it open. I will make him answer my questions, make him tell me the truth.

  There’s no one on the back porch. The yard yawns empty before me. I close the kitchen door, return to the table, and pick up my pen.

  Disappointment is like a dash of cold water. Fintan hasn’t come back, but the realization brings clarity. I hadn’t expected that he would, had I? Why would I want him to?

  Why am I racking myself with guilt?

  I will not see Fintan again. If he has planted a seed inside me, he has done it to give me a gift. To give Mitchell and me a gift. Isn’t that what I’ve been asking God for? Didn’t I just think that a child would make our life perfect?