It's A Big Box

I spend a lot of time thinking before I go to sleep.  I'm not one of those people that fall asleep the minute their head hits the pillow.  I mull, cogitate, review; rehash what's happened during my day, consider what I have to do the next day.

Last night, in the midnight dark of clear thinking, I wandered through the plot of the story I'd posted earlier in the day. And arrived at the jarring conclusion that I don't like it or where it's headed; that somehow I missed the signs this isn't the tale I want to tell.

I'd been working on a different story, one wafting in and out of my head for a week or so, but yesterday morning whilst walking the dogs, the wraith story popped into being. Intrigued, I came home and wrote it. Unfortunately, I wish I'd thought it through before posting, figured out beforehand that it wasn't really going to work...or just ignored the distracting whispers in the storytelling part of my brain and stayed focused on my original idea.

However, the beauty of writing--or the agony, more often than not--is that, as the goddess in charge, these are my creations, my worlds, characters, stories.  I can do whatever I want with them and if I don't like any of it...well, into the box at the back of the closet it goes, along with all the other notes and research, lost chapters and stories to nowhere that have filled my head over the years.

So. I'm forging ahead to write something else, though what that might be is unclear at the moment. Writing is not rocket science...it's much, much harder.

Every Dog Has His Day

The wraith stood motionless beneath the trees, his form indistinguishable from the dark shadows under the thick canopy.  His gaze narrowed, intense and piercing as he focused on the woman angling toward the parking lot as she crossed the east edge of the college campus.  His fists clenched as an old, vicious rage swept through him.  The centuries of torment, the years of searching, the cruelty in the endless chase. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep, quiet breath and willed those bitter memories away. None of that mattered.  Not now.  At last he had found her and nothing was going to stop him from taking her.

Nora Carter glanced uneasily in the direction of the small grove of oak that marked the end of the campus property.  For some reason she felt nervous and unsettled as she stared into the deep shadows. When a voice called out behind her, she jumped in fear, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. Spinning, she aligned her car keys into small, metal weapons that poked out between her fingers.

“Dr. Carter, I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to frighten you!”  Her research assistant, Ben Jolson, had been running toward her, but one look at her face and defensive stance had brought him to an abrupt halt. Eyes wide, he held up both hands as if she were pointing a gun at his head.  “You forgot to give me the encryption code so I can access your manuscript files,” he murmured cautiously.

Taking a relieved gulp of air, Nora dropped her hand and patted the large laptop case that hung off one shoulder.  “I decided to take the manuscript with me instead, Ben.  I forgot to tell you earlier today.”

“But, how can I proof your research if you have the manuscript?”

The wraith, impatient for the boy to leave, paused for a moment and cocked his head.  Was there something...not quite true in the question?  His focus shifted from the woman to consider the male.

“Ben,” she said gently, “I’m going to be gone for eight weeks.  I’m sure at some point in my vacation I’ll be able to find the time to edit the manuscript myself.”  Nora patted his arm and smiled.  “Time for a break, to enjoy yourself.  There’s more to collegiate life than slaving over a boring old manuscript about ancient rites and rituals.”

“Please, Dr. Carter, I’ve been looking forward to this all term.  You know how interested I am in your work.”

“We’ll have plenty of time for final edits next term, Ben. Now go, have a great summer and I'll see you in September.”  Nora turned and resumed her walk toward the parking lot, missing the tight fists as Ben stared darkly at her receding back. 

The wraith saw his reaction, however, and was edging out of the shadows to have a quick chat with the boy when his senses were overwhelmed by the familiar and unwelcome stench of an abattoir.  He stiffened, braced for the confrontation he’d been expecting for days.

Hot, rancid breath curled over his nape and around his throat like a garrote.  “You went over my head, dog.”  The voice was more a growl of words than actual speaking, though the wraith had no trouble understanding, he’d been listening to it for close to four thousand years.

