Luna-Sea

by Jessica Sherry

  “Well, in the few days before my attack, I racked up possible motivations to send me a message in my ridiculous pursuit of the redhead, and I know what you’re going to say. It was stupid of me. I just wanted so badly to prove that she was real, not just to help her. That ship has sailed, I think, but to prove it to myself. With all the things that have been going on in my head, I needed this, you know? One validation that I’m not going nuts,” I lamented with a huff. “I confronted Kent. I snooped around the study at the Peacock. I questioned David Love a little, and I may have been caught eavesdropping on a drug deal.”

  The look on Sam’s face was a combination of shock and you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me. And though a lecture was looming, I breathed out in relief. In a very business-like fashion, he prodded me for details. And I delivered, letting each thing fall from my shoulders and drift over to his. I remembered how well we had worked together after my near-death at sea to solve the Chambers case, and found myself asking why it had taken me so long to share this with him. The walls we’d built up over my panic attacks and his mysterious trips had served to buffer out everything important.

  Sam didn’t lecture, but rather begged me, “Please don’t go back to the Peacock again. If you want to check something out, just ask me. I can do it for you.”

  “Right, even if you think it’s ridiculous?” I challenged.

  “Delilah, when have I ever said that I thought you were ridiculous?”

  I couldn’t answer. He hadn’t. Still, that’s how I felt most of the time. I shrugged.

  Sam went on, “About your attack, I know you want to ignore what happened, but you’re going to replay it in your head over and over. It’s normal. And you, with your analytical mind, well, I expect you’ll replay it more than the average person.”

  “So much to look forward to,” I winced. Truth was, I’d been doing that already, the images filtering through my head unsolicited. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “You might remember something,” he explained, “even if you think you may have dreamt it or it’s unimportant, I know how hard it is to talk about it, but please, you have to tell me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it, Delilah,” he reiterated, grabbing my hands and forcing me to look at him. “I want to help you. You just have to let me.”

  Offer me money.

  Yes!

  Power, too, promise me that.

  All that I have and more. Please,

  Offer me anything I ask for.

  Anything you want.

  I want my father back, you son of a bitch!

  Dark distractions overtook the pleasant ones, in spite of my purging. I hadn’t told him everything. Sharing with him my suspicions about Ricky’s dealings and David Love’s anger, those things were easy. Telling Sam about the blade of the knife against my neck and me daring him to do it or the fear that my attacker was going to rape me, these were too dark to say. Rehashing the details with Sam wouldn’t be like watching a movie. It’d be reliving it and I couldn’t bring myself to go through that again. And part of me didn’t want him to know how bad it was because I knew it hurt him, too.

  The movie ended. Sam guided us back through the meadow and the woods with a lantern he’d brought just for that purpose, and we started the long journey home.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Wait

  Starfish are cool because they can lose limbs and grow them back – a handy dandy tool for many of God’s slighter amphibious and aquatic creatures. But, regeneration isn’t Mr. Potato Head easy, where you just stick the new arm into the hole of the lost one. No, it’s a process of regrowth that can take years. Meanwhile, these creatures, who are already bottom-dwellers, already small and lacking in the intimidation category, learn how to navigate life with one or two less arms indefinitely. Regeneration happens, but it’s not magical.

  Sam and I managed to smooth out the bumps in our relationship, and the trip home was quick and light as a result. Instead of wallowing in tensions (me, in particular), we were snatching up bits of laughter like we were hungry hippos and that was our sole diet. This was the usual us and it was nice to have us back.

  So, back at home, successfully distracted from the not-so-perfect life I was leading, I became hopeful. We’d barely gotten in the door before I lunged at him, smothering him with kisses and making him laugh. I was so thankful that I’d worn my black underwear; you can never go wrong with black underwear. Thankful I’d washed my sheets and made my bed (Sam likes things to be tidy). Thankful that we’d bypassed the bullshit, at least for now, so we could get back to the business of being us – and that business had bills that were way overdue.

