When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

  Christy-Lynn nodded, the appropriate response when a friend gave you good advice. And it was good advice. For most people. But then most people knew what they wanted—and what they deserved.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Christy-Lynn crossed the street when she spotted the sign for the Moon Maiden. After three straight nights of waking up in a cold sweat, she had decided to take Missy’s advice and talk to Dar.

  A set of brass bells jangled as she pushed inside the dimly lit shop. The space was cool and quiet, the air scented with sandalwood. Dar appeared from the back, pale haired and nymphlike in a flowing skirt of hyacinth-hued silk and a filmy white blouse. She deposited an armload of incense packets on the counter and reversed direction when she saw Christy-Lynn.

  “Hey there! What brings you by?”

  “Missy said I should come see you for something to help me sleep.”

  “Ah.” Dar’s expression morphed into something more clinical. “Then you’ll need to tell me a little bit about the kind of trouble you’re having. Do you have trouble falling asleep? Or staying asleep?”

  “The latter mostly.”

  “Are you on any medications?”

  “No. None.”

  “Caffeine?”

  “Well, I own a café, so I probably consume more than I should, but I’ve cut back over the last few weeks and haven’t seen any real difference.”

  “What about your stress level? Anything new there?”

  Christy-Lynn’s gaze slid to a nearby bookshelf. The title of a particularly thick volume seemed to jump out at her. The Language of Dreams. She’d never been much for all the symbolic woo-woo stuff, things like enneagrams, past life regression, and zodiac signs, but suddenly the subject of dream interpretation was an intriguing one.

  “Christy-Lynn?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I asked if you were under any stress.”

  “Oh, you know”—Christy-Lynn’s eyes strayed back to the dream book—“there’s always something going on at the store.”

  “Are you interested in dreams?”

  “Oh, no. I was just . . .”

  “It’s a hobby of mine, reading people’s dreams. I’m fascinated by the whole inner landscape thing, how our deeper selves are always sending us messages.”

  “You think that’s what dreams are? Messages from our deeper selves?”

  “Sure. What else? The soul, the psyche, whatever you want to call it, has a way of looking out for us, even when we’re not paying attention. They come when our minds are quiet, when we have no choice but to listen.”

  “I guess that makes sense. You can’t run away when you’re asleep.”

  “No,” Dar said gently. “At least not for very long. So do you want to tell me what’s really going on? Are you having dreams? Is that why you can’t get back to sleep?”

  Dar’s eyes, so keen and calm, were suddenly unsettling. “Did you glean that with your psychic powers?”

  “No dark art required,” Dar assured her. “You keep looking at The Language of Dreams, and pardon the expression, but you look like you’ve seen a ghost—or like you’ve been dragging a few around with you. Please don’t take offense. It’s just that I’ve been there, and I know it’s no fun.”

  Dragging around ghosts.

  If there was a more apt description for the dreams she’d been having, she couldn’t think what it might be. “I’ve been having nightmares,” she said quietly. “Basically the same dream for months now. I’m exhausted.”

  “Well then, that’s different.” Dar crooked a finger. “Come with me. I was going to suggest valerian root, but I think a little insight will do more good than tea.”

  She led Christy-Lynn to a small reading area at the rear of the shop where a stick of incense in a leaf-shaped holder gave off a thin tendril of blue-white smoke. She smiled as she sat, patting the settee beside her. “Why don’t we talk a little? Sometimes that’s all it takes. Looking at it when you’re wide awake, saying it out loud, can help you see where the dream is coming from—and the message it has for you.”

  “So we’re back to the message,” Christy-Lynn said uncomfortably.

  “There’s no way to get around it really. Dreams are like public service announcements from your soul. The only way to get past them is to pay attention to what they’re telling us. If you’d like to share, I might be able to offer some insight.”

  Christy-Lynn pulled in a breath then let it out very slowly. “I’m underwater,” she began tentatively. “At the bottom of the bay. Stephen’s car is there. He’s in it. So is the woman who was with him the night he went off the bridge. It’s just the two of them at first, dead in the car. But then the woman’s eyes open, and she starts talking, only I can’t make out what she’s saying. I just know she’s trying to tell me something.”

  “What do you think she’s trying to say?” Dar prodded gently.

  “I don’t know. That she’s sorry about stealing my husband maybe. Except it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like something else. I just don’t know what.”

  “Is that all of it?”

  “It was in the beginning, but a few weeks ago, I found out Stephen and Honey had child—a little girl named Iris—and now she’s showing up in the dream too. She’s in the car, and she keeps pushing at the windows, screaming for Nonny—her great-grandmother—but she isn’t there. It’s just me, and instead of helping her, I swim away.”

  Dar’s eyes were full of sympathy. “You poor thing. After everything else, there’s a child to cope with. No wonder you’re exhausted. You obviously feel some kind of sympathy for this little girl, but I’m wondering . . .”

  Christy-Lynn’s head came up slowly. “Wondering what?”

  “If there isn’t something else going on, something that may run a little deeper. Like why you’d want or need to take that kind of responsibility on your shoulders.” She paused, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “In dreams, water generally represents the subconscious, so when someone tells me they’ve been dreaming about water, my first thought is something’s being repressed. Do you think there are things you might need to start looking at, things you’ve been trying to hide from?”

