by Kate Ashton
“Knew what?” he asks.
Even though he asks the question, Lucy suspects his thoughts are already putting the pieces together. “I knew she was going to die. I knew she was sick.” Her voice but a whisper, she quickly tells him the rest. “My mother had all her friends over every week. One time, I had a vision. I didn’t know for sure she would die, but I knew she was sick.”
“So your visions are a bit more serious than I made them out to be the other day.”
“You could say that.”
“What happened to your mother’s friend after that?” he asks.
“A year later she died. Cancer. My mother never forgave me for humiliating her. She’s always blamed me.” Lucy left the words unspoken, for Alexander to figure out. That her mother thought Lucy somehow caused her friend’s death. “Tell me about Jude.”
A hint of a smile. Sadness. “We grew up together. Played together. Wrestled together. Got in trouble together.” He can’t say anymore, grief and worry gripping him.
“I understand. You don’t have to say anymore.”
Lucy wants to know for sure. “Do you have a picture of him?”
“Think so.” He slides the wallet from his back pocket and flips through the photos. “It’s an old one.”
It might be old, but she recognizes the younger version of the man from her visions. Her heart aches. “I’m sorry.”
His phone rings, startling him. Lucy doesn’t want him to answer it and tenses.
He doesn’t say much. Just listens. Then a few seconds later, he hangs up. “He’s gone.”
Lucy holds him. Lets him cry in the darkness, away from the party and his family. They’ll have to head back soon. Sometimes feeling the grief, letting the tears out, needs to be done in private.
Then, he stiffens, as if the final piece slid into place, and pulls away. “So you knew about this?”
She can see the unspoken thoughts, the silent accusation, pass across his face. She wants to cry and beg him not to go there, but right now, he’s looking for someone to blame.
“No, I didn’t know. That’s not how it works.”
“But you recognized his picture. You tried to tell me the other day. I made a joke of it and you let me. I could’ve saved him. You could’ve saved him.”
“No!” she cries. “It’s not always someone I know. It could be a complete stranger.”
“But it’s often someone you know?”
“Sometimes. It hasn’t happened in years.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I...”
She was going to say, I tried, but she can’t. The thought dies on her tongue. She has no excuse other than she was afraid of losing him. Afraid he’d be disgusted and embarrassed like her mother. Afraid he’d laugh and scoff. Afraid they would change. Yet, she knew they had to talk about it before they married. Why did she wait so long? Not for the first time she wants to shake her fists at the heavens, demand answers as to why.
***
Sleep doesn’t come. Lucy lies awake for hours, pondering the things she should’ve, could’ve said to Alexander. They came home and he left soon after with his parents and Madison. Finally she drifts off.
The next morning, her mother firmly shakes her awake. “Alexander is downstairs. He has to leave soon.”
The night before floods through her. She wants her mother, just once, to sit down and hug her and tell her everything will be all right. That she’ll get through this. That Alexander will understand.
Instead, she says, “You might not want to keep him waiting.”
She slips into yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. She doesn’t have time for makeup or to look her best. Still half-awake, she stumbles into the kitchen, wishing she could head right into his arms. But he stands at the door, unsmiling. Dark circles shadow his eyes like he didn’t sleep well either.
“Can we talk in private?” His voice is hoarse.
“Sure.” Without looking at her mother and the blame she knows she’ll find there, she slips out the front door. “Alexander—”
“Don’t. Let me talk.” He grabs her hands.
Briefly, their almost-life-together passes between them, the joy, the love, the tears. But, like mist in the sun it disappears. Nothing is left but emptiness. She feels it. She knows.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “Sorry our time has to end like this. I need to get home.”
Hope washes through her.
“I need time to think. I don’t blame you. I realize that you couldn’t have known it was Jude. But,” he sighs, “we’re getting married in six months, and you hadn’t shared the biggest part of you with me. You didn’t trust.”
Hope fades as quickly as it came. He’s throwing her words, her secret to marriage, back at her. She’d used it the night before to bait and trap his plans to have Madison poke around in her bedroom.
Trust.
The one thing she felt had to be part of a healthy, lasting relationship.
He leans over, closing the gap, and places a gentle kiss on her cheek. She closes her eyes and breathes in his smell, relishes his closeness. Her heart aches with what she knows.
That was his last kiss goodbye.
Thank you for reading A Last Kiss Goodbye. Lucy’s story doesn’t end here. Her visions seem like a curse. Will she ever be able to get control of them? Her story continues in All That We Have Lost.
If you’d like to help me out, I’d absolutely love an honest review on Amazon, Goodreads and other retail sites. I couldn’t possibly make this journey without all of you.
Next are the first two chapters of All That We Have Lost.
ALL THAT WE HAVE LOST
Four lives overlap in a moving rescue mission like no other.
Juliana flies to Paris in an effort to say a final goodbye to her husband who died on a top-secret mission—or that’s what she was told because a body was never found. When she bumps into a man who looks like her husband but has no memories, she starts a journey to find the truth. A journey filled with emotional peril and danger, a journey only she can take. But she’s not alone.
In this story about rescue, restoration, and second chances, four people will face their past—the heartache and the pain. Sometimes the only way to find healing is through saving someone.
