Amy swallowed, then muttered, “It just seems to get better and better.”
Celeste started to withdraw, but Amy wrapped her arms around her. “Stay.”
Celeste looked at her questioningly.
“It’s comfortable,” Amy reassured and held her tightly. “Stay. I’ll tell you when it’s not.”
Celeste felt a bittersweet void fill her. This weekend marked the end; their time was up. Resting her full weight on Amy she stared into her turquoise-blue eyes. All she wanted to do was tell her that she was in her blood, a part of her. She wanted to hold on to her, stay connected, stay in her warmth. Stay inside. But the choice wasn’t hers. Amy, she knew, regardless of what happened between them, intended to let her go.
Celeste looked at Amy and took a deep breath. Tears spilled from her eyes. “Amy,” her voice broke, “I—”
“You’re making a habit of this,” Amy said teasingly. Leaning up, she gently caught all of Celeste’s tears, before kissing her fully on the mouth.
Celeste pulled her mouth away. “I need you to know…” she looked at Amy through wet lashes, “…I love you.”
Without breaking eye contact, Amy cupped Celeste’s cheeks and stroked them. Eyes wide and tears brimming, she exhaled then buried her head into Celeste’s shoulder and sobbed.
Cradling Amy as she wept, Celeste stroked her hair. Completely disarmed by Amy’s loss of control, she shifted on to her side and pulled Amy with her. Wrapping her arms around her, she held her tight.
Tears spilling over, Celeste closed her eyes, finally accepting that it was over.
Chapter 39
Amy woke and smiled when she registered that she was in Celeste’s arms. Slipping away, she carefully reached out to the bedside cabinet for a drink of water. She looked at the bedside clock; it was just after eleven in the morning. Feeling languid, she stretched out carefully, delighted that she had slept so well and so long.
Amy smiled when her stomach quietly grumbled. She thought that she would make pancakes this morning—pancakes with syrup, sweet and filling. She turned around to face Celeste and because she was lightly snoring, pinched her nose until she stopped. She then ran a hand down the length of her, enjoying touching her as she slept.
Moving down the bed, Amy smiled. Although hungry, she had no intention of rushing out of bed. She put her hand on Celeste’s hip and placed her chin on it, then carefully ran her other hand up and over Celeste’s breast. She slid her finger over her nipple and rubbed it lightly until erect.
Idly, Amy stroked Celeste and thought about the night before. After they had made love, wanting to prolong the night, they bathed together, then made love until exhaustion overtook them.
Listening to Celeste breathe, Amy circled her belly button with her finger then followed the outline of her tattoo. Breathing in the soft scent of her body, Amy’s artistic eye followed the tattoo’s intricacy. She drew a finger along the detail and wondered why Celeste had gotten the tattoo, and if she had gotten it in some exotic place. She thought about how Celeste’s life was so much of an unknown to her. Leaning in, she listened to the steady heartbeat and acknowledged that in all her life, she had never felt this right.
Amy’s face tightened when she recalled the moment, last night, when Celeste said that she loved her. That moment was exceptionally painful. She was left with no choice but to face the absolute truth and dismiss it at the same time. It had taken every bit of self-control not to tell Celeste the same. Instead, she sobbed in her arms, wanting to tell her, but knowing she couldn’t.
It was impossible. Somehow, Amy forced all the emotions circling inside down deep. This, she reconciled, was what they had agreed on. This, she acknowledged, was the end.
Not wanting to think about it, Amy grinned when Celeste opened her eyes slowly and smiled at her.
“Morning gorgeous,” Amy whispered.
“Morning,” Celeste replied. Pulling Amy into her arms she kissed her.
Amy welcomed the long, luxurious kiss. Eventually, she pulled back and smiled. “Tell me about your tattoo.”
Celeste arched an eyebrow in surprise.
“I like its intricacy and the circular design. Where did you get it?”
About to answer, Celeste was interrupted. “Did you get it in some tribal village?” Amy said, touching Celeste’s stomach. “Maybe during one of your field assignments?” she asked. “Or was it when you were on holiday visiting some remote location?”
