by Rosa Sophia
“I wish Mom had never known,” she said suddenly.
“What?” Ian turned and glanced at her before picking up a few cans and bringing them over to the kitchen counter.
“I was four when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. My earliest memories are of hospitals. I was there all the time with my dad. They tried everything, but Mom just fell apart, got worse and died. Sometimes I think of all the things we could have done if we’d just said ‘screw the hospital’ and gone off somewhere, so Mom could enjoy her last days instead of being holed up in that place, being told all the time that things were going to get better when they really weren’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Ian froze for a moment, then took the can opener Amalie handed him. As she talked, he prepared dinner.
“Dad got worse while she was in there. He didn’t used to drink so much, but he drank more when she was in the hospital, and it was a habit he never got rid of after she died. That’s what made him so unbearable to be around. I’m so glad I don’t live there anymore.”
“I’m sure your dad loves you, though.” Ian grabbed some fresh vegetables from the fridge, and a few other ingredients, and began chopping them up on a cutting board.
“Yeah, he does. It’s just that I’ve spent so much energy taking care of him, as if he were a little kid—looking out for him, making sure he didn’t hurt himself. He used to walk down to the wharf some nights. I would follow him and make sure he didn’t fall on the rocks or anything.”
“It was that bad?”
Amalie nodded. “Why do you think I couldn’t wait to get out of there?” She frowned, looking down at the floor and her bare feet. “I’m sorry, that sounded rude.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Ian stopped what he was doing for a moment and ran his hand along her arm, trailing around to her back and giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. She didn’t seem to mind. “Keep talking. But first, tell me where you keep your frying pan.”
“Under there,” she said, gesturing to a cupboard beneath the counter. She leaned against the counter and thought for a moment, frowning slightly. “Dad and I hardly ever talk. I used to be okay with him drinking, I guess, because at least when he was sober, he was nice to be around. I liked him when he was sober. But pretty soon, it got so bad that I never told him how I felt, so I bottled it up. And then even when he was sober, I couldn’t talk to him, be nice to him. I just resented the fact that I knew he would be drunk later, so what did it matter?” She straightened and smoothed out her wet hair with one hand. “Jeez, all I’ve been doing is blathering about my problems. I haven’t done that in a long time—except to Zoey.”
“I’m listening. Don’t you have other friends?”
“Yeah, I have friends. But I don’t talk to them about stuff like this.”
“Why?”
“I guess I don’t feel comfortable talking about it. So, why am I telling you?”
“Here’s a thought. You feel comfortable around me.” Ian finished preparing the ingredients and spilled them into the frying pan on top of sizzling olive oil. “You like me.”
“Huh. Imagine that,” Amalie mumbled.
A little while later, they were both sitting at the small table, eating dinner. Amalie ate slowly, mindful of her uneasy stomach, and took careful sips of water. They both turned and watched boats speed past the building and listened to people laughing outside by the water.
“This is fantastic,” Amalie said, halfway through her dinner. “Where did you learn to cook like this? I didn’t even know I had ingredients to make anything.”
“When I was in college, I took a few cooking classes.”
“I bet you got perfect grades,” Amalie mused.
Ian nodded, scooping the last of his dinner onto his fork. “I did, actually. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been able to cook for anyone.”
“Really?” Amalie narrowed her eyes at him. “Come on, if you can cook this well, women must be lining up at your door.”
“Nope, not at all. Quite the opposite.” Ian wondered if she was trying to dig for information. Rather than keep her guessing, he told her straight out. “In case you’re wondering, I haven’t dated anyone in a very long time.”
“What made you think I was wondering that?” Amalie blushed, her cheeks turning an endearing shade of pink.
“Just thought you might be.” He ate the last of his dinner and took a drink of his water. “I’ve really enjoyed cooking for you today.” He folded his arms and leaned against the table. “How is it?”
“Like I said, fantastic.” Amalie finished up and reached across to take his plate. Before she could get it, he picked it up and took hers.
“Sorry, you’re not allowed to do anything but sit there and look pretty,” he said, stepping into the kitchen.
“Ha,” Amalie retorted. “If you say so.”
“I do say so.” He washed the plates and stepped into the living room where he slumped down on the loveseat. She sat next to him, curling against the cushions and yawning. It was nearing six o’clock.
Ian opened his mouth to say something, but Amalie interrupted him. “I’m fine,” she said firmly.
“That’s good, but you didn’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I did.” Amalie patted the cushion between them, and Zoey jumped up to join them. “You were going to ask me for the millionth time how I was feeling.”
“Okay, you got me there.”
“Thank you for making me dinner.” Amalie lifted Zoey onto her lap, then leaned over and kissed Ian on the cheek. “The last time a man made me dinner, it was my dad, and he burnt a frozen pizza.”
That got them both laughing, but Ian couldn’t figure out why someone as beautiful and intelligent as Amalie didn’t have a boyfriend, and when he stopped to think about it, he realized his heart ached for her. She had been through so much, and none of it was over. It was just locked away in her mind, unfinished business she’d left up in Maine. When he looked into her eyes, he could see grief, and he wondered if she ever acknowledged its existence, or if she just pushed it further down in the hopes it would disappear.