Chapter 1
DANIEL
He stands in the airport and stares through the expansive windows. The sun shimmers on the tarmac, the heat rising in visible waves. It reminds him of the desert. Hot wind and mirages rising like little devils.
The large planes rumble across the strip, readying for take off. Loneliness falls over him and twists his gut. Nothing seems to trigger any sort of memory, even as he follows that gut instinct, the whispered words in his head that tell him where to go, like the haunting melody of the pied piper. That’s why he likes the airport, a place no one calls home. A place no one expects him to belong.
The tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The beautiful woman, sitting with her long legs crossed, pretends to read a magazine. Every few seconds her gaze flickers to him, observing, watching.
This isn't the first time he has noticed her.
There was that time in the café.
That time by the River Seine.
Somehow, he always knows when someone is on his tail, following in the shadows, even if he whips around and sees nothing. Maybe he is a private detective. It’s a game he likes to play. He stands naked in front of a mirror. Some of the scars are barely visible; the one on his shoulder is deeper and still a fleshy pink. When he flexes, the scar ripples, like in the cartoons when men make their tattooed ladies dance as they show off their strength. A city cop, maybe?
When the lady dips her gaze back to the magazine, he darts behind a large family. Grandpas and grandmas, aunts and uncles, crying tots and their ragged parents. Teens not listening to anything but their music. He doesn’t like big crowds, but right now, they are a godsend, enabling him to hide from the enemy.
To melt into the crowds.
A young teen on the heavy side steps on his toe, a businessman running to catch his plane jostles him, and he bumps into an elderly lady who scowls like he’s a child in need of scolding. He should’ve left earlier. The constant chatter in the terminal rises in the air. The noises beat at him. In his head the birds return, black and sleek, beating their wings, and the oily feathers slapping his face.
They dive and attack, pecking with their sharp beaks. He swats at one as it flies too close. He misses. It circles, ready to return. They always return. Never giving up. Their squawks fill the sky. The hot dry wind chaps his face and lips. Sweat pours down his face, his chest constricting. The sound of every breath rushes through his ears.
The people blur around him. He stumbles, trying to fight the dizzy spell. A shadow crosses his path. Why is the place so hot?
A man lies broken at his feet. Blood pools and spills from a chest wound. His clothes are dirty and torn, stained in the rusty browns of old blood.
A crow attacks. Diving. Squawking.
The sudden urge to protect this vulnerable man surges through Daniel. He takes a wild swing and misses. The force causes him to spin. When he looks back at the ground, the man is gone.
Daniel blinks and rubs his eyes.
Someone touches his arm.
It’s the grandpa. He peers at Daniel over his bifocals and from under bushy eyebrows. His wrinkled face, lined in kindness, glows with concern; his deep blue eyes are wells of sympathy.
The grandpa's voice is low and rumbly, like the planes outside. He speaks in French, his tone warm and caring.
Planes. He’s in an airport. Frantically, he tears from the man's gentle touch and spins around, staring at the skies. Except now, the sky and the crows are gone. The scorching wind is nothing but stale, circulated air. Faces and curious eyes stare, and mouths move in silent whispers. They watch him.
It has happened again. He isn't completely sure what triggers the flashbacks.
His knees weaken, his body a shivering mass as the chills descended. The edges of his vision turn black and spots dance. He blinks. He’s in the airport and the lady stands, no longer hiding behind her magazine. She’s gorgeous. Staring at her is like finding an oasis, a mirage turned real. Her long honey hair tumbles over her shoulders, the ends even with her breasts that press against her shirt. Her pencil-thin waist. And those long legs.
When she opens her mouth, he shakes off the trance she’s put him under. He doesn’t want to hear what she has to say, good or bad, she scares him. He runs, even as she calls out his name. How does she know his name? He leaps a large carry-on, ignoring the gasp of its owner. The crows are at his back, wings beating furiously, beady eyes focusing on him. People gasp as he rushes past not caring who he stumbles into or knocks over. Finally, he ducks into a bathroom, sprints to a stall, and collapses on the warm toilet seat.
With deep, even breathing, he calms. His heaving chest slows to normal. Images of the oily crows, their eyes and the sharp, gleaming points of their beaks, fill his mind. They follow him everywhere. Just like the woman.
He’s losing it.
This time is different though. He has never seen the man, broken and bleeding, on the verge of death. No one should die alone. Daniel drops his head into his hands. Who was this man? When he tries to visualize the face and capture a memory—nothing—just a blur. He can only see the blood, red and slick, pouring from the man’s body way too fast to be good.
A dull ache throbs through his body, an overwhelming sadness and pain; hot tears leak from his eyes, and he doesn't know why.
Feet shuffle around him. Toilets flush and the blowers dry hands with a rushing noise. A voice, loud and filled with static, announces a flight is ready for take off. Last call.
He stumbles out of the bathroom and falls into a seat, resting. Soon, he’ll keep wandering.
LUCY
14 days earlier
Despite the dull ache of the damp and dreary day deep in her bones, Lucy is optimistic. A look out the window this morning at the rain drizzling down like unwanted tears, the heavy mist floating past, the chill—told her it would a good day.