  “Delilah, I want to wait,” Sam whispered between kisses.

  I kissed him again. Wait echoed in my head. Wait a minute to catch our breaths? Wait so we could both guzzle Gatorades so we’ll be thoroughly hydrated? Wait for sunrise so we could sync up two glorious events?

  Sam pulled back. “I want to wait,” he said again.

  “Wait for what?” I returned before kissing him again. Wait for a pot of coffee? Wait for me to kick the air conditioner into high gear? Wait so he could declare his never-ending love for me through a poem he’s written expressly for this night?

  “I want to wait until we’re married,” he said, taking a step away from me as if afraid I’d jump on top of him anyway. The thought did cross my mind. I stood there, wanting, mouth agape and eyes squinted together in disappointment and confusion. He explained, “I know it’s old school. Maybe it’s lame, but I don’t care. I’ve been thinking about it all the time actually. You are amazing, and beautiful, and God knows, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted… anything. Please, just let me have this one thing-”

  “I can’t believe-”

  “I know, Delilah-”

  “Why would you want to wait? I can barely keep my hands off you, and you-you want to put distance between us,” I returned with frustration. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything’s fine,” he tried to assure me, “better than fine. I love you.”

  “You’re talking about taking a step back when all I want to do is move ahead-”

  “No, I’m talking about savoring this part,” he said slowly, “and doing things right-”

  “It’s like riding a bike. I’m sure we won’t have a problem,” I grinned, reaching for him. He smiled, but stepped away. “Ah, Sam, how can you possibly think we, or I will last that long?”

  “I hope it won’t be too long,” he returned.

  “It’ll seem like forever,” I countered, “and I don’t see why we should deny ourselves anyway. Haven’t we waited long enough? Haven’t we been through enough?”

  Sam smiled, and ran his fingers along my cheek. “God has given me one perfect thing on this earth, just one. I don’t want to do anything to mess it up. Please. If you don’t think we can make it, and you don’t even want to try, then just say the word and I will ravish you, but if we can wait, if we can just be together as we are and not jump ahead, then I’m sure everything will be so much better.”

  I huffed and plopped down on the couch. It felt as if someone had placed a perfect chocolate cake down in front of me and told me not to have any, and I wanted to throw a tantrum over it. Wait? He wants to wait? We don’t wait for anything anymore. Our food is fast, our checkouts are express, our information is instant, and our entertainment is on demand. Why shouldn’t sex happen the way it does in the movies, whenever the moment seems right?

  Sam chuckled slightly and plopped down next to me. “I know it won’t be easy.”

  “Try impossible,” I countered. “Is this really what you want?”

  “I love you,” he said. His expression was both serious and pained, “and part of loving you is doing everything I can to honor and respect you. I’m not trying to put more gaping holes between us. I’m trying to bring us closer. It’s the right thing.”

  I wanted to argue. This being the right thing implied that somehow us making love wo
uld be wrong, and I didn’t see how that could be. But, I let it go, knowing that if I wanted to, I could talk him out of it, but also knowing that’s not how it should happen. Chocolate cake would just have to wait.

  Still, Sam slept over on the couch. I did feel safer knowing he was there, but restless, too. Sam’s hope to wait until we were married was both furiously frustrating and sweetly romantic. I tried to look at the bright side, that our wedding night should be incredible, that it’d be nice to tell our teenaged kids one day that yes, mom and dad waited until we were married to have sex (and it be the truth), and that sometimes (though I can’t imagine how in this case) sex complicates things and I certainly didn’t need any more complications in my life. I couldn’t agree that it was the right thing, but perhaps it could be a good thing. It took a while, but eventually I drifted to sleep.

  But, pushing dawn, I woke up screaming and choking, drenched in sweat and panic. Nightmares were normal for me when Sam wasn’t there (most nights), but they’d always gone on hiatus on the nights he stayed. Just like my panic was spilling over into the daylight, my nightmares were raining down on us both. In the middle of trying to catch my breath and perhaps still dreaming, I’d cried out, “The shadow came to life!”