  Christy-Lynn was tempted to dismiss the question, but that wasn’t going to make the dreams stop. “Maybe,” she answered finally. “But why now? After all these years?”

  Dar folded her hands in her lap and smiled softly. It was the kind of smile mothers saved for children who asked impossible questions. “I can’t tell you that. What I can tell you is there are places in our minds where we lock up all the things we don’t want to remember, like a musty basement filled with all the stuff we don’t want anyone—including ourselves—to see. We think it’s safe, that we’re safe. And then one day, for reasons we can’t begin to fathom, something yanks those doors open, and all our psychic junk comes tumbling out.”

  Christy-Lynn huffed in frustration. “It’s all this stuff with Iris and Stephen.”

  Dar seemed to consider the answer. “Maybe. But it’s easy to reach for the obvious. Even comforting. I know this stuff with your husband’s been hard, and it probably feels like that’s all that’s going on, but it could be something else. You said you swim away in the dream. Maybe there’s something you’re afraid of, something further back. Or it could be something that hasn’t happened yet, something you’re afraid will happen. Is any of this striking a chord?”

  Of course it was.

  Christy-Lynn nodded. “I just wanted it to be something else.”

  “The memories are uncomfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I think it’s a good place to start. Your higher self is telling you it’s time.”

  Christy-Lynn felt her shoulders tense. “Time for what?”

  “To let the memories catch up with you. You’re never going to outswim them. Why not drift a little and see what comes up? You might even try a little meditation before bed. Ask the dreams to come. Ask them what they’re trying to sho
w you. Remember, they’re just memories. They can’t hurt you unless you let them.”

  The jangle of bells alerted Christy-Lynn that a customer had entered the shop. Relieved, she shot to her feet, happy to end what was quickly becoming an uncomfortable conversation.

  On the way to the front, Dar pressed a packet of tea into her hands. “Try the valerian root anyway. It might help.”

  “Thank you. For the tea and for your time. What do I owe you?”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s a gift between friends. And I hope our talk helps. Just remember, I’m no expert. Everything I said could be total crap.”

  Dar’s advice played over in Christy-Lynn’s head as she walked back to the Crooked Spine. Stop swimming and let the memories catch up . . . They can’t hurt you unless you let them. It was a fine sentiment, wise and well meant. She just wasn’t sure she could do what Dar was asking. In her experience, memories could hurt very much.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Sweetwater Creek

  June 29, 2017

  Christy-Lynn stared at the page of the bullet-pointed notes she had scrawled during her call with Peter Hagan. Inter-vivos trusts, custodians, successor trustees, scheduled disbursements. Her head was still spinning with all the legalese, but at least she had some idea what the process would entail.

  Peter was still hedging on the idea, sticking to his earlier recommendation that they quietly petition for a paternity test, even hinting at one point that she hire an investigator to check out these people before making what may turn out to be a costly mistake. He’d hate to see her take such an imprudent step only to have regrets later. There might well come a time when she needed the money herself. She had nearly laughed at that. No one needed the kind of money they were talking about.

  He had also expressed concern that as a woman her judgment might be clouded since there was a child involved. She had assured him, coolly and firmly, that there was nothing wrong with her judgment, and that since Stephen hadn’t bothered to provide for his daughter, she intended to do it, and he could help her or not. He had ended the call with a promise to get started on preparing the paperwork and to be in touch in a few days.

  It all sounded fairly straightforward. Once the paperwork was completed and the signatures affixed, everything was pretty automatic. There was only one problem, and it went back to what would happen when Rhetta passed away. Who would direct the disbursements and oversee the spending then? Was she willing to take on that role, to tether herself to Stephen and Honey’s daughter for the next fifteen years? She honestly didn’t know. What she did know was that there was a little girl living in a shack in Riddlesville, West Virginia, whose life was teetering on the brink of disaster. Someone somewhere had to step up and do the right thing.

  She was spared a flash-forward to what might lay ahead for Iris when Aileen poked her head in the door. “Customer asking for you, boss.”

  Christy-Lynn found Wade standing in the café, laptop case slung over one shoulder. He looked more tan than he had the last time she saw him, and he was clean-shaven. His hair had that just-cut look.

  He broke into a smile as she approached. “Hey, stranger. Long time, no see.”

  “It’s not like I’m hard to find. I practically live here. You’re the one who’s been scarce.”

  “I’ve been keeping my head down, working on the novel. I’m determined not to let it break me.”

  “Butt in chair, as I tell my writers. So what’s up?”

  “I wanted to check on you.”

  “On me?”

  “You were upset the last time we talked. I wanted to know how you were with . . . things.”

  “Ah, that. Well . . .” Christy-Lynn shifted her gaze, feigning interest in whatever Tamara was doing behind the counter. She wasn’t sure why she was hemming and hawing all of a sudden. It wasn’t like she’d withheld much when it came to Honey and Stephen. In fact, she was surprised at how much she’d been willing to tell him. So why was she reluctant to share this new idea? Unless it was because she was afraid of what he might say. “I’ve, uh . . . I’ve been doing some thinking.”