They talked for a long time, and then Zoey grew uncomfortable with being jostled around every time Amalie giggled, so the big cat jumped down and found a comfortable spot on the bed to sleep. The sun set and light receded from the room, leaving only the glimmer of the full moon on the water outside. A dim lamp cast an orange glow as Amalie’s eyes grew heavy. In her sleepy state, she moved against Ian and cuddled close, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her near. Her warmth was comforting, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so safe around another person.
Leaning his head to the right, he could smell the sweet, flowery scent of her shampoo. Her skin was no longer gritty with sand, but smooth and soft to the touch. He ran his hand along her arm and she pulled closer to him, making soft noises as she drifted into a half-sleep.
It was strange how natural it was, as if this had happened before. It frightened Ian a little. He’d never been so surprised by his emotions, especially since he generally didn’t acknowledge them. Perhaps they were the same that way. Both scarred by the past, both yearning for company and unwilling to admit it, each of them tucking their sentiments carefully into labeled bottles and setting them on a dusty shelf, to be forgotten.
He lost track of the time. It was late in the night when he coaxed her off the loveseat and over to her bed. He pulled the covers aside for her and she slid beneath them, perfectly trusting, knowing somehow she was secure with him. Maybe she was still asleep, even then. He wasn’t sure. Her face was shadowed, the only light from the moon. When her head was on the pillow, and she was curled up on her side, her arms against her chest, he kissed her gently on the cheek.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispered.
Then he left, stepping quietly out of the apartment and locking the door behind him.
Chapter 11
1698, Ireland
Myrna sat on the soft
earth as the full moon shone upon them. The clearing was bright, and the small tools they would use for their rite were laid out before them.
“Ye needn’t have more than the energy ’round you,” Fianna would advise. “All ye need’s the earth to work your magic.” On a night such as this one, Myrna drew the moon’s energetic pulse into her being, filling her with pale light.
When the ritual was finished, Myrna closed her eyes and leaned toward the sky, enjoying the cool night air on her skin. A soft breeze rustled the grasses, and she pulled her shawl tighter across her breast.
“What troubles ye, child?”
Myrna’s eyes snapped open and she glanced in Fianna’s direction. The old woman sat across from her, tucking her tools back into the small leather bag she kept them in.
“What makes ye say that?”
“Ye drift, ye seem to be dreaming so often lately. Is it—?”
“Yes.” Myrna knew what she spoke of. It was him.
She thought back, remembering what had transpired earlier that day. He had wrapped his arms around her when they stood by the water. He held her and they kissed, his lips rough, his urgency and passion overtaking her. They made their way back to the house, hand in hand, and for a moment their love seemed so uncomplicated and pure.
She’d never been in his bedroom before. He was a very private man, and though he professed his love to her, he held her at arm’s length. It confused her and made her wonder if something was wrong with her. The wall between them felt so impenetrable, as though it were made of stone, yet on that afternoon Myrna began to think she was breaking through.
The room was darkened, much like his study, and the bit of sunlight that filtered in between the heavy curtains illuminated dust motes as they danced in the humid air. The heavy wooden door shut behind them and she was a part of his world, separated from the rest of the universe, held by his thick, muscular arms.
He pressed her against the flat of his stomach. His kisses were deep and feverish, and they desperately tugged at each other’s clothing, as though attempting to free themselves from the bindings of reality itself.
When they’d shed their clothes and stood naked, Myrna ran a trembling hand along his wide chest and traced the puckered scars on his skin, scars that appeared knotted like rope.
“How did this happen?” She looked up into his dark eyes, which were surrounded by shadows that betrayed his mental exhaustion.
“The war.”
She could tell he didn’t want to think about it—that he just wanted her.
Clearly recalled by her memory was the silken touch of the coverlet against her back, and the welcomed weight of his hips pressing between her thighs. Tears of happiness came to her eyes and she turned her face into his muscular chest. Myrna gasped in pleasure and wrapped her legs around his waist. Wet and warm, his lips traveled down her neck while he wrapped his arm around her and drew her close, whispering her name.
When his hot tongue licked the top swell of her breast, her back arched and he caught her firm nipple between his lips, causing her to cry out. With each thrust of his powerful hips, she drew closer to the edge of ecstasy. The cadence increased, the strokes shortening. Pushed over the precipice amidst intermingled moans, they had collapsed into each other’s arms.
For a moment, he lay still. Then he kissed her neck, held her close, and pulled away. With her nakedness suddenly so apparent, Myrna had drawn the coverlet to her chest.
“Malachi, where are you going?”
In the dim light of the room, the shadows played upon him as he dressed. He’d said nothing.
What have I done?
“Malachi, please—” Once again in his dark clothes, he stood by the door and glanced over his shoulder at her. She wanted him to stay. But instead he walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Alone in his world, a familiar heaviness enveloped her. Her heart pounded against the clammy sweat upon her breast. Hot tears coursed along her cheeks, and she wrapped her arms around her chest.
