Meet Me in the Garden

by Rosa Sophia

  “Ian, I missed you.” She stepped through the entrance and walked to his side. Her earlier conversation with Joy returned to her. Her shyness made a flush rise in her cheeks. She’d always skirted commitment, feared being close to someone. But now was not the time for that. She felt it in her chest, a rising certainty that consumed her.

  Ian turned away from his keyboard, his wheeled chair moving with him. He sighed heavily as though exasperated she had interrupted him, then picked up a half-empty bottle of beer and took a long gulp.

  “Amalie, where were you? I made dinner.”

  “Oh, I went to the bar with some of the people from the office—Joy, Tara, and Garrett.” Amalie paused, wishing she hadn’t mentioned the man’s name. “He hit on me again.”

  “Did you tell him you were taken?”

  “Of course I did,” Amalie said brokenly, sensing an edge of distrust in his voice. “Why would you even ask me that?”

  “I don’t know, Am. Things have just been so distant lately. We’ve both been working so much. It sounds weird, but since you moved in, I feel more like we’re roommates and less like—well, sometimes I don’t feel like you’re my girlfriend.”

  Her heart hammered and tears threatened to flow. It was true, they’d both been working so much lately, and they had little time for each other. They went on occasional dates, but something was strained. A barrier seemed to have manifested between them. In the evenings, Ian seemed less attainable, more interested in writing and drinking than he was in being with Amalie. She often feared she’d screwed something up, though she couldn’t figure out what it was. Moments like this always made her pull back, frightened to continue—scared to be close to him.

  She drew up her shoulders, determined to change that. She was tired of being afraid of the basic things humans craved—desire, touch, love, intimacy. She barely knew what those things were. It was almost as if the fragility was so great she might accidentally crush them in her hands, as though they were tactile objects.

  “Ian, I…there’s only one way for me to say this.” She hoped it wasn’t apparent she’d been drinking. Then again, so had he. She hadn’t noticed until recently, but the bottles had been piling up. She drank occasionally, but Ian drank every day, every evening. It went hand-in-hand with writing, at least for him.

  “Say it.” He steepled his fingers in front of him, still dressed in his work clothes—gray slacks and a button-up shirt.

  Amalie stepped forward. What she had to say couldn’t be said using words. She took his hands and gently drew them apart, then sat down on his lap. Sometimes they cuddled like this, but it had been a long time—too long.

  Instead of merely leaning her head on his shoulder as she’d done in the past, she placed his arms around her and pressed her lips against his. At first he didn’t respond, as though he were disbelieving. It wasn’t often she initiated things. She feathered kisses along his jawline, down to his neck, and then back to his lips until he gave in and kissed her back, ignoring the last of his beer that sat discarded by the computer.

  His grip tightened around her waist and he pulled her against him, deepening the kiss. Amalie moaned softly, circling her arms around him. Without breaking the kiss, he scooped her completely into his arms and carried her a few feet to his bed, placing her carefully on the smooth comforter.

  As she worked to unbutton his shirt, then lowered her hands to release his belt, Amalie realized how overwhelmed she was by this passion. She’d never felt anything like it before. The way he kissed her was intimidating. The way he pulled at her clothing until she was naked beneath him. She’d had so few experiences like this, she barely knew how to react. Following her instincts, she kissed him again, nibbling at his neck, causing him to groan into her shoulder.

  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.

  The flashback confused her at first. The dream flickered through her mind like a passing memory. Then she realized what it meant. Sometime later, they lay together naked, cuddling beneath a thin sheet. Amalie had buried herself against his chest; wispy hairs tickled her face. He gently stroked her back, and she tugged him tighter against her.

  The dream returned to her. Astonishment, then amazed realization crept over her.

  Alone in his world, a familiar heaviness enveloped her. Her heart pounded against the clammy sweat upon her breast.

  “Ian,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “Those dreams I’ve been having…about the man and woman, in that place I can picture so vividly. I think they’re you and me.”

