by D. B. James
“No, I can’t say I have. When do you plan on coming back? I’d like to see you once you’re here. Your voice sounds happy, but I’d like to see you and judge for myself,” Dr. Beesley says.
“Maybe another four days?” I question. The drive now is another eight hours to Belen, New Mexico. If I make Belen my only destination, it’ll be nearly a twenty-one hour drive back to Alabama. It’s a drive I’d never attempt in one day, not alone at least.
“As your doctor, I’m asking you to keep your appointments for next week. I’m advising you not to skip any more than last week’s and this current week’s appointments. If you can make it, I’d like to see you next Monday, Tenley,” she informs me.
“Okay, I can make it happen. I have a lot to fill you in on. I’ve been making huge strides toward healing. I know you’ll be proud of me. I am,” I tell her.
“Like I said, from the tone of your voice, I can hear your happiness. I’ll see you next week. Drive safely, Tenley.” With those parting words, she disconnects the line.
Shit, I never was able to complain about the hold music.
Pulling into the gas station three hours later, I’m sick and tired of being behind the wheel and rethinking this whole road trip idea. If I turn around now, I’d be back to Case’s apartment by dinnertime. After a night of rest, I could leave and drive back toward home in the morning.
Finish finding myself at home.
Granted, I’d be entirely missing the point of finding myself, but at least I’d be back in the comfort of my own bed instead of running down my demons in the lines of the highway.
As I’m sitting here parked at a gas pump, my door hanging half open, my cell phone rings. Glancing down, I see it’s from an out of state caller. Since I’ve heard from my family today, it could only mean one thing…Gloria has received my voicemail and is calling me back.
Do I pick it up or should I be a wuss and let it go to voicemail?
One more ring, and the decision will be made for me.
Grabbing the phone, I hit the screen to answer and begin screaming into the phone like a complete a downright fool, “I’m here, I’m here, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can hear you. I take it I called back at a bad time?” Gloria’s cheery and friendly voice fills the air from her end of the phone.
“No, not really, no. I was getting out of my car to pump some gas when the phone rang. I thought I’d missed it when I clicked accept. I’m glad I didn’t miss it. I’m going to step out on a limb here and guess you’re Gloria. Am I correct?” I ask.
Please let it be her and not some random telemarketer trying to sell me a year’s supply of charcoal toothpaste.
“Yes, please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Gloria Landavazo and I’m the owner of Blooming Books—where your flowers have been shipping from. I must say, it’s a pleasure to finally hear from you, Mrs. Grace.” she says.
“Truly, the pleasure is mine. What I was calling for earlier was this, I’m traveling at the moment. Taking some time to myself to see some of our great nation. Currently I’m heading your way. If I make a pit stop for a night in Belen, would you be interested in meeting for dinner, coffee, a drink, anything?” I ask.
“Are you kidding me? Of course, the answer is yes. I’d love to meet you. Authors are like rock stars to me. Because of authors like you doing what you do—writing your words—I was able to turn my book art into a business and send my daughter on the trip of a lifetime. I’ve been able to go beyond the initial trip and give my children a real Christmas. The short answer is yes, I’d love to meet you. My love of reading has changed my life,” Gloria informs me.
Another shining example of why I used to write for a living. Used to? Those two words scare me more than actually writing again does. Those two words would mean the end of my writing career and it’s not something I wish to see end. They scare me more than anyone knows. I’m going to the nearest electronics store after I pump gas. Maybe I’ll go as far as to settle into a hotel room nearby and bunker down to write a few words tonight before continuing on my journey tomorrow. Because let’s face it, I’m not going back to Alabama yet. I still have places to go and people like Gloria to meet.
“Tenley, are you still on the line?” Speaking of Gloria, it seems my thoughts have gotten away from me and I’ve spaced out on her side of the conversation. Oops.
