Restoration
Page 7
“You’re probably worried about Donald,” she said, stroking my neck with warm fingers.
“Well, that too.” I held her tight. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” After another quick kiss, she removed my hands and flashed a behave-yourself smile. “Now go take a nap.”
* * *
This time my sleep was dreamless. I barely remembered crawling onto the couch, but that’s where I was when Toni woke me more than an hour later. I emerged from the dark gradually, like a diver rising toward the surface in a slow and steady glide through murky water. For the first time in recent memory I slipped away from sleep as if unnoticed, instead of being jolted then torn from its grip. Still, it felt foreign to come up out of sleep without feeling the warmth of Toni’s body against my own. In those few seconds before I truly understood where I was, I reached out blindly for her but caught only air and a quick glimpse of her as she moved away, back toward the kitchen.
I lay there a moment, eyes again closed. Toni had turned the stereo on and was playing a CD; tranquil piano tunes tinkling softly from nearby speakers. A steady wind and periodic bursts of rain spraying the windows distracted me from the concert, but it was the sudden vision of Bernard—his face gawking at me as if pasted to the inside of my eyelids—that forced me into a sitting position. I drew a slow breath, released it, and pawed at my eyes.
We ate at the kitchen table; small talk interspersed with the occasional clang of silverware against plates, the muted sound of chewing and the seemingly endless downpour drenching the world outside. The meal was delicious, the conversation somewhat guarded. We were both reluctant to pursue the topics we’d discussed earlier, though I’m sure for different reasons. Toni was able to stay removed from it all—and no doubt found it easier that way—while I felt too connected, more level-headed than before, perhaps, but still unable to evade the fear, despite her solutions and explanations. Something was happening, or was about to happen, or perhaps had already happened, but something was going on; there was more to the nightmares and unshakable sensations of dread than Toni was willing to consider or I was able to realize. Of that much, I was certain.
After dinner Toni curled up on the couch with a novel and I went off to the bedroom with Bernard’s planner and the photograph of the woman I had taken from Donald’s apartment. Sitting on the foot of the bed, I went through the planner, searching the scribbles and notes for anything unusual, anything that might stand out. I found nothing out of the ordinary, and other than the photograph, nothing that would raise even remote suspicion. I slipped the picture inside the planner, zipped it shut and put it on my nightstand.
“Was that Bernard’s?”
I saw Toni in the doorway. She’d changed into her bunny slippers and a pair of satin pajamas. The light from a lamp on the nightstand cast her in a subtle yellow glow. “Yeah.”
She looked beyond me to the window. “Is this rain ever going to stop?”
I’d always loved rain, found it more peaceful than depressing. “I hope not.”
“You’re so weird.” She smiled, revealing great teeth.
“Yeah, but you love me.”
She shrugged. “You’re OK.”
I laughed, and it felt wonderful. Like the nightmares, it was disruptive, but in a positive way. A dull and uninteresting life suddenly interrupted by death, suicide, bad dreams, or nothing more than simple heartfelt laughter, existence seemed so easily jarred, so amazingly fragile. I watched her there in the doorway, beautiful and alive, and wondered if I was losing my mind. “Come here.”
Her smile drifted away. “We’re both tired, Alan.”
My heart sank, as it always did, and I could only hope my expression hadn’t betrayed me. “Awful early to sleep.”
“You need to rest.”
“I need…” My voice faded into oblivion.
Toni moved across the room with a purposeful stride, crossed to the other side of the bed and turned down the blankets. “Come on, let’s snuggle a while.”
It felt nice beneath the covers, our bodies cuddled together, arms and legs and fingers and toes touching; her cheek nestled against me in the curve where neck meets shoulder, her breath a warm and steady pulse on my chest. With the wind and rain raging so near, we lay still, silent and undisturbed in the serene eye of the storm. Like lovers.
Dim, but not wholly dark, the room was still awake too, shadows and phantom lights gliding along its walls and ceiling, writhing ghosts slinking from hiding places, beckoning night.
Toni shifted and let out a soft mewling sound. I slid my hand from her back to her shoulder, then down across her breast. She tensed immediately. “Alan, don’t ruin it.”
I stroked her hair instead, brushing renegade strands back and away from her forehead, my eyes closed, welcoming memories of the night my mother died.
We’d been in this same bed, in this same room, probably in this same position, until I’d slipped down between her breasts, nuzzling and kissing them, in need of that warmth. But when I took one of her nipples between my lips, Toni pushed me away. “Stop,” she’d whispered, as if someone might hear. “For God’s sake—now?” What had never occurred to her, what she’d never understood, was that at that moment, that exact and spontaneous moment, I needed to feel strong and masculine and sexual and alive. For her, making love was somehow inappropriate just hours after the death of my mother. For me, it was an essential expression of enduring love, our love, the love that would survive and define and support and protect us both.
Our sex life had not been the same since. Now, more often than not, Toni was disinterested, preferring to snuggle, as if anything more was distasteful, a destroyer of an otherwise wonderful moment. And when we did make love, it was almost always as studied as the other routines we’d come to know so well. Where the sexually charged woman I’d married had gone, I couldn’t say. She wasn’t talking. And I’d stopped asking long ago.
She sat up a bit, looking back at me with an angelic glow. “Tomorrow morning we’ll do something, OK? But tonight let’s just—”
I pulled her close, nibbled her neck. As her head fell back against the pillow she slammed shut her eyes, and I knew I’d lost her. Had never really had her, I suppose. I kissed her gently, without passion, and felt her body relax.
“When did we become these people?” I asked.
She gazed at me with what could only be devotion, stroked the dark hair in the center of my chest and whispered, “Go to sleep, my love.”
And when I did, Bernard was waiting for me.
If you’ve enjoyed the excerpt of The Bleeding Season, purchase the entire novel for only $2.99 at Amazon (for a limited time only).
The Bleeding Season (Kindle Edition)
About The Author
The son of teachers, Greg F. Gifune was educated in Boston and has lived in various places, including New York City and Peru. His work has been published all over the world, has been translated into several languages, and has garnered attention from Hollywood, and his novels and novellas have been consistently praised by readers and critics internationally. He has been called “one of the finest writers of his generation” by both The Roswell Literary Review and author Brian Keene, and “Among the finest dark suspense writers of our time” by legendary author Ed Gorman. Greg’s novel The Bleeding Season is considered by many to be a classic in the genre. Also an accomplished editor, Greg resides in Massachusetts with his wife Carol, their dogs Dozer and Bella, and a bevy of cats. For more information on Greg and his work visit his official website www.gregfgifune.com or stop by and see him on Facebook.
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Table of Contents
Restoration
The Bleeding Season (Excerpt)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About The Author
Share Your Experience