“You left me no choice, Malphas.  We struck a bargain, you and I, which I have fulfilled three times over but you still fail to honor.”  He turned and met the red, fiery gaze of the foul creature he’d called master for far too long.  Unflinching, he leaned in. “I gave you the one thousand and two hundred years of our pact and did everything you asked of me.  My reward for services rendered was her.”  Though the wraith jerked his chin toward the parking lot and the woman just unlocking her car door, he never took his eyes off the demon.  “Whenever I got close, you killed her and I had to wait for her rebirth, try to find who she was, when she was.”  Fury in every word, he hissed, "For over two thousand years you played this game, you bastard.” Straightening, he spared another quick glance for the woman, then faced Malphas again. “Mistreat a dog long enough and eventually he'll go for his master's throat.”

“Unless the master has bigger teeth, Niare.”  The chuckle was low and grating, the acrid stink of sulfur burned the back of the wraith’s throat though he refused to acknowledge the demon’s threat.

“Prince Seire, your master, has released your hold over me.  He also sent me here, to claim what should have been mine centuries ago.”  He turned his back and walked out of the shadows, his eyes fixed on the car just driving out of the parking lot.  “We’re done, Malphas.  Go find someone else to play fetch.”

The ground trembled, but Niare ignored the demon’s tantrum.  Shrugging off the concealing shadows, he began walking toward the boy who was staggering across the sidewalk, a look of shock on his face as the pavement undulated beneath his feet.  “What is it?” Ben asked.  “An earthquake?”  Then he froze as he looked up at the very tall. very large man who had just materialized out of the trees.  Long blond hair, the sides braided away from his face at the temples to hang behind his ears; strong jaw, arrogant nose, and eyes the icy blue of a glacier that were currently glaring down at Ben like some kind of Norse god. Ben’s first thought was all the guy needed was Thor's hammer to complete the picture, which caused him to flinch involuntarily when the giant reached for him.  His mind went blank before he could form his second thought.

As soon as the kid went still, Niare began to search his mind for the meaning behind the tension he'd noticed just before Malphas appeared.  Probing beyond the surprise and unease of the moment, he easily found the reason: Ben had planned to steal the research, selling it to someone willing to pay well for the information in the manuscript.  Disgusted at the betrayal, Niare pulled Ben forward and whispered an incantation into his ear, then shoved him away and told him to get out of his sight, watching the traitorous little weasel until he was gone.  Then he smiled. The woman’s assistant had just forgotten he’d ever worked for her.

“Dog.”  The voice rumbled up through the ground, thick and hot.  “Don’t think you’ve won the game.  I might not be able to touch you, but no one said anything about her.”

A cold awareness crawled into Niare's belly as his wings snapped sharply, painfully, out of his back.  He shot into the dark skies, the sound of hellish laughter chasing him through the night.

Three Plots to Nowhere

Still stymied with imagination deficit, though I've had a glimmer or two lately.  Too bad I can only do a few paragraphs before my thoughts dry up again.

Behold!  Three plot ideas.  And that's about the extent of it...

Snow Blind

The snow swirled in dizzying eddies, tossed by a wind that grew stronger as the RV lumbered across the plains of eastern Montana.  As the light began to fade toward evening, visibility became more obscured, the headlights drawing the flakes with hypnotic allure.

Joanne Henderson peered at the Rand McNally road atlas in her lap, the map light over her head shining a meager beam as she tried to find them a place to hunker down until the storm abated.

“Got anything?  Rest area, side road?”  The slight concern in Jack’s voice caused Jo to raise her head and look over at him.  Both hands tightly gripped the wheel as the RV briefly lost traction on the road and slid toward the ditch.

(Retired couple caught in a blizzard. They rescue a woman with little girl, a bounty hunter/soldier type guy, and an innocuous little salesman. One of them is an assassin after the woman and child. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the woman was running from or who wanted her dead. Besides me.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mystery in Blue

In a small exhibition room at the Tate in London, a tall, distinguished man stood in front of a painting.  Hands clutched tightly behind his back as if he struggled to contain himself, he appeared completely absorbed in the image of the woman who held him captive.  Half-reclining on a velvet chaise with her lower body swathed in diaphanous blue silk, the woman presented her exquisitely naked back while sapphire eyes looked over a flawless shoulder; her full lips curled in lush temptation as a tendril of auburn hair caressed her cheek.

Maxwell Coleridge had been in love with this woman for over thirty years.  He had tried—in every way possible—to find her.  Most believed she was just a figment of the dead artist’s imagination, not a real woman at all, but Max knew different.  He could see the life in her eyes, across her mouth, down the breathless curve of her spine.