All positive signs for someone in her line of work.
People want good news on bleak days. They want to feel better. Something to ward off the gloom. Lucy is more than happy to oblige them, and lighten their wallets at the same time.
She moves through her kitchen and her morning routine quickly and efficiently: one cup of coffee—only one because she doesn't like to feel jittery with clients, and her work already gives her an adrenaline rush—one egg cooked in the microwave with cheese sprinkled over top, and one piece of fruit—if she has any left. This morning, she eats a browned banana from the fruit bowl, even though she doesn’t like mushy fruit.
Back in her bedroom, she studies her closet, carefully choosing her outfit for the day. She takes special care to buy certain fabrics and colors: silk and textured materials are best. Warm colors are a necessity: browns like the darkest sugar, oranges like ripe peaches, and yellows like muted sunshine. Shirts and pants have to be loose and flowing—tassels are a bonus. Long ago, she gave up on legitimizing her field of work with business suits and high heels. If she doesn't look the stereotype then potential clients turn their noses and close their wallets.
The first time it happened she almost sprinted down the street after them with the intent to explain their wrong thinking and conclusions, their mistaken judgment. Eventually, she gave in to the pressure when business trickled down to nothing.
She hates every second of it.
With a sigh, she dons the orange tunic and adds a red scarf with tassels. People need bright colors on a miserable day. She slips into her long flowing purple skirt. Outfit complete, she adds the dark and mysterious makeup, heavy on the eye shadow and eyeliner. Laughable, really.
The entire time, as she moves about in her tiny bedroom—her window shut to block out the wail of police sirens in her part of the city—she keeps glancing over at her bedside stand. She found it for ten dollars at a flea market. A quick paint job and she had a piece that could sell for one hundred. That isn't what she thinks about when she looks at it though. It’s the stack of writing paper and envelopes.
At first, in her quest for information, she tried email. Email and government don't work well. Secretaries for secretaries probably glanced at the subject line and deleted it. After all, in this cyber age, email often gets lost in spam or space.
Lately, she’s taken to letters. Hand-written. Personal. She prays that hers will squeak through and the right person will sense the desperation behind her polite plea; they’ll see the careful attention to her script and her words and realize she is a real, live person who just wants answers, who needs something other than the hard echo of nothing.
Every week she writes the same letter.
JULIANA
Juliana moves uncomfortably in the seat of the airliner. Do these seats get smaller every year? She glances over at the man sitting next to her. He’s clearly reached middle age and never cut back on the donuts. The extra weight hangs on his arms and balloons over his pants. Not only does he take up her armrest but a portion of her seat too. She faces the window and squeezes her eyes shut. Why did she let her daughter talk her into this?
She feels a gentle touch on her shoulder. It’s her daughter, Mia, visiting for the weekend, not wanting her mom to be alone. Not this weekend.
“Mom?”
Juliana hasn't answered but stays in front of her husband's dresser, two tickets clutched in her hands.
“What are those?” Mia teases the tickets from her mom's hands and gasps. Her voice turns a bit hoarse. “Paris, Mom?”
They fall silent, the question unspoken, but very present, hanging between them.
Finally, Juliana breaks the silence. “We bought them two years ago. Your Dad and I,” she whispers. “We planned to return to Paris. Where we first met.”
Mia wrap
s her arms around her mom, and they rock, together, both feeling the grief and the absence of a father and a husband.
After a few minutes, Mia speaks. “You need to go. For you. For Dad. To say goodbye.”
The plane lands in Paris, and Juliana steps off and into the airport, fighting the sadness welling inside at being back in this city. She hesitates, the crowds passing her by. Was this the right decision? She glances frantically through the people, fearing that her grief is obvious and not wanting to see the pity in their eyes. Her gaze touches upon a man sitting in one of the chairs, his head resting in his hands. He looks up and her heart trembles.
He’s familiar. From the silver tingeing the man’s hair to the crooked white scar above his eyebrow to his warm brown eyes. She turns away. No. She’s hallucinating; her mind has conjured up a vision of her husband, Danny, but it can't be him.
Juliana stares at the empty seat next to him, at the swirls of the pattern, trying to keep her breath steady, trying to stay focused on reality. Then, slowly, she forces herself to move forward and sit next to him, perching on the edge of the seat.
She can't take her eyes off the man; he has to be Danny, but he didn't recognize her. Her body is tense, every muscle tightened; she forces her eyes to close. How could this be happening?
She cracks an eye and peeks at him.
He senses her gaze and smiles politely.
Her throat tightens and she fights the rush of memories she has worked so hard to bury. The scent of aftershave Danny used floats in the air and sparks a memory.
Juliana sits on a bench along the River Seine. The warm breeze teases and plays with the ends of her hair. It brings the feeling of hope. Her classes are over, and she wants to enjoy herself, alone, away from the rest of the students. She only has two weeks left in Paris. Two weeks before she returns to her parents and her responsibilities. Her father expects her to marry wealthy, and he has several potential suitors lined up for dates upon her graduation. Love is the last thing she wants. She didn't attend college just to get married and have some egomaniac control her life.