  So, the next morning after Sam left, I was filled with misgivings. Sex and chocolate cake aside, it had been a lovely date. I’d tainted it. It was bad enough that I freaked out when he tried to give me a necklace (finally, a boyfriend who wants to give me jewelry!), but to cap the night off with my whacked-out nightmares and me, curled up in Sam’s arms like a baby. It felt like relationship suicide. His words to Beverly echoed in my head… I love Delilah, but it’s hard to move forward when you have to keep looking back. Ugh, why was I continuously pushing us back into the mire of my bullshit?

  “Maybe his words don’t mean what you think they mean,” Raina suggested after I spilled my guts. She’d arrived at the store early, and was enjoying coffee with me when she made the mistake of asking how my day went with Sam.

  Raina went on, “Besides, when you love somebody, you love the whole package, warts ‘n all. Sounds like he’s just worried ‘bout you, and he should be. Your problem is that you’re too danged stubborn and independent for your own good. If Sam wants to open the door for ya, then your job is to walk through it.”

  “I do,” I protested weakly.

  “Yeah, you do sometimes,” Raina agreed, “but you obsess about it, like him opening a door or sweeping a floor or changing a light fixture somehow implies that you can’t do those things yourself. And as far as lettin’ him help ya with anythin’ important, well, he can forget it ‘cause you’ll have none of it. Him wantin’ to help you shows his love, not your ineptness. God made us to grab on to each other, not to push each other away.”

  I breathed out heavily and smiled at my wise cousin. “You’re right. Maybe I’ve been too closed off, too insecure.”

  “You’re as insecure as a prison with no bars,” Raina laughed.

  I grinned, but added, “Maybe it is just insecurity, but I have this feeling. He’s hiding something.”

  Raina rolled her eyes. “You think everyone’s hidin’ something.”

  “No, I’m serious,” I countered. “Yesterday was incredible. But, the thing with Mason Cook seemed rehearsed. And I still have no idea what he did there or why he really had to go.”

  “Your problem is you think too much,” Raina decided.

  I smiled. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Not that you shouldn’t trust your instincts,” Raina quickly added. “You have a funky sixth sense about people. Maybe you should just talk to ‘em, tell ‘em how you feel.”

  “Yeah, and come off as flakier and needier than I already do,” I argued.

  “Eh, just think of your flakiness and neediness as some of your warts,” Raina suggested coyly, “he’s just gotta learn to love ‘em, too.”

  I chuckled. “I hope Sam has a thing for witches because I’m super warty.”

  Raina laughed. She pointed to my new necklace, and said, “Like the new jewelry.”

  I smiled, fiddling with the pendant.

  “Can’t believe you’re worried ‘bout Sam when he’s forkin’ over gifts like that,” she reasoned.

  “I don’t think he wanted to give me jewelry as much as he wanted to send a message,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Yeah, and the message is I love you and want you to have my babies,” Raina giggled.

  I laughed along with her, though I knew the necklace had little to nothing to do with Sam and me. It wasn’t a love token. Rather, the starfish was meant to be a reminder that he believed in me, and I cherished the idea. My eyes revisited the verse, for God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind. Sam believed in me, and that should be enough for all those good things to rush back, drowning out the fear. But, as I played with the starfish between my fingers, I remembered two discouraging facts about these cool creatures. First, that they mend slowly, and second, many can’t do it at all.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Yellow

  Yellow is the color of happiness and sunshine, but simultaneously symbolizes cowardice and crazy. It is multi-faceted, just like me these days. I tried to keep up a sunny disposition, but internally was another story. Yellow is also the name of one my favorite songs by Coldplay. And appropriately, it was the song that Sam programmed into the new smartphone he got for me, and would play every time he called. Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you and all the things that you do. It was all yellow.