  “About?”

  “Do you have plans for dinner?”

  The invitation clearly caught Wade off guard, though not necessarily in an unpleasant way. He grinned, a wickedly effective blend of boy and rogue. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was hoping I could bounce something off you. I need some advice.”

  “You want advice from me?”

  “I do.”

  Wade scratched his head then glanced at his watch. “Sure. Okay. You want to meet somewhere after work?”

  “Can we do it at my place? We can do Lotus again, or I’ll cook. I owe you a meal. In fact, I think I owe you several.”

  “I’ll take my chances with your cooking. Seven all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Can I bring anything?”

  “An open mind.”

  His brow wrinkled, but the smile was back. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Wade felt slightly sheepish as he knocked on Christy-Lynn’s door with a bouquet of daisies in his fist, like a tongue-tied teen on a first date. He straightened awkwardly when the door opened. “My mother taught me to never show up for dinner empty-handed. And since you don’t do wine . . .”

  “Thank you. They’re sweet.”

  She had changed since he last saw her. She wore a breezy floral skirt now and a tank top that showed off tawny arms and lots of shoulder. There was a dish towel tucked into the waist of her skirt, and she was barefoot, a silver chain winking at her ankle. She reminded him of a gypsy, beautiful and just a little untamed. He cleared his throat, determined to shake the thought. The last thing he needed was a crush on Stephen Ludlow’s wife.

  “Come on in. Dinner’s on the stove.”

  He whistled softly as he stepped into the living room, surprised by the transformation since his last visit. “The place looks great. You really did a nice job.”

  “Thanks,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “I need to finish the sauce. Can you take care of the flowers? There should be a vase under the sink.”

  When he had finished with the daisies, he stepped to the stove, inspecting the preparations over Christy-Lynn’s shoulder. “Smells amazing. Is that Alfredo?”

  “I hope that’s okay. There’s salad too.”

  Moments later, the pasta was on the table, and they were ready to eat. They sat at opposite ends, the vase of daisies between them. Wade experienced a pang of déjà vu as they sat silently picking at their salads. They had done this before, eaten in awkward silence in her kitchen, only the food had been takeout last time, and he had invited himself.

  Tonight she had invited him. For advice of all things. Curiosity prickled along the back of his neck. The old reporter instinct, he told himself, like the tingle of a phantom limb—the need to get at her story. But the truth was he didn’t just want to know Christy-Lynn’s story. He wanted to know her. To know what went on behind those pensive hazel eyes when she thought no one was looking.

  Stephen’s betrayal had knocked her for a loop, not that he was surprised. It was Stephen’s way to leave a trail of destruction in his wake. But there was something else going on, something she was holding back. He’d spent half a lifetime combing through the ruins of lives rocked by tragedy, chronicling the survivors, their losses, and their heartaches, and Christy-Lynn was a textbook survivor, tough, guarded, and behind the aloof and sometimes thorny facade, achingly fragile.

  Off in the distance, a rumble of thunder sounded, a low growl that seemed to roll in over the hills. He glanced out the sliding glass doors. A bank of bruised clouds crouched against the western horizon, and a stiff breeze had kicked up, rocking the treetops and turning them silver. There was a storm brewing.

  Christy-Lynn seemed not to notice, preoccupied with twirling pasta around her fork. As usual, she wasn’t actually eating much.

  “This is delicious,” Wade said, hoping to spark some sort o
f conversation. “Family recipe?”

  “No. There was a place back in Clear Harbor—Zia Rosa’s. The best Alfredo I’ve ever tasted. Rosa gave me her recipe.”

  “She gave it to you?”

  “People were always doing things like that for Stephen. They loved him.”

  “You mean they loved having a celebrity as a customer. I’m guessing there are signed photos of Stephen Ludlow tacked up on restaurant walls all over the Eastern Seaboard.”

  “And LA,” she added drily. “Don’t forget LA.”

  “Did you mind it? The fame I mean.”

  Christy-Lynn pretended to go back to her pasta. “I didn’t care as long as I didn’t have to participate. Stephen loved the attention. He never got tired of being recognized. I, on the other hand, preferred to remain hunkered down with my laptop. Which is why Stephen traveled by himself most of the time—or so I thought. Turns out I had that part wrong.”

  Wade put his fork down and wiped his mouth. “I’m sorry. I know that sounds trite, but I really am.”

  “Everyone is.” Her eyes slid from his as she reached for her water glass and took a deep swallow. “I don’t blame them. There really isn’t anything else to say. But I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me. Frankly, I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. You were right. It’s time to move on, to take charge of what’s happened instead of wallowing in it.”

  The remark surprised him, but he was glad to hear her say it. “I think you’re right. In fact, I know you are. You’ve done an amazing job with the store. The whole town’s talking about it. And I really think . . .” He never finished the sentence, distracted when an orange-and-white cat sauntered into the kitchen and made straight for his legs.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, reaching down to give the cat a pet.

  “His name is Tolstoy—because he insisted on curling up on a copy of Anna Karenina one night while I was reading.”