“Yes, I’m still here. I’m sorry, I completely spazzed out for a second there. I’ll be in Belen sometime tomorrow afternoon, probably closer to the evening. Would you like to meet for dinner or wait until the next day?” I question.
“Tomorrow works out perfectly, my oldest will be home to help with all my younger kids, as well as my grandmother. Call when you’re around a half hour away, I’ll give you the name of a kick ass local diner, and meet you there,” she suggests.
“Girl, it sounds absolutely perfect. I’m roughly six hours away. I’m going to gas up, grab some food, go buy a new laptop, and check into a hotel here for the night. I’m excited to finally be meeting you. Have a wonderful evening.”
With those parting words, I disconnect the call, toss my phone back onto the passenger seat, and get out of the car. Checking the pump number, I make my way inside to prepay and grab a fresh cold water. With my plans settled in my head for the evening, I don’t feel as deflated as I did when I pulled in for gas. All it took was a simple phone call from a person I’ve yet to meet to turn my whole day around.
Sitting in the middle of the king-sized bed in my hotel room, I stare at the cursor as it blinks from the screen of a blank document. My new laptop came fully loaded, I made sure of it. All I have in my head at the moment now is a title, no characters, no setting, nothing. But a title is better than staring at this blank screen. Maybe if I type it out the ideas will start flowing in.
After typing the title, I sit and stare some more. When I was younger, I recall my grandmother telling me if I wrote my wishes in the sand, they’d someday come true. It was complete hogwash but it’s where my title comes from…Written in the Sand. Also knowing it was never going to become true never stopped me from writing my wishes in the sand when I was growing up. One day I stopped. No reason, other than my life was happy and I felt as if I had nothing left to wish for.
Staring at the screen for another minute, an idea starts to form. Still no characters, but now I know what I’ll write about. A young girl who follows her grandmother’s advice and writes her wishes in the sand waiting for them to one day come true. Until one day reality sets in and she realizes it’s childish to keep placing her faith in such whimsy. Her life continues and maybe she’ll be happy, maybe she won’t. The character will eventually tell me.
Before I know it, an hour flies by and my document is no longer merely a title staring back at me. It’s several thousand words and two complete chapters.
I’m writing again.
It feels fucking fantastic. Since my world came tumbling down, I feared I’d never get back to me. My fears were validated by it taking me this long to begin the healing process, but—dammit, I feel alive again. It’s the first time in years I finally feel…complete. I attempted writing around a month or so ago, and nothing came from it. Maybe one hundred words, but this? It’s as if the fear was for nothing, the words keep flowing from my fingertips as the tears stream down my cheeks unchecked. Tears of happiness. I’d forgotten what they felt like. It seems I’ve forgotten what a lot of things feel like. The tender touch of a man, true happiness, love. It wasn’t only my heart encased in ice, but my whole existence. The blood flowing from my veins once chilled me to my core, now its warmth feels almost foreign, but welcome.
Another hour passes and I glance down to see my word count is near seven-thousand. Two hours of my life and I’ve already poured out what I used to write in a normal day. Hitting save, I close down the document for the night. It’s nearing midnight and I need to rest, but first I need to hear Case’s voice. He’s the first person who crossed my mind when the words started flowing. I
held off on calling him until I was done writing for the night. I knew if I didn’t, more words wouldn’t be written. I’d listen to his rich baritone streaming through our connection instead.
Placing my laptop on the floor, I lie down and pull the blankets up around my waist, settling in for the night. Grabbing my cell, I hit call on his contact info, it barely rings twice on my end before his voice greets me.
“Mo ghaol, I’ve missed you today.” His rich voice caresses me like a warm hug.
“Not nearly as much as I’ve missed you. I almost turned around to come back, but um, I bought a laptop and stopped for the night instead,” I confess.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah, I started writing again. I wanted to call you straight away but stopped myself. The words kept flowing, I had to force myself to stop for the night because I need to rest. I cried happy tears, Case. It feels unbelievable.” If he only knew how victorious it feels.