  He tilted her head toward him and kissed her gently on the lips. “I thought you might say that.”

  “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

  “Why do you ask? I might get up to get another beer.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Amalie told him about the dream where the couple made love, and the man left. “I know they have names, and I hear them in each dream, but when I wake up I can never remember.”

  “You were talking in your sleep last night again, but I don’t know what you were saying.”

  “Why am I remembering all these things?” Amalie stretched out, tucking her head against the pillow. “What’s the point? It’s so vivid.”

  “I know who you should talk to. But you didn’t want to before.”

  “You sound disappointed in me.”

  “I’m not. I just think Roseanne could help you.”

  “I know. We’ve been over this.” She was groggy, tiredness overcoming her.

  “I saw her yesterday on my way to work. She asked how you’re doing. She said you should stop by anytime, just like she said before.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Amalie drifted off to sleep. This time, tucked close against Ian, she didn’t wake up talking in her sleep, nor did she wake up crying. When the sun rose and Ian’s alarm clock buzzed, Amalie realized she’d slept—soundly.

  The dreams hadn’t come at all.

  Chapter 26

  There was something about the condo downstairs that captivated Amalie’s imagination. As the days passed, Ian’s words echoed in her mind. She knew he was right. She had to talk to Roseanne.

  She was the only person in the building who, on cooler days, would turn her air conditioning down and open the small window by her front door. Scents of freshly made apple pie and traditional kosher dishes would waft out the window, making Amalie’s stomach grumble as she passed the older woman’s condo on the way to her own.

  She wasn’t the only one drawn in by Roseanne’s oddly comforting personality. Amalie remarked to Ian one day about the tree frogs that continually took up residence outside Roseanne’s door. They sat on her welcome mat, barely moving. Sometimes they looked like tiny figurines, until Amalie stepped close enough and saw the gentle pulsing at their throats.

  Butterflies flocked to Roseanne’s windows, especially the zebra longwing, Florida’s state butterfly. They fluttered about as if peeking inside, wondering when she would emerge. Amalie watched them as she stood in front of the door, poised to knock. Before she could rap her knuckles against the wood, the door opened, and Amalie gulped in surprise.

  Roseanne was clad in another of her multi-colored kaftans, her red hair pulled into a casual up-do. She smiled warmly and stepped aside, bracelets jingling on her wrists.

  “Come on inside, dear.”

  “How’d you know I was here?” Amalie said in a small voice, her heart pounding in her throat.

  “I saw ya through the window.” Roseanne cocked her head, one bushy red eyebrow rising above her pale blue spectacles. “Are ya feeling all right?”

  “Uh, yeah, I…” Amalie laughed nervously. “I don’t know, it’s stupid, I sort of felt like you knew I was coming.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly!” Roseanne waved a hand dismissively as she shut the door behind them. “I’d hafta be psychic, wouldn’t I?”
She let out a musical peal of laughter and took off her glasses. “Don’t need these anymore. I was reading one of those dirty novels, ya know. Just got to the part where he was ’bout to rip her shirt off, then I looked up and saw ya out the window.”

  “Maybe you won’t be able to help me,” Amalie mumbled distractedly.

  “I’m sorry, what’d ya say, dear?” Roseanne stepped into the kitchen. “Would ya like a slice ah cherry pie? I just baked it yesterday.”

  “Uh, sure. I mean, Ian keeps telling me you might be able to help me with something, and I don’t know who else to talk to. I…I’m afraid you might think I’m crazy if I tell you. And we don’t really know each other that well.”

  “Honey, the things I’ve seen, most people wouldn’t dare believe,” Roseanne said, the tone of her voice becoming stronger, more indicative of her Jersey Jew roots. Amalie watched her scoop a generous helping of pie onto a gold-rimmed plate. She handed the plate to Amalie and served herself a slice. “Let’s sit down at the table.” Roseanne indicated the small dining area near the front door.