(Guy has been chasing her around the world--wherever the portrait is exhibited--hoping to find her or someone who knew her. A woman heavily veiled in widow's weeds strikes up a conversation with him. They discuss the woman, the tragic death of the artist, the portrait. I know the ending. I just can't figure out how to get there.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ripples

“What is this?”  Growling, irritated, the duke’s voice was as dark and unforgiving as the midnight shadows in the garden.  The gleaming toe of his boot nudged the lump at his feet.  “Why have I been called from the festivities?”  He could hear the musicians preparing for the last dance; he’d chosen his partner and had anticipated a long and pleasurable evening after the ball.  Now, however, she would be claimed by someone else while he stood in the garden prodding dirty rags.  He turned to glare at his lieutenant.  “Surely you can handle a pile of debris, Crayl?”

“Sire, you know I would not have interrupted unless urgency required it.” The guard swallowed, loud enough to hear over the strains of the waltz.  “She…she just fell from the sky!”  Crayl raised his head and whispered, “And she’s clothed in both the blue and the gold.”

Two things dropped Duke Harcourt to one knee for a closer look.  She?  This tangle of cloth encased a female?  Garbed in blue and gold?  No one but the highest ranks of the elite were allowed to wear both colors and even that was rare. As he fumbled in the tattered, voluminous cloak, searching for the body within, he didn’t spare a thought for the absurd notion the female had fallen from the heavens.

(This almost-plot came to me the other day whilst walking the dogs. Then I fried my worthless brain with a hundred different scenarios on how to proceed after these three measly paragraphs. Apparently I'm only good for sparks...I can't make fire.  Buggers.)

Sunday Morning

She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, then turned to scowl at him.  Lowering the newspaper, he regarded her over the top of his glasses, admiring how perfectly his shirt draped on her body, how transparent it became in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows as she approached the table.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” she accused.  “It’s Sunday.”

“The newspaper guy woke me up.”  He shook his head.  “I’m going to have to cancel the paper or be forced to buy a muffler for his crap car.”

“But why didn’t you come back to bed?”

“It was too early, believe me, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“We were going to read the paper, have coffee and breakfast in bed.  Stay there all morning if we wanted.  Because it’s Sunday.”

He stood and carefully took the mug out of her hand before lifting her in his arms.  He began to nuzzle her neck as he walked out of the kitchen.

She sighed contentedly.  “How long has it been since we stayed in bed on a Sunday?”

“Last week,” he grinned.

“An eternity then,” she murmured against his lips.

As Luck Would Have It

Sliding down the cold metal front of the old-fashioned refrigerator, Carmen settled on the floor.  Resting elbows on her bent knees, she covered her face with her hands.  What else can go--  No.  Don’t even think it.  She’d already said it twice today and both times something worse had happened.

Carmen tangled fingers in her curly blond hair and stared abjectly around the kitchen—more specifically, what used to be the kitchen.  Not only had the contractor torn the kitchen apart, but this morning while she was out getting ideas for cabinets and counter tops, he’d helped himself to her new gourmet six-burner range, the microwave, espresso machine and the oak table she had found at a garage sale several weeks ago and lovingly restored.

What a wretched streak of bad luck she was having.  Pausing at the thought, she wondered about that word, streak.  To her mind, it implied quick, fast, here and gone, though if that were the case, why was hers going on six months with no end in sight?

She blamed her ex-fiancé.  It had started with him.  Carmen cringed at the memory, the embarrassing cliché of coming home early from a business trip to find Dave and Tiffany, his twenty-something secretary, banging away on the leather sectional in the living room.  Then to add insult to injury, she was stunned to hear, a month after moving out, that not only had the happy couple gotten married, but sweet little Tiff was pregnant.  She’d lost count of the times Dave had said marriage was superfluous in this day and age, and having a kid?  Never.

 

Carmen stewed for days after the news, but one night, caught completely off guard by the phone call, everything had changed. 

Her beloved grandmother, her only family, had died unexpectedly.  Devastated, she flew to Seattle, arranged the funeral, and spent long hours wandering in the old, familiar house, stunned by her loss, overwhelmed by memories in every room, around every corner.  She’d come to live with her grandmother when she was eight, orphaned and grieving.  Only this time there was no comforting warmth to help her mourn.