Celeste let out a hearty laugh.
Pulling Amy close, Celeste hugged her, “Sorry to break your illusion,” she said, kissing Amy’s forehead. “But I got it in a tattoo parlor in Paris.”
Amy pulled back and smiled. “What? No Maori tribesman in New Zealand carefully decorating you in tribal honor?” she asked in a teasing tone. “No Amazonian women decorating you as part of their initiation ceremony?”
Amy grinned when Celeste laughed hard.
“My, my,” Celeste teased. “What a vivid imagination you have, little girl.” She kissed Amy on the lips. “Nope, it was none of the above,” she answered playfully. “I got it on my first introduction to tequila!” Celeste grinned at Amy’s disappointment. “When I was eighteen, I was out with a few girlfriends and we passed a tattoo parlor. We all decided to get a tattoo.” She looked at Amy. “This,” she said drawing an elegant finger around the tattoo, “was agony.”
Amy laughed.
Celeste winked. “I threw up. Right there in the parlor. I even managed to pass out. But,” she fluttered her dark eyelashes. “The tattooist insisted on finishing the job. After all,” she said, looking down at her stomach, “it was, according to him, a work of art!”
Tracing the outline of the Celtic design, Amy said approvingly, “He’s done a great job. In fact, I really like it.” She kissed it then moving up, snuggled closer. She whispered seductively as her hands began to roam, “And do you know where else I really—”
The doorbell rang.
Amy froze. Holding her breath, her eyes widening in surprise, she looked at Celeste. They listened for further sounds. After a few minutes, the doorbell rang again. Raising her eyebrows, Celeste looked at Amy. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Amy shook her head and frowned when the doorbell rang a third time. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to fight off her growing panic.
“You’d better answer it,”
Amy nodded and rolled out of bed. Standing, she was thankful that Maggie had taken the dogs with her, otherwise, they would have barked the house down.
Throwing on her robe, Amy mumbled, “Can you get dressed.” She quickly left the room. At the door, she lifted her hair and ran her fingers through it. Pulling the belt of her robe tight, she braced herself, hoping that she could easily explain why Celeste was here.
Opening the door, Amy drew in her breath, shocked to see two county sheriff deputies.
They flashed quick smiles and the balding male officer asked, “Mrs. Cameron? Mrs. Amy Cameron?”
Amy’s stomach heaved as she answered, “Yes. Yes, I’m Amy Cameron.”
She glanced over her shoulder when she heard footsteps and looked to see Celeste, fully dressed.
“I’m officer Jenkins and this is officer Daley.” The younger, female officer said. “Can we come in, Mrs. Cameron?”
“Of course.” Stepping aside, Amy allowed them entry.
Standing in the hallway, the officers shuffled their feet a little. Aware that Amy was staring at them, Celeste said, “Please, follow me.” Turning, she led the way.
Once the officers were seated in the lounge, Celeste sat beside Amy and across from them.
Officer Daley took a deep breath and said quietly, “Mrs. Cameron, I’m afraid we have to share some bad news with you. This morning at eight thirty, there was an accident.”
Amy covered her face and whispered, “Oh my God. Something’s happened to Josh.”
The officer looked at Celeste before reading from his notepad. “An eighteen-wheel truck crashed in
to a Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo registered to,” he checked his notes, “you and Mr. Josh Cameron.” He quickly finished, “I’m sorry to tell you that all the people inside the vehicle were killed instantly.”
Instinctively, Celeste pulled Amy closer to her and placed her arm protectively around her shoulders.
Amy dropped her hands from her face and, stared dumbfounded at the male officer before whispering, “No.” Shaking her head incredulously, eyes wide, she looked at Celeste. “No. Tell him no way, Celeste. Tell him that those Jeeps are designed to withstand all sorts of things,” she pleaded. “Tell him, Celeste. Tell him that Jeep has air bags, side impact bars, rollover resistance. It has everything.”
Celeste felt Amy’s body start to shake, fully aware that adrenaline had kicked in and was now pumping through it.