  The two women settled across from each other, and Amalie dug into the pie. It was delicious. As she savored her first bite, she nearly forgot why she’d come to see Roseanne in the first place.

  “So, dear. Tell me what’s on yer mind,” Roseanne said, licking a piece of pie crust off her lips. She was a messy eater. As she waited for Amalie to respond, she quickly dabbed at a cherry that slipped down her chin and onto her front. Amalie waited for her to finish cleaning herself up before she said anything.

  The past few months flashed by in her mind. Things had changed quickly, and sometimes Amalie couldn’t figure out how. How do you go from being completely smitten with someone, to begging for their attention while they sat in front of a computer screen drinking a beer?

  “Amalie?” Roseanne leaned forward. “Are ya in there?”

  “Hmm?” She snapped her head up to meet Roseanne’s gaze. “I’m sorry, I get lost in space sometimes.” She tried her best to organize her thoughts. “Ian suggested I talk to you. I…I have these dreams. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Roseanne was smirking knowingly. “I was waitin’ for ya to come to me. I knew ya would eventually.”

  “Oh. Ian told you he thought I would?”

  “Not really.” She shrugged and finished her pie. “I just got the feeling ya might, soon. Continue. Tell me what yer thinking.”

  When Amalie was nervous, she would either clam up or ramble incessantly. In this instance, she rambled. She talked about her dreams, told Roseanne about her recent diagnosis, and described every detail—right down to the faceless Woodsman.

  She couldn’t help but admit how things with Ian were not going as she wanted them to. They were both so busy, and when they were home together, they didn’t talk much. She thought of her late nights lying awake in bed, and told Roseanne about the sound of Ian typing and how it comforted her and lulled her to sleep.

  She even described the scent of cloves, how the smell had been around her long before she’d met Ian, and she’d seen the shadow of a man standing in her room at night.

  Roseanne took a deep breath and closed her eyes. For a long moment, there was total silence. In the background, the clock over the kitchen entrance ticked loudly. Then she opened her eyes and reached across the table, taking Amalie’s hand. As their hands touched, Amalie felt a jolt as an unexpected bolt of energy passed through her hand and up her arm. It shocked her to the point that she recoiled, but this only made Roseanne smile slyly and cock her head.

  “Ya felt it too?” she asked. When Amalie was only able to nod, Roseanne continued. “Many years ago, you were more connected to yer true self. You’ve lost that connection, Amalie. When ya go to bed tonight, I want you to make an intention. Ask yer higher self to reveal to you the truth behind your dreams. But if I were to make a guess, I’d say you already know the meaning. Ya just don’t want to accept it. I’d say Ian was astral projecting to ya, to watch over ya. That’s why you smelled his cigars. He’s the figure you saw in yer room. Am I right?”

  Flashes of her dreams passed through her mind. Amalie saw the brooding lover, the blonde, and the Woodsman as he cut the flesh of a kill. She saw another face, one she hadn’t given much credence to until now. She leaned forward and gazed into Roseanne’s eyes.

  “Oh.” A feeling of lightheadedness passed over her as she pressed her palms against the table.

  “You see it, don’t ya?”

  “It’s you. I mean, from my dream. Fianna.” Her mind reeling, Amalie leaned her head forward as a shock of pain crossed her face. “It’ll pass. This always happens, the memories seem to trigger—”

  “I know, dear, ya don’t hafta tell me. There’s pain in your past that’s coming forth into the present. Come sit on the couch.” She urged her across the room and pushed her gently against the cushions. “Relax. Just breathe.” Roseanne sat beside her and gently rubbed her back. “There’s a reason for everything, dear. Yer remembering the past because it means something.”

  “It hurts.” Amalie felt a darkness welling up within her chest. She remembered loving a man and losing him, making love to him and watching him walk away. She felt the pain of his disregard. He couldn’t help it. He was sick. He couldn’t help it. “Why do I feel this grief? Where’s it coming from?”

