Riders on the Storm (Waiting for the Sun #2)

by Robin Hill

  Another brief quiet settles on the line, and then Drew clears his throat and asks softly, “How’s Evelyn?”

  Shame burns my cheeks. She’s another reason my phone hasn’t stopped buzzing today. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, my gaze trained on the yellow line cutting across the asphalt. “Haven’t talked to her. I will—I just haven’t…yet.”

  “I know it’s hard,” Drew says. “So does she.”

  I roll down the windows and cut my engine. Thick, humid air fills the car, along with hot gusts of wind carrying the scent of honeysuckle. Unlike the last time I was here, I welcome the familiar sweetness, inhaling it like a drug.

  The parking lot is empty but for the gray Honda Civic that has no doubt been here all day. I pick up my phone to dial its owner, then immediately set it down. Pick it up. Set it down. Pick it up. Set it down. Fuck! I can’t bring myself to call her yet. What will she think of my silence? What will she say when I tell her I can’t go in?

  What’s a few more minutes?

  My mind drifts as I stare straight ahead at the old rusted iron gate with the word Cemetery welded into the arch. My mother would have appreciated the charm, if you can call it that, but I wonder what Jules would have thought—Jules who liked shiny and new. I wonder why Evelyn chose it for her. Then I dismiss the notion entirely because this place isn’t for Jules or my mother. It’s for Evelyn, and she and her daughter were as different as night and day.

  Her daughter.

  My wife.

  Julia.

  “Francesca.” Her name spills from my lips unbidden, and I stiffen, bracing myself for the onslaught of guilt I expect will follow. But the feeling I get isn’t guilt so much as a prickling awareness that something inside me has shifted. That things have changed—that I have changed.

  And it’s all because of her.

  My phone vibrates from the cupholder and I glance down to see Evelyn’s name lighting up the screen.

  Guess my time is up.

  I connect the call through my car’s hands-free system, then drop my forehead to the wheel with a deliberate thud.

  “I know I’m an asshole,” I say by way of greeting.

  “Oh, honey. If you were an asshole, you wouldn’t be here, now would you?” Her voice is heartening, but I still feel like a jerk. “Are you coming in or are you planning to sit in your car all day?”

  My absent gaze locks on the speedometer, the guilt I avoided earlier sparking to life. “The latter?” I say as if it’s a question. “I’m sorry, I…I can’t.”

  Not today.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll come to you,” she says and then disconnects the call without another word.

  I start the ignition and roll up the windows. The sudden blast of air-conditioning cuts through the hot car and turns my clammy skin to gooseflesh. By the time Evelyn makes it to the passenger side, manufactured air has cooled the interior, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle has vanished.

  She opens the door and collapses in the bucket seat. “My heavens, you’d think I’d be used to this humidity.”

  I peer up at the cloud-heavy sky. “Don’t think you’ll have to worry about it much longer. Hope you brought an umbrella.”

  “A rain shower sounds lovely about now,” she says, drawing a hand across her dampened brow. She pulls at the hem of her shirt and turns in her seat to face me. “So how’s—oh my, are those…calla lilies?”

  “Oh, um…yeah,” I mumble over the sudden ringing in my ears. My gaze lifts to the rearview mirror, where the white tips of a dozen calla lilies are reflected—the rest of the bouquet concealed by the brown paper it’s wrapped in. Only a florist could guess their identity from this angle.

  Like Julia’s mom…

  Evelyn lays a delicate hand on my forearm. “Well, you can’t go wrong with calla lilies. Julia loved them.”

  I smile tightly. “She did.”

  “I was about to ask how your day’s going, but the champagne and flowers in your back seat are telling, aren’t they?” She gives my arm a squeeze, then turns toward the windshield. “I’m so happy you found Francesca. I take it things are good?”

  Emotion clogs my throat and I nod.

  “It’s okay to be happy,” she says gently. “Even today.”