Amy’s hands thumped down on the sofa and standing, she stared at the officers. “Tell them,” she said hoarsely. “Tell them now, Celeste.”
Celeste looked up at Amy, wanting desperately to comfort her, but, whatever safety features the Jeep had, it would have had no resistance to a truck that size hitting it.
Opening her mouth to offer comfort, Celeste closed it when Amy rushed to officer Daley and, falling to her knees grasped his hand with both of hers. Imploringly, she asked, “Who? Who has been killed?”
With old eyes, officer Daley looked down at Amy.
Amy repeated, “Tell me! Who? Who has been killed?”
Looking at Amy, pain mixed with deep sympathy, crossed his face. He sighed and shook his head. Slowly, he lifted his notebook and read from it. “The driver of the vehicle, Margaret Forsythe, and the passengers, Sean MacDonald, Christopher, and Ryan Cameron.”
Amy gaped at him, and watched his mouth move in slow motion. His voice seemed distorted and extraordinarily loud. Her hands flew to her ears. She tried to cover them to block out the sound, but she couldn’t. Instead, she was forced to listen in horror as his voice boomed out names that were anonymous to him; but to her, those names were the lifeblood that pumped through her veins, the very reason for her existence.
When his mouth closed, the whole world crashed in on Amy. Sounds and smells surrounded her. Everything seemed to pulse with frightening clarity.
Amy squeezed her eyes shut, and doubling over, gasped in agony when an unseen fist punched through her chest and ripped her heart out.
When she fell forward, Celeste shot up and moved quickly. Dropping to her knees, she wrapped her arms around Amy.
Surprised at the contact, Amy’s eyes flew open. Straightening, she looked down at her chest expecting to see a gaping hole, but, to her surprise, there was nothing. For a fraction of a second, calm steeled her spine. Her mouth opened and a disembodied voice asked, “How? How did it happen?”
Officer Daley’s voice full of remorse, said gently, “The Jeep was hit as it crossed an intersection. “The truck was speeding, went through a stop sign and,” he paused, “hit the Jeep.” He cleared his throat. “The driver allegedly was using a cell phone at the time and claims that he didn’t see the sign.”
Reaching out, he squeezed Amy’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cameron.”
A surge of panic coursed through Amy. She put her hand to her mouth, sure that she was going to vomit.
Vaguely aware of Celeste holding her tightly, Amy removed her hand and looked up at the officer. Needing absolute verification, she asked, as her body shook violently, “Are you sure they’ve been…killed?” She pushed forcibly out of Celeste’s arms, stood shakily, and added desperately, “They might not have been in the Jeep. It could have been stolen.” She looked pleadingly at the officers. “How do you know for sure?” Her voice cracked. “How do you know they were in that Jeep?”
Officer Jenkins stood. Shaking, and desperately trying to fight back tears, she approached Amy. “Mrs. Cameron, I think you should sit down.”
Amy grasped the younger woman’s arms and, shaking her firmly, said, “How do you know? How can you be sure?”
Officer Daley looked at Celeste and both moved toward Amy. Gently, they removed her grip from the young woman. Leading Amy to the sofa, Celeste sat next to her and pulled her tightly to her.
Amy looked at the officers and croaked, “How can you be sure?”
Officer Daley sighed and a look of weariness crossed his eyes and then sympathy filled them, as if knowing that what he said next was about to destroy her world.
“Miss Forsythe had photo identification of herself and the two…” he hesitated, then cleared his throat, “the two boys. The other passenger, Mr. MacDonald also carried identification.” He hesitated again and looked to Celeste before saying as gently as the words would allow, “But, obviously, we still require formal identification.”
Amy looked at the strangers and wanted to scream, but she only managed to croak, “No. No. No!” Then an animal sound of pain and loss echoed around the room. Amy was so startled it took a moment for her to realize that the sound was coming from her own throat.
Celeste grasped her tightly. “Amy,” she said, her voice carrying a note of despair. “Amy,” she repeated.