The old Victorian house belonged to her now.  Taking the advice of her grandmother’s attorney to “doll the ol’ girl up” before making any immediate decisions about selling the place, Carmen quit her job in Los Angeles and moved back to Seattle to settle her grandmother’s estate and upgrade the house.

 

Over the next several months, she’d scraped and sanded, painted and polished, sorted and discarded, working her way from the attic to the main floor where the serious remodel work needed to be done, beginning with the kitchen.  For a short time, she forgot about her bad luck streak as the house started to shine with her efforts.  But no.  Back with a vengeance when the first contractor took the deposit he insisted was necessary to purchase supplies, then disappeared with half her inheritance money.  Now today, the second contractor had stolen her new appliances and the table she had so painstakingly restored to glowing life.

But worse, once she got past the shock, talked to the police for the second time—and how stupid did she feel getting ripped off twice?—she finally noticed her grandmother’s cat Bubba hadn’t met her at the front door, winding around her legs, purring his welcome.  Racing from the top of the house to the slightly creepy basement, Carmen frantically called for him, but it wasn’t she opened the back door and walked across the grass toward the alley that she realized the gate had been left wide open. The contractor had used the alley to load his stolen goods, and Bubba was gone.

After two hours, twelve blocks, and fifty hastily printed flyers tacked to every telephone pole in the neighborhood, Carmen had dragged herself home just as ominous rain clouds began to darken the skies.  Desperate for a cup of tea, a hot bath, and some food, Carmen had walked into the kitchen.  And stopped abruptly as grim reality washed over her once more.  No stove, no microwave, no table.

Defeat drained the will to keep standing right out of her legs.  Quietly sliding to the floor, she was gratified the old fridge—too unworthy to steal—was still there to ease her way down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, not sure how long she’d been sitting on the bare, cold floor while her mind drifted over the events of the past months, she was abruptly brought back to the present by a persistent rapping at the front door.   Startled, she realized full night had fallen and heavy rain was beating against the windows as the wind howled around the eaves.  Shivering, Carmen got stiffly to her feet and slowly walked down the dark hallway toward the thick oak door.

 

Through the beveled glass panes in the upper section, she could just make out the shadowed outline of a large figure standing on the porch.  She flinched when a sudden barrage of knocks, loud and impatient, echoed around the foyer joining the noise her heart was making as it pounded in her ears.

Had the police come back?  Before Carmen could decide what to do, a bolt of lightning flooded through the windows with a cold, brilliant light, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder that made the house tremble.  The knocking stopped and a face pressed closer to the glass.

“Hello?  I saw you standing there when the lightning flashed, so could you answer the door please?”  The man’s voice was low and deep, a bit gravelly.  And edgy with irritation.

Carmen walked closer to the door, but had no intention of opening it to a cranky stranger on a stormy night.  Not the way her luck had been running.  “What do you want?”  She was annoyed at the wobble in her voice.

“I have something of yours, something I’m sure you want—”

“Go away!  I’m calling the police!”

She heard a series of low-pitched curses, then a large hand slapped against the door, plastering one of her flyers to the wet glass.  “Is this you, or not?  I’ve got things to do tonight and hanging out on a crazy woman’s porch in a thunderstorm isn’t one of them.”

Making sure the chain was in place, Carmen switched on the porch light and carefully cracked open the door.  In the soft glow she meant the eyes of the most handsome guy she’d ever seen.  Tall, wearing a long black coat, raindrops sparkling across the broad width of his shoulders, she barely registered his firm jaw, cleft chin and tousled black hair on her way to his deep, brown eyes.  He was pale, though so was everyone in Seattle at this time of year.  Except on him, the contrast of light and dark just made him even more attractive.  Speechless, she could only stare.  Was he conjured from the storm?  A god of thunder and lightning?

Lowering his hand from the glass pane, he waved the now-disintegrating piece of paper and asked brusquely, “You lost your cat, yes?”  Shaking her head to clear it, he misunderstood the movement and scowled.  “You haven’t lost a cat?”  He stepped back to read the house numbers to the left of the door, then looked at the sodden flyer where the address was still visible.