  A gust of wind sets off the rusted gate, drawing my gaze to the sound. “It’s just so surreal. I’m sitting in a cemetery parking lot with my wife’s mother, talking about my—”

  “Talking about your what, dear?”

  “It’s nothing. It can wait.”

  Evelyn juts her chin toward the cemetery gate, then levels me with a look. “I think we both know what a bullshit sentence that is. Nothing in this life can wait. Spit it out.”

  I smile at her candor, though the truth behind her words squeezes my chest like a vise. “I got Mom’s ring resized…”

  “For Francesca? That’s wonderful—wait, what ring?”

  “The oval one.”

  “How? She wasn’t wearing it?”

  I shrug. “Apparently a stone was loose. She’d taken it to her jeweler, but no one ever picked it up. They finally got ahold of Gloria and she kept it for me.”

  Evelyn’s brown eyes glisten. “Well, that’s serendipitous, isn’t it?” She smiles. “I think Francesca will—wait, oh my God, Darian—” Her hand flies to her throat as she shoots a second glance at the back seat. “Are you proposing? Is that what this is?”

  “No! I mean, not tonight, but…soon. I’d…I’d like to.”

  “Oh, my sweet boy. If you’re asking for my blessing, you have it. You’ve had it.” She reaches across the console and gives my wrist a squeeze. “Now do something with it.”

  “Really?” I ask her. “You’re okay with this? You haven’t even met her yet.”

  “I’m not okay; I’m ecstatic, and I can tell you right now, I don’t have to meet Francesca to know she’s good for you.” Sitting back in her seat, she pulls a small white envelope out of her shirt pocket and holds it against her chest. “I found something I thought you might want, but to be honest, it feels a little strange giving it to you now.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a picture your mother took,” she says, handing it to me. “You and Julia were teenagers.”

  I remove the photo and set the envelope on the dash. “My mother took this? I don’t remember it.”

  “That’s because you’ve never seen it,” Evelyn says. “Look at your face.”

  It was taken in the flower shop. Julia’s wearing a bright yellow sundress, her hair gathered at the side in a low ponytail. She’s working on an arrangement—several arrangements from what I can tell. And I’m staring at her as if my eyes couldn’t look anywhere else.

  “You were determined to act indifferent toward her, but we saw through it, your mother and I.” She smiles. “I imagine Julia did too for as much as she put up with.”

  “I was an ass.”

  “You were a rebellious kid.”

  I put the picture back in the envelope and hand it to her. “Thank you for showing it to me, but you should keep it.”

  “It’s yours,” Evelyn says, tucking it in my shirt pocket. “And it should go in your box.”

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’ve already been through the box. Twice.”

  “Then once more won’t hurt.” She turns to look out her window. “The sun’s about to set, and Julia…” She swallows.

  “Loved the sunset.”

  “It was her favorite time of day.” She reaches for her handle and cracks open the door. “I should be going.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay? I can stay.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says as she climbs out of the car. Her gaze cuts to the back seat and she smiles. “I think you have someplace to be.”

  Yes. That I do.

  The last of the sunbathers begin packing their things
as I make my way to the water. Maybe it’s the threat of rain…or maybe it’s the weird guy passing them on the beach—the one dressed in business attire carrying a bouquet of white calla lilies and pink carnations. I suppose I’d want to get the hell away from me too.

  Julia loved it here, for the same reason I came tonight. It’s secluded and never crowded. And in a couple of minutes, it’ll be deserted.

  I stop a few feet from the surf and breathe in the moist, salty air. The wind is cooler than it was earlier and any lingering humidity is masked by the sea spray. The sea spray destroying my new leather oxfords and soaking my navy blue slacks.

  “I obviously didn’t think this through,” I mutter as I toe off my shoes and socks and toss them in the sand behind me.

  I take several steps forward and hold out the bouquet. “Brought you some flowers. Your favorite. Annie’s too.” I pull out a single calla lily and toss it into the surf. “Thought maybe we could watch the sunset together…like we used to?” I swallow and look up at the sky. Bands of peach and orange stretch between deep purple clouds that promise rain any minute. “It’s beautiful, Jules,” I say, pulling out a carnation and another lily. I toss them both into the water. “You would have loved it.”