“I’m proud of you. I know how much it hurts to be cut off from your art. It’s happened to me before, not for two years, mind you, but it’s happened. I love you’re finding your words again. Tell me, what did you write about?” he contemplates.
“Oh, well, I started with a title. Actually, from something silly my grandmother used to tell me to do whenever we went to the beach together. She used to tell me to write my wishes in the sand, therefore my title refers to doing so. My main character does the same, and her life falls apart around her once she stops believing in the magic of the wishes.”
He’s silent for a few moments, I fear I’ve lost the connection. “Case, are you still with me?” Removing my phone from my ear, I check the screen making sure the call is still connected.
“I’m here,” he says, his voice raspy. He clears his throat before he continues, “My grandmother used to tell me to do the same thing. Bizarre, huh?”
“Not really, I think if you grow up near a beach it’s probably commonplace,” I say.
“She didn’t, and I for one, certainly didn’t. I’m drawn to the water but didn’t grow up near it. At least not like you did. I was born in rural Texas; the nearest beach was a solid two hours away. We didn’t go much. My grandmother was born in Kentucky, her parents came over from Scotland. I live in Austin, granted there’s water here but I’m not near the ocean where I love to be. Her telling me to write my wishes in the sand was something I always thought was unique to her.” He stops for a moment, like he’s gathering up the courage to say what he does next. “I wished for you in the sand, Tenley.”
Oh.
He obviously means he wished for me as a child. He doesn’t mean he did it recently. Because it’s whimsy. Foolish. He didn’t wish for me now, did he? It makes no sense. Why would he wish for someone who’s not whole? I’m half broken, used, and tattered. Why would he waste a wish on someone like me?
“You mean as a child?” I ask.
“No, mo ghaol, I mean now,” he replies, his voice full of emotion like I’ve never heard come from him before.
“Just to be clear, you wished for me…broken mess me?” I probe.
“The day I met you, I felt a connection to you. I liked your spark. Going to the shop, I was determined to win you over before I left. Having failed, I lost hope by the end of the day. I only let you go because I figured my lonely didn’t need to get tangled up with a nice girl like you. The next day when I arrived at the beach, I wrote my wish in the sand. Later the same day you stumbled back into my life after I had let the idea of you go. Little did I know you were searching for a friend…even if you didn’t know it. What happened next can only be described as fate. Yes, to answer your question, I wished for you in the sand, Tenley.”
I’m speechless.
To know a man of his age and wisdom believes in a childish tale told to him by his grandmother leaves me speechless. Yes, at one point in my life I believed in the same thing. I’m not certain when I stopped. I’m guessing it was around the same time I’d met Michael, he’d given me everything I’d ever could’ve wished for, why bother with whimsy? Writing about it and hearing Case’s conviction about such a theory, I realize I still believe. I’d only let the notion go because I had everything, until one day I didn’t anymore.
Maybe I need to start wishing in the sand again.
“Case?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Thank you for wishing for me. For believing I’m worth it. It’s going to take some work and my journey isn’t easy, but it’ll be worth it in the end knowing it’s leading me to you. I’m healing myself to come back to you whole. After spending a few days with you, I know you’re worth it for me. Now I need to believe I’m worth it for you.”
“I see it, now you have to see it. Believe in yourself, you’ll find you’re worth more than the stars. Get some rest so you can continue your journey in the morning. I miss you, but I’ll see you shortly. Sleep well, mo ghaol,” he greets as we’re getting ready to hang up for the night.
It irks me to not know what the words mean. Knowing them would make my life easier, and I could look up the meaning online, but I promised I wouldn’t. Case says he’ll tell me the meaning when I’m ready to hear it, and I believe him.
“Goodnight, Case.”
The words echo throughout my hotel room, the hum of the air conditioner my only reply. Soon the same hum lulls me to sleep. It’s the best night’s rest I’ve had in years.