This can’t be happening, Amy thought in horror. “No,” she cried out in agony. They can’t be dead, she tried to shout. They can’t have been killed. She tried to ask Celeste, why, but all the words lodged in her throat and blackness enveloped her.
Chapter 40
Amy listened to the sound of dirt falling on the boxes, the wooden boxes that her whole life was buried in. She was aware of Josh holding her, grasping her arms and leaning her against him. She wanted to laugh and tell him that it wasn’t her that needed protecting. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he know she had sold him out? Sold out the people who mattered?
Amy looked from the open grave and watched the weeping faces standing over it. She listened with indifference to the priest conclude his graveside prayer. The reassuring smile she gave the mourners when their hands grasped for hers, never once reached her eyes.
It wasn’t any surprise to Amy that Celeste wasn’t one of them. Since the accident, she had ignored the one presence that made the harsh unremitting reality of her world acute. Her guilt would not allow her to recognize Celeste, other than through perfunctory courtesy. But even here, even now, she sensed her. Somehow, without looking, she knew exactly where she was, and she couldn’t stand it.
Amy smiled at the priest when he held her hand and offered words of comfort. She was Presbyterian, more by birthright than practice, but Josh was Catholic. Not practicing, but he wanted a Catholic burial, and who was she to refuse him? She just wanted it over. He wanted a wake; she wanted to die. He wanted to be there for her; she wanted to be left alone.
To the outside world Amy knew she appeared too still, too detached, but inside she raged—a rage that was nothing like when her father died. This rage was incomprehensible, an inferno burning inside her.
Another mourner grasped her hand and Amy wondered why none of her anger showed. Why the feeling of wanting to slice her life away, rip it into shreds, burn it, and stomp on it didn’t show through. She smiled unseeing as the last mourner dropped her hand and moved away.
Josh wrapped his arms around her. Aware of his increasing concern, Amy put her head on his shoulder. He placed his chin on her head and rubbed her back. Since the accident, she had barely shown any signs of grief.
Amy knew that it wasn’t only her behavior that was frightening Josh, but the distance she was putting between them. Unlike Josh, she had cried little. Not because she hadn’t wanted to, but because she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until everything was over, she told herself.
As Josh hugged her tightly, Amy was aware that even at his most vulnerable, he was trying to be strong for her. He was in hell. His world, like hers, was shattered. Encased in his arms she felt nothing for him, other than a searing sense of disloyalty.
“You gave a wonderful reading,” Josh whispered.
In a desperate bid to force her to communicate her feelings, Josh had asked her
to say something at the mass, give a reading. At first, Amy was surprised, although she didn’t show it because she had stopped showing anything. The idea of standing up in front of people and paying homage was something she would never have considered, but from the moment Josh mentioned it, her mind fixated on it. The dramatist in Maggie would have loved nothing more than a heartfelt eulogy, but the true reason was that Amy would be able to express her love. It would allow her to talk about her family as if they were still here. Give her that chance to engage with them, explore them, and feel them around her without question.
This morning, Amy had stood in front of a sea of familiar faces and opened a well-thumbed book of poetry that Maggie had loved since a teenager. She quoted a verse that Maggie often used then spoke words that she hadn’t written or rehearsed.
Amy didn’t speak for Josh, she couldn’t; her time with Celeste had robbed her of that right. She could only speak of what had been hers, outright and without compromise. She could only speak about her love for Maggie, her children and her brief time with Sean.
In a strong voice, Amy regaled their lives and, to her surprise, her words brought the mourners, weeping helplessly and hopelessly, to their knees.
When she finished, Amy briefly closed her eyes. A surprise emotion swept through her, a feeling of pride. She had given Maggie and her children their due. When she closed the book, she caressed the cover for a moment, acknowledging that she was also closing the book on her life.
Enough, Amy decided at that moment, was enough.
Chapter 41
On duty at the hospital Celeste was paged to a small waiting room reserved for patients’ families. Looking through the window, she saw Josh crumpled in a chair. Outside the door, she turned to the nurse. “Thank you, Christine.” She touched her arm. “It’s good that you brought him here.”
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