  I peel the paper wrapping from the flowers and drop it in the sand. Pink carnations and white calla lilies are an unusual combination, and the florist I bought them from said as much. She offered to trim the lily’s stems to match those of the carnations and grimaced when I told her not to bother.

  “Remember how excited Annie got on Valentine’s Day when they gave these out at her preschool?” I ask, extracting another carnation from the bunch. I hold it up to my nose and breathe in the spicy scent. “She was on a mission to bring it home to you, but by the time I picked her up, all that was left was the wilting head.” My lips quirk in a smile as I release the flower. “You put it in a bowl of water and tried to make it float.”

  That was classic Julia. As a parent, she was tough as nails, but she couldn’t stand to see our little girl cry any more than I could. I often wonder what would’ve happened if Annie had cried that day—when it came time to board the plane. Would I have changed my mind? The answer to that question’s haunted me ever since.

  “But Annie wasn’t much of a crier, was she?” I say, my throat tight. I cast a handful of flowers into a small wave just as it breaks. “I need to tell you something, Jules.”

  Light rain begins to trickle down, as if it were waiting for this exact moment.

  To absolve me of my transgressions.

  “I’m going to ask Francesca to marry me,” I say, clutching what’s left of the bouquet to my chest. “I need her. Sometimes I think she’s the only reason I’m still breathing.”

  I stare down at the sand coming and going beneath my feet as the tide rises. Digging in with my toes, I brace myself once again for guilt that never comes. Instead, I feel weightless.

  “I’m in love with her, Jules. I love her.”

  Admitting it—accepting it—is euphoric, like an ecstasy-fueled high. The corners of my mouth tip up with relief I haven’t felt in a decade. I tilt my smile to the darkening sky. “I love her!” I shout this time, and my laugh bounces across the Gulf as the rain comes down.

  I stand there until I’m soaked to the bone, watching the stars wage battle with the clouds, then lower my gaze to the pink and white flowers dotting the coastline. I commit the scene to memory, knowing it’s unlikely I’ll ever return.

  “I have to go,” I whisper, a lump rising in my throat as I turn my back on the water. “She’s waiting for me.”

  I dig my shoes and socks out of the thick, sludgy sand and race barefoot to my car. The message light on my phone blinks through the window like a blue beacon. I climb in, start the engine, and press play. Francesca’s voice sounds through the speakers and a new calm comes over me.

  “God, I’m the worst. And I hate apologizing over the phone, but you aren’t here for me to do it in person. I’m not nagging, I swear…but it’s dark and I’m worried. Gloria hasn’t heard from you, I don’t have Drew’s number, and no one’s answering at the office. Please call or text or something. You don’t have to come home, just…let me know you’re safe? I love you. Okay…bye.”

  A grin splits my face as I pull onto the main road.

  No worries, baby. I’m on my way.

  Dishes clatter loudly in the kitchen sink as I close the door behind me. Francesca appears at the edge of the family room, her hand at her throat, her face flushed. “Jesus, what happened? Where are your shoes?”

  A slow smile spreads over my lips as I take her in. She looks fucking adorable in Gloria’s faded red apron with her hair piled on top of her head.

  “It smells amazing in here. Is dinner ready?” I look at the clock above the TV and wince. “Shit, it’s probably been ready for a while.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll heat it up. Darian, what happened to you? Where have you been?”

  I glance down at my sand-caked pants and dirty feet. A chuckle rises to my lips, but the concern on her face has me pressing them together to contain it. “I stepped in a puddle. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t call.”

  She shakes her head, but her gaze remains on my feet. “I was just worried about you. I couldn’t reach you and God, Darian, I’m so sorry about this morning.”

  “Babe, it’s okay,” I say, moving toward her.