“Malachi, please don’t go,” she whispered.
Too late.
An owl hooted somewhere nearby and Myrna blinked, drawn out of the recent past.
In the clearing, beneath the light of the full moon, she forced away her tears. She didn’t want Fianna to see her cry. This didn’t matter. Somehow, the old woman knew what was wrong. She gathered her things and went to her, holding out her hand. She helped Myrna to her feet and hugged her.
“It will be all right, child. Somehow, it will be.”
“How?” Myrna whispered. “I cannot see how.”
Not another word was spoken. The two women walked through the grass together, away from the clearing and into the woods. The cool breeze chilled her, and the forest drew them in. They walked along the winding moonlit paths, each step memorized by heart, until they reached the great looming estate at the bottom of the steep hill. Myrna sensed that the forest was watching her.
Or was it something else, tucked away in the shadows?
Chapter 12
2013, Florida
Amalie stretched out beneath the sheet, allowing the vision to assail her waking mind. Every night, over and over, the dreams plagued her. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were restful dreams, but they were so full of passion they overwhelmed her and she woke exhausted. The lack of proper sleep was draining her, and she feared it was affecting her work.
This morning was the same—but different. This time, the dream was ardent, frenzied. As she slowly roused herself from sleep, her skin tingled. Goose bumps rose on her flesh. She lifted her hips as if reaching for a lover, but no one was there.
Rolling onto her side, she found Zoey, who licked her nose and rubbed her face against Amalie’s forehead.
“Hey, baby. Hang on, I’m almost awake. What a way to start the day. I just slept and I’m tired.” She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I wish I could be like you and sleep whenever I want.”
Zoey flicked her tail. “Mrow!”
It was Sunday morning. Yesterday was still fresh in her mind. Amalie kept trying to remember her fall on the beach, but she couldn’t. All she recalled was the sickness, and the world going black. She was frightened of it happening again, even as she changed, tugging on her running shorts. She pictured herself falling flat on the concrete, overcome by inexplicable pain. She wondered if anyone would stop to help her.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she said to herself.
But she went anyway.
The sky was bright blue, not a cloud in sight. The palm trees swayed in a gentle sea breeze as Amalie walked beneath them, stepping lightly on the sidewalk. A few kids skateboarded through a parking lot and cut across the street. Several people passed with their dogs and nodded a curt hello. Amalie smiled wanly at them, unable to think of anything but falling—and Ian.
Whenever she thought about him, she felt something in her chest constrict, an apprehensiveness she couldn’t explain. Something about him bothered her.
She picked up the pace and jogged slowly, eyeing the concrete in front of her as though it were a stalwart enemy waiting for the chance to claim her.
What is it about him that bugs me?
Amalie slowed as she reached the end of Hummingbird Lane where it intersected with Prosperity Farms Road. A sudden ache crossed her face, and she quickly sat down in the grass by the sidewalk. A man walked by on his way to the bus stop, but didn’t ask her if she was okay.
As it passed, Amalie thought about Ian, the time they’d spent together, and the meal he’d cooked for her. She mused on the fact that if she hadn’t fallen, the evening might have never happened. He probably would have just dropped her off after their walk on the beach and been on his way. It was strange the way good things could come out of bad things.
The more she considered it, the clearer it became. Ian bothered her because he was kind to her and she liked him. It sounded ridiculous, but it was something she wasn’t altogether used
to. She’d grown up in a hostile environment, lost her mother at a young age, and spent most of her life until she’d left Maine trying in vain to make her father happy. She didn’t do this because she loved him, but because she feared his drunken rages.
Amalie rose to her feet and carefully listened to her body’s signals. The heat of the morning caused beads of sweat to rise along her skin. She felt it trickle between her breasts. Once she was sure the pain was gone, she walked slowly to the bridge on Prosperity and leaned against the side, looking over into the water. The water’s surface reflected the sun and the brilliant blue of the sky, creating a dazzling effect worthy of an artist’s canvas. If only Amalie could paint.
Her phone, strapped to her wrist, began to vibrate. When she saw the name Ian Gardner displayed on the screen, she felt the same anxiousness rise between her breasts and into her throat.
“Hello?”
“Am, it’s Ian. How are you feeling? Oh. I’m not supposed to ask you that, am I?”
Amalie couldn’t suppress a giggle. “You did ask me that an awful lot yesterday. I’m doing okay.”
“Where are you? Driving?”
“No, I’m out on the bridge on Prosperity. I went for a run.”
“Amalie, you went for a run after what happened yesterday?”
“It’s okay, I know. I probably shouldn’t have. I…felt a slight pain.”
“Are you still out?”
“Yes.”
“Can you please walk back now?”
The tone of his voice made Amalie think he was worried beyond reason, but was holding back because they still hadn’t known each other very long. Maybe he was holding back to keep from upsetting her, but she wished he wouldn’t. It was a nice feeling, having someone worry about her.
“Okay, Ian. I’m walking back now.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” She turned and headed back the way she’d come, toward Hummingbird. “Is that why you called me?”
“What?”
“Did you call to check on me?”