CASE
I’m dumbfounded. Struck stupid. Whatever way you spin it, I’m shocked. Tenley’s family told her the same folly mine told me. We were both raised to write our wishes in the sand.
It’s not as if I grew up by the water, or like my grandmother did either. I’d always thought it an old wives’ tale, something she told me to believe in when I was a young child and I carry with me still today.
I’ve never stopped believing in wishes.
If I were Irish, I’d say she was my gold at the end of the rainbow. But I’m not. I’m Scottish. No leprechauns here, only a Scottish brute.
Finding this out about her makes me believe more and more she’s truly mo ghaol.
The gift I bought her today, I’m going to send to her parents’ place, therefore it’ll be there when she returns. I’ve worked my magic and contacted her friend Van. She’s going to send me a picture of Michael to include in the white gold and diamond locket. I’m placing a picture of myself in it as well. Therefore, she’ll always have the two men in her life who love(d) her the most near her heart. Normally, I’m not one for buying jewelry, but I couldn’t stop myself from walking through the door tonight as I was strolling home. Turns out, I knew exactly what I walked in there for and left five minutes later and eight-hundred dollars poorer.
It took all my energy not to glance at engagement rings.
Maybe someday I’ll be searching for one, but today was not the day.
The next evening as I walk into Hal’s Diner, I spy a beautiful woman with raven hair and skin the color of toasted honey sitting at a booth near the middle of the diner. A vase of flowers made from the pages of a book sitting on the table accompanying her. It’s how I instantly know it’s Gloria. From her appearance her name truly is fitting. Gloria means glory and depending on how you define it, glory stands for magnificence or great beauty. One can definitely use the words to describe the loveliness of the woman waiting for me to join her.
Walking to the table, my nerves suddenly decide to make an appearance. Why, I haven’t a clue. I’m wearing my wedding dress shirt—again—a skirt I picked up in Austin and my highest heels. My hair is kickass (if I do say so myself) and my makeup is perfect. Another stunning woman shouldn’t intimidate me, but for whatever reason, she does.
“I know from the flowers, I don’t have to ask, but I will anyway, Gloria, correct?” I say as I slide into the opposite side of the booth not waiting for her reply before taking my seat.
“Yes.” Her chocolate hued gaze slides up and meets mine. “Wow, I must say your portrait doesn’t do you justi
ce. You’re striking, Tenley,” Gloria compliments as I continue to stare at her as if she’s on display.
“I was having similar thoughts about you. Honestly, I was a bit intimidated to come over here after I walked through the door. Your beauty shines off your shoulders in waves,” I admit.
Telling her the truth as I see it has tears glistening in her eyes. Has no one ever spoke plainly of her beauty? I’m a firm believer in telling another I find them attractive no matter if I’m into them sexually or not. I’m all about building one’s confidence piece by piece, not picking it apart like most people these days seem to do.
“Thank you. My husband tells me I’m beautiful, it’s nice though to hear the words from someone who isn’t obligated to say them, you know?” she asks.
“Trust me, I know the feeling. At times during my marriage to Michael, I felt as if our saying the words I love you each night as we drifted off to sleep made them lose their validity. Like it was commonplace for them to be tossed around casually. When such words should be treated as the treasure they truly are. It’s rare to find another who adores you no matter what, and I felt like the words needed to be put away for rainy days.”
I’ve never admitted such a thing out loud before, yet I feel the words I’ve spoken in the marrow of my bones. The words are tossed around nowadays like they mean nothing, yet they mean the world.
“Holy shit. You’re an author all right, even the words you speak sound like they should be written on the pages of a book,” Gloria states.
As I’m thinking about her comment, our waitress makes her way over to our table, her arms weighed down with plates.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I already ordered for us. Uh, it may be weird, or rude, but I figured you’d like what I ordered. It’s the reason I wanted you to meet me here. And if you don’t, more leftovers for me, so…winning,” Gloria says as the waitress, Karen, loads our table with plates until nearly every inch of available surface is covered.