  But, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. First, it was Wednesday. Four days after my first successful Fright Night party. Six days since the robbery. Three days until I would host two more parties, and I was mired down with busyness. I couldn’t even stop to read the paper on Wednesday, but rather had Henry read the article aloud as I worked. Franken-Fun at Beach Read headlined the front page, along with a gorgeous picture, taken from the balcony and looking down, of the whole group surrounding Frankenstein Henry as he gave his intense reading. Delilah Duffy charms her way into the hearts of the reading public with the grand debut of Fright Nights, weekly book/author parties that provide guests with a novel experience. D. Duffy and Bellows are hosting a Back to School Bash on Saturday, 2:00-4:00, for children of all ages and an Agatha Christie Fright Night at 8:00. Of the latter, D. Duffy said, ‘The Christie night will be more interactive. Guests will have to become sleuths, and there are surprises around every corner.’ I winced, the nervousness swelling in my gut. Maybe I’d oversold it.

  What I didn’t see in the paper, after checking three times, was anything about the robbery. While the first two robberies had made front page news, mine got zero coverage. Clark Duffy didn’t know about it. And if Clark Duffy didn’t know about it that meant that Sam had made sure to keep it quiet. He’d done his investigative work. He’d reported the crime to his higher-ups. He’d started following leads (or at least suspicions since evidence was limited or still being tested). And yet, he’d protected me, too. I could almost feel my trust-meter rising, and that made it easier to focus on business.

  Labor Day weekend approached, and I had to take full advantage, the last weekend of the summer, to boost my profit margins. It didn’t need to be all yellow, but rather all green.

  Because I was so insanely busy, Sam and I combined business with pleasure, and by way of a date, he escorted me to the Cotton Exchange Wednesday afternoon for loot for my upcoming parties. Between scoring a plethora of used chairs (mostly of the lawn variety) and several small porch tables, what could pass for turn-of-the-century garb for me and Henry, and a few boxes of mismatched tea cups, saucers, doilies, and pots, he gifted me with the phone – an anachronism considering my bounty.

  “I haven’t really missed having one,” I noted, ogling the touch screen like a monkey. The background was a yellow rose. Sam slid his finger across and, what I suppose was the menu, appeared.

  “You need it.”

/>   “I can’t even begin to-”

  “I’ll show you.”

  “But, it’s too expensive,” I protested.

  “Shut-up, it’s fine,” he laughed. “And I promise, this is just a gift meant to keep us closer. It’s not a manipulation or a distraction.”

  I put away the suspicious look I’d given him. “Well, how do I add minutes?”

  “Delilah, it’s not a pay-as-you-go phone,” Sam smirked. “We’re sharing a plan. Call, text, email, surf all you want.”

  I grinned. “We’re sharing a plan? Sounds serious, Sam.”

  Sam’s smile widened, and maybe he blushed slightly. He pulled out his own phone, and said, “You’ll like this.” He pressed his own screen with his thumb, and a second later, mine was ringing. Coldplay’s Yellow sprang to life as we stood there in the middle of the Cotton Exchange crowds, and on the screen of my phone was Sam’s picture. A green answer button and a red ignore button were my options. I let the song play… Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you and all the things that you do.

  “What made you pick this song?” I had to know.

  “Reminds me of you,” he returned, “and not just because it’s a love song. You wore yellow that day, remember?”

  Our first and only date as teenagers flooded back to mind. “Oh, right. The yellow sundress over my bathing suit,” I recalled. Candy had lent me the dress when I complained that the bikini was too revealing. “You can’t win the prize if you don’t show your talents,” she’d advised, but I insisted on the cover-up anyway.

  Edging into me, he said, “I remember how that dress pressed against you in the wind.” His grin widened, his eyes squinted, and his fingers played with mine. “Could see every curve.”

  “There’s the Sam Teague I know and love,” I giggled. “You better watch yourself, sir, or your wait until we’re married plan will be out the window.”

  An easy smile eased up on his handsome face and he said, “My memory’s fuzzy. What plan?” He took my hand and we started walking again, but it was hard to stay on task. I needed to eyeball the tables of goods, not his gorgeous face. Focus, Delilah. Focus.