Season of Mists (Young Adult Paranormal Romance) (Cupid's First Strike - Teen Love In The 80's)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  It didn’t work. If the rest of my life was going to be like this, I guessed I would be better off throwing in the towel. I felt hopeless.

  I considered quitting my job at the agency, but decided against it. I thought it would bother me to be there, but I discovered that it didn’t. It was a place like any other now, no more, no less.

  I was desperate to retain some sort of contact with Tom. The only other person who’d known of his existence was Peter Casey. I asked Agnes for his address and phone number. One Saturday morning about three weeks after my accident I called him.

  His daughter answered the phone, and I told her I was a friend of his from the Werner Agency. She sounded doubtful, but she put him on the phone. He remembered me, and I asked him if I could come out to his house for a visit. He told me to come ahead.

  Newtown wasn’t very far, and I decided to go there on my bike. It was November now, and cold. The wind whipped my face as I rode along, and my nose was frozen by the time I arrived at Mr. Casey’s house.

  He lived in a converted stone barn with his daughter, her husband, and their two children. He was in the yard chopping wood for the fireplace when I arrived.

  “Hi, Mr. Casey,” I greeted him, wheeling my bike to a stop next to the pile of logs he’d already split.

  “Hello, young lady,” he responded, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his pea jacket.

  We looked at one another.

  “I guess you know why I’m here,” I finally said.

  “I have an idea.”

  “He’s gone, Mr. Casey. He’s not at the mill any more.”

  Mr. Casey nodded slowly. “Well, I’d say that was a good thing.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I’d say you did him a favor. A great, big favor.”

  “I know,” I replied. “But I miss him terribly.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “I know it’s selfish, and I should be happy that he’s where he should be, but I’m so lonely. It’s terrible to be so lonely.”

  He studied me for a moment, and then said, “Why don’t we go inside? I’m ready for a break; an old man like me shouldn’t be doing this much physical labor anyhow. My daughter will make us some hot chocolate. Would you like that?”

  “Sure would. I’m frozen.”

  He led me inside to the kitchen, which was big and comfortable, with a picnic style table with benches along either side. Mr. Casey introduced me to his daughter.

  “Eileen, this is Cory. Cory, this is my daughter Eileen. As you can see by that picture over there, she looks just like her mother, God rest her soul.”

  He indicated a photograph in a frame on the dining room wall. Eileen did indeed resemble her mother.

  “How about some hot chocolate for this youngster and me, Eileen? I think we could both use it.”

  Eileen examined me curiously, but went to the stove to do as her father asked. Mr. Casey moved on to the living room, and I followed.

  “We can talk in private here,” he said. “Eileen’s a good girl, but she has very fixed notions about what is and what isn’t. I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong impression from our conversation.”

  We sat across from one another in two big armchairs.

  “Now, about that loneliness you mentioned,” he began. “When my wife died I was the loneliest creature that ever walked the earth, I thought.”

  I nodded.

  “I felt so sorry for myself that nobody could stand to be near me. But after a while I got to thinking that we had all those good years together, and that they should count for something. If I’d never known Mary, I wouldn’t miss her. Faced with that choice, I’d choose to have that time with her all over again, rather than be spared the pain of her loss. You follow me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what I’m saying to you is, you couldn’t have the feeling you shared without having the grief of its absence. Isn’t the memory worth the price?”

  “Yes,” I answered in a subdued voice.

  “Of course it is. Now I don’t know what happened, but I can guess. And I don’t think I’m wrong to say that you’re the better for it.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  He leaned forward intently. “Think what you did for that poor boy. Think how you helped him!”

  “He helped me too,” I blurted, struggling not to cry.

  “And there you have it,” Mr. Casey said triumphantly. “Isn’t that what it’s all about? You helped each other.”

  “But I feel like I’ll never be happy again.”

  Eileen came in with the cups. She handed one to each of us and departed silently .

  “How old are you, Cory?” Mr. Casey asked me when she’d left.

  “Seventeen.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Seventeen. You have a whole lifetime ahead of you. It’s too late for me to start over again; I have to be satisfied with what was. But you! You’ve got worlds to conquer.”

  “I don’t feel I could conquer anything,” I sniffled, stabbing at my eyes with the hand not holding the cup.

  “Oh, I disagree,” Mr. Casey said. “It took a very special person to accomplish what you did. Out of all the people who came and went in that building, in all those years, he chose you. Don’t let him down. Show him that he made the right choice. Live up to his faith in you.”

  “I’ll try, Mr. Casey. I’ll try.”

  “I think you can call me Pete. Now why don’t you drink that up before it gets cold?”

  I did as he said. Then he stood up and held out his hand. I took it.

  “Come back outside and I’ll show you my workshop. I make furniture now; it keeps me busy. Nothing fancy, just bookcases and coffee tables, but I enjoy it.”

  I went with him to see his workshop, and left with a pair of wooden bookends. I put them in the basket and pedaled home, feeling better than I had in a long time.

  I had library duty the following Tuesday, and brought along my notes for one of the themes Miss Kenworthy had assigned. I was supposed to be signing out books during fourth period, but it was a lunch break for those who didn’t have study, so few people usually showed. I sat at the desk and tried to think of an original and exciting way to describe Holden Caulfield’s conflict with authority figures. I was sure Miss Kenworthy had heard it all before.

  A couple of boys wandered in and began rummaging through the magazine rack at the front of the room. I ignored them; as long as they were reasonably quiet and didn’t disturb anybody they were free to do what they wanted.

  I went back to my reading. After a while I became aware that a shadow had fallen across my book. I looked up. It was Ken.

  “How are you feeling, Cory?” he asked.

  I had seen him almost daily since I’d returned to school, and yet he asked me this every time he saw me. He was evidently anticipating a relapse at any second.