  “It’s not.” She looks up at me then. “I just let you leave like it was any other day and—”

  “Francesca…” I cage her against the island and cup her face in my hands. “Shh…”

  “I knew. I mean, I didn’t forget. I guess I did, but only because—”

  “Time to stop talking,” I whisper and then crush my lips to hers, silencing her with the kiss I’ve been thinking about all day. I tear off her apron and take its place, molding myself to her body, pressing my impatient erection against her stomach. “The things I want to do to you…” A groan spills from my lips as my hand slips inside the leg of her cutoffs and beneath the thin lace of her panties. Ah, Christ. My eyes roll back at the feel of her arousal on my fingers.

  “Oh God…” Grabbing fistfuls of my shirt, she writhes against my hand. Then her body stills and she straightens. “Hold on…wait…Darian, Jesus. You’re so wet.”

  My laugh vibrates against her throat as I slip a finger inside of her. “So are you.”

  “Wait…God, stop. Please.”

  The word stop hits my dick like a bucket of ice water. I take back my hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just…” Her worried gaze rolls over me. “You’re soaked—not damp from a little rain but soaked. And where are your shoes? Darian…”

  “They’re in the car—oh shit, the champagne…”

  “Champagne?”

  “Did you know champagne and fried chicken are a thing?”

  Her brows draw together. “What?”

  “Champagne and fried chicken.”

  “I heard you,” she says, folding her arms in front of her. “Give me a second for my brain to catch up.”

  “So, you do know about it. I thought you might with your weird food thing. There’s this restaurant chain in Texas of all places—”

  “Darian…”

  “Hold on, I’ll show you.” I pat down my pants pockets. “Shit, my phone.” Then I try my shirt. The crinkle of paper beneath my hand steals my breath. The rain. Julia’s picture. “I…uh…must have…”

  “Did you leave it somewhere?” Her gaze cuts to the white envelope sticking out of my shirt pocket. “What’s that?”

  I take an abrupt step back, safely out of her reach. “It’s um…I uh…”

  “It’s okay,” she says gently. A small, tentative smile touches her lips and she clasps her hands together against her chest. “Why don’t you go upstairs and…”

  My pulse thrums in my ears causing her voice to ebb in and out.

  �
��…heated up. Because I think you should eat something.”

  It’s like being in a wind tunnel.

  “…and after that we can talk, I mean, if you want to.”

  Or underwater.

  “Darian? You still with me?”

  I nod.

  She starts to reach for me again but stops and drops her hand. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  I take the stairs to our room in a daze, each footfall a loud thud echoing off the walls in time with my pounding heart. I feel like I’ve gone from zero to sixty in a matter of minutes. Everything was perfect, but now…

  It’s just a picture, I remind myself.

  I head straight for the closet and clear a cluttered shelf with my arm in one fell swoop. Four feet’s worth of shoes and folded sweaters sail to the floor, but I ignore the mess, my gaze fixed on the box above me. My eyes burn and blur, and I wipe them on my shirtsleeve as I take it down and set it on the emptied shelf.

  It’s just a picture.

  It’s just a box.

  They’re just things.

  I pull the envelope from my shirt pocket and slap it on the shelf, then grab hold of the edge in a white-knuckled grip as the closet begins to spin. Lightheaded and dizzy, I inhale stifling, stagnant air in painfully jagged breaths. The room is fucking hot. Buttons pop and scatter as I yank off my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face.

  “Put the picture in the box and get the fuck out.” I grab the envelope and rip into it. “Goddammit!”

  The rain not only smeared the ink, it bonded the image to the paper.

  There isn’t a picture left.

  My stomach roils and a wave of nausea washes over me, but I open the fucking box anyway—just as Evelyn intended. My gaze darts from its perfectly stacked contents to the now crumpled envelope in my hand, and I feel myself sinking lower and lower, suffocating as the walls close in on me. The throbbing in my ears is replaced by a shrill, piercing ring, and I silence it with a strangled cry as another swipe of my arm clears the shelf again.