  “You know from where.” Roseanne narrowed her eyes. “We have many lives, you and I. I knew the moment I saw ya I’d met ya before. With each vision I have, it’s clearer. You and I were close friends once. Do you remember your name?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “You know what it is. Let yourself remember. When ya dream tonight, hold onto those dreams. Remember the truth. This is the key to solving yer problems, and to getting a good night’s rest. Until you come to terms with it, these messages will only become more intense.”

  “I’ll remember. But why do you think I’m remembering all this, why now? What does it mean?”

  “I’m not sure. Just pay close attention, and the answer will be revealed to ya.”

  “And why was I always seeing that shadow in my apartment, and smelling the smoke? You really think Ian was watching over me?”

  Roseanne took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Yer soul is connected with his. There’s something you have to fix in this life. Pay close attention, and don’t be deceived.”

  “Deceived by what?”

  Roseanne lifted her thick shoulders and cocked her head. “That’s for you to discover. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. How is the pain?”

  “It’s receding now.” Amalie leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment.

  The small living room was cool and cozy. Something about Roseanne’s comforting presence, the delicious scent of warm cherry pie, and the dim lighting caused a drowsiness to descend on Amalie. She hadn’t slept well in so long. It would be so tempting to just—

  “You can take a nap if ya like, sweetheart.” Roseanne’s hand was soft and warm as she held Amalie’s.

  “Thank you, Roseanne. I think I’ll just go home.”

  “Would ya like to bring some cherry pie home with ya?”

  As Amalie headed back upstairs, carefully carrying a container of pie, she mused on how much more comfortable she felt around Roseanne. She was definitely a kindred spirit, someone she could easily befriend—regardless of any past lives they had shared together.

  Chapter 27

  1700, Ireland

  The sun was beginning to sink in the sky, and Myrna was standing on the veranda overlooking the garden. They’d had an early supper. She was alone except for the sounds of the buzzing insects of summertime, the cacophony of their song filling the air.

  Her heart felt heavy and she wanted to scream. Nothing seemed able to assuage her sorrow. During the short time she’d been living here, she’d fallen even more deeply in love with a man who continually frustrated her. She felt bereft of li
fe, and even her practice of witchcraft and honoring the Gods had fallen to the wayside as she mourned her current predicament.

  Worse, the Woodsman wanted her. It drove him crazy that Myrna continually retreated to the estate and to Malachi’s oft-absent embrace. Yet she continually sought comfort in the Woodsman. She didn’t love him, but he was there for her. Even as he skinned the animal while she sat on the rocks by the stream, he had listened. Even as the scent of the body lifted into the heavy, humid air, he made himself available. When he was finished, he held her. He feathered kisses along her cheek, and she gently turned away when she thought he would try to claim more. She tried not to make it obvious she didn’t want to feel his lips on hers. She didn’t want to be physically close to him. She wanted Malachi.

  The past took hold of her and wouldn’t let go. Myrna remembered when her father and brothers had suspected her of witchcraft. Her mother was dead, no longer there to protect her. She remembered her father’s stench when he returned from the fields. She watched him guzzle the liquor, then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “What we talked ’bout this mornin’, girl.” He’d slammed the bottle on the table. “We’ve come to a decision.”

  Her brothers stepped inside, but they left the door open.

  “Please, Father, it’s not true what they say,” Myrna hazarded.

  Her father indicated the door. “We’ve been through this. I won’t turn me only daughter over to the mob. I couldn’t watch ’em drown ye.” He nodded toward the darkening night. “Leave.”

  “But—”

  “Get out before I change me mind.”

  Myrna had known her choices were few. So she’d gone to the only other place she’d ever felt comfortable. She went to Malachi’s home, to his garden. There, on that beautiful day years before, she had felt at home for just a few hours. Those few hours at the garden party had been enough to seduce her completely. When her family disowned her, she had a place to go. She had a new family—Malachi. And she would not leave him, no matter what.