  “Fine, Ken. Where’s Linda?”

  He made a face. “Making up an earth science test. She really missed your help with those labs while you were gone. I hope she can still pass.”

  “She’ll pass. If she can still read, she’ll pass. She’s copying all my stuff word for word.”

  “Doesn’t Lazarski notice?”

  “I think he prefers my . . . assistance to a demolished lab.”

  Ken chuckled. “Yeah, I guess he would.”

  “How’s Brian?”

  Ken blinked. He hadn’t expected me to ask about his cousin.

  “Great,” he answered. “He just won the county shotput championship. He’s going to try for the decathlon in the spring.”

  That sounded like Brian. “That’s wonderful,” I said. “Tell him I said hello, and good luck with the decathlon.”

  Ken nodded. “I will. ” He glanced at his watch. “Got to run. See you later.”

  I watched his departing back. He was going to see how Linda did on her test.

  Everybody had somebody except me.

  One of the boys at the magazine rack left. The other one
approached me, a book in his hand.

  “I’d like to check this out, please,” he said.

  “Student I.D.,” I said.

  “Uh, I don’t have one. I just enrolled and they didn’t take my picture yet. Can I still take this out?”

  I looked up into his eyes, and felt a strange familiarity in them. It was odd; he didn’t look like anybody I knew. He was a green eyed redhead with an unruly crop of curly hair.

  “Do you have your number? You can sign for it,” I said.

  I turned away to get a pencil, and he started to ask where the gym was. Hearing his voice without seeing him unnerved me; what was it about him that gave me such a sense of having known him before?

  “The gym is at the end of the hall, on the right,” I said, answering his question. I looked back at him. “Have I seen you before?” I asked.

  He smiled. “I doubt it. I was born in Yardley, but I moved away with my parents when I was little. We just came back.”

  “Oh.”

  “I would have come in here before if I’d known the librarian was going to look like you,” he said, his eyes dropping to my name tag. “Cory,” he added.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end when he said my name. In it I heard echoes of another voice.

  “Say that again,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “Say my name.”

  He looked bewildered, but complied. “Cory.”

  I closed my eyes. Was I misjudging this, was I just hoping too hard? I opened them again.

  “The book,” he said, extending it to me.

  I stamped the card and he signed for it with his number. When he bent forward to write I saw the glint of something gold at his neck. Something familiar.

  “What is that?” I whispered, pointing. My heart was pounding so hard I felt sure he could hear it.

  “This?” he asked, pulling the ornament out of his shirt. “Oh, my father gave me this. It’s been in our family for a long time. I don’t know what it stands for, but I kind of like it. It was supposed to belong to my great-uncle, and he was very fond of it. He never took it off; there’s some story that goes with it, but I don’t remember.”

  It was my grandmother’s medallion. A wild joy surged through me.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  “Mike.”

  “Your last name.”

  “Casement. Michael Casement, Jr., to be exact. Am I being arrested?”

  I’ll send someone, Tom had said. You won’t be alone. “That name sounds familiar,” I said, controlling my excitement with difficulty.

  “Oh, there have been Casements in Yardley for generations. One of my ancestors was killed in an accident at the grist mill downtown. You know it?”

  “I know it.”

  “The story goes that he haunts it. Isn’t that a gas?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” I said, smiling at him.

  The bell rang for the end of the period.

  “So, uh, Cory, where’s your next class?”

  “On the second floor. The south wing.”

  “I’m going that way too. Can I walk you?”

  “Sure thing,” I replied, picking up my books.

  We moved out into the hall and joined the flow of students. He walked silently beside me for a while, and then said, “Cory, you just tell me if I’m being too pushy, but do you have a boyfriend? I mean, do you go with anybody special?”

  “Nobody special.” Nobody at all.

  He grinned. “Good.” We walked on a little further. He stopped and turned to me.

  “Would you be free after school today?”

  “I would.”

  “Maybe we can get together. Can you meet me someplace?”

  “How about outside the gym?”

  “Outside the gym after last period,” he replied. “I’ll be there.”

  “So will I.”

  I glanced over at him, and he smiled at me. In that smile I saw the memory of my past, and the promise of my future.

  – THE END –

  I am Doreen Owens Malek, author of over forty books and lifelong fan of romantic fiction. I live in PA with my husband and college student daughter, a mini dachshund and a sun conyer parrot. I would like to tell you a little about myself.

  I came to writing by a circuitous route, starting out as an avid reader of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights and Gone With the Wind and Rebecca, and any other similarly themed books I could find. I first worked as a teacher and then graduated from law school when I desired a more lucrative and independent career. I had always been discouraged from pursuing a writing career by the volatile nature of the business and the relatively poor chance for success. But the realization that I needed a focus for the future encouraged me to do what I had always wanted to do. I sold my fledgling novel to the first editor who read it, and I have been writing ever since. I have written all types of books for all types of people, but my favorite literary pursuit is and always has been romance. Nothing is as rewarding as hearing from my readers, so please use my website to communicate your thoughts and criticisms, as I am always eager to learn from you.

  A romance novel rarely disappoints me: in an uncertain world filled with tragedy and sadness, reading about an appealing woman finding a strong man to love her and share her life is the perfect escape. I like to read and write stories in which the main characters overcome obstacles to get together, and then stay together because their mutual devotion cannot be denied no matter what else is happening around them. They always HELP each other and reinforce the quaint but enduring notion that love conquers all—at least in the fictional universe of my imagination. So pull up a chair and take down a book—or pick up a Kindle—and join me in a world where the heroes are tough and headstrong but never boorish and the heroines are feminine and sympathetic but never helpless.

  Happy reading! — Doreen Owens Malek

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