“S-sorry,” Carmen stuttered.  “Sorry.  Yes, I lost my cat.”  She cleared her throat, then closed the door to release the chain and quickly reopened it.  “I’ve had a very bad…”  Her soft murmur faded and she took a quick step back when he reached inside his coat. Frowning at her, he slowly pulled out a wet, bedraggled Bubba wrapped in a soft towel.

“You’ve had a very bad…?”

Day?  Week?  Year?  Carmen wasn’t sure how to answer.  She reached for the cat, glad that at least one thing had worked out today.  “It’s just been one of those days where nothing has gone right.”  A frisson of awareness went through her when their fingers connected as she took the cat from him.  She knew he’d felt it too when he smiled down at her, his eyes like soft glowing embers as they silently regarded each other.

Bubba wiggled in her grasp, wanting to be let down and no doubt hungry from his ordeal.  Carmen set him on the floor and watched him walk regally down the hall. Suddenly shy and unsure about what to say or do next, she tossed the towel onto a side table and turned back to the door.  “Where did you find him?”

Smile still in place, he cocked his head.  “I live a few blocks over,” waving his hand vaguely down the street, “and noticed the flyer on the telephone pole as I was backing out my drive.”  He chuckled.  “Just as I was pulling away, my headlights caught the cat crouching on my front porch.”  He shrugged, the gesture eloquent, easy, as if no more needed to be said.

Carmen smiled.  “Thank you for bringing him home.  I’ve been so worried and upset.”

He still gripped the remains of the flyer.  Holding it up, he said, “Was your name on this?”

“No.”  When he raised a brow, waiting, she laughed and felt her cheeks redden.  “Carmen.  My name is Carmen Winters.”

“Will,” he said, taking her hand.  “Will Blaine.  It’s lovely to meet you, Carmen.”

The spark flared between them again as he gently ran his thumb over her knuckles.  “Do you think I might come in, Carmen Winters?  It’s a bit wet out here.”  As if his words had made it happen, lightning flashed and thunder rolled.

Carmen jumped, her hand slipping out of his grasp.  Flustered, trying to be cautious when all she really wanted was to drag him inside and lock the door…for a week or so…she said flippantly, “I don’t know.  You could be an axe murderer, or an escaped criminal.”

Will laughed and held his coat open, wide enough for her to see his broad chest, his trim waist and long legs.  He was wearing a yellow tee shirt and black jeans.  “No axe,” he said, spinning in a circle, his coat flaring out around him.  It took her a moment to register what was printed on his tee shirt.  “Do you work at Renegades?” she asked, admiring the artwork of the most notorious faces of villains and outlaws throughout history. The faces were drawn in such a way that they formed one face, supposedly the owner of the hottest club in Seattle.

“You could say that.”

As he dropped his hands, Carmen suddenly realized something.  “Wait!”  She reached out and opened his coat, staring at the tee shirt.  Then she laughed and looked up at him.  “It’s you!”

“Guilty as charged.”

Stepping back into the foyer, still smiling, Carmen had a wonderful, exhilarating moment wondering if her luck was finally changing, if this long streak of bad was finally over.

“Do you think I might come in, Carmen Winters?” Will softly asked again.

Hesitating for only a moment, Carmen stepped aside and opened the door.

Her invitation drew him over the threshold.  Carmen turned to shut the door, missing the gleam of sharp, white fangs as his smile widened behind her.

Waiting

      Elaine walked quietly up the gravel path toward the slightly dilapidated wooden bench under the old Sycamore tree. Settling down to wait, she watched the ducks float lazily in the lake, just far enough below her that they looked like childish toys drifting in the gentle breeze that stirred the water.

     Every year on this date she came. To sit on this bench, to wait, to see him again. No matter how painful, she needed this one moment to make the rest of the long days bearable.

     After the accident had torn them apart, she couldn’t stop herself from returning here, to their favorite place. Lonely, lost, she'd come one day--on the anniversary of their wedding--climbed the hill, taken a seat on the bench and cried until she was weak from it. A short while later, hardly daring to believe, she saw him appear from the dense shadows covering the path below and walk toward the lake. As the bright splinters of sunlight glinted across the water, she was sure the sight of him was nothing more than a mirage, conjured from longing.

     But no. He had really been there. She watched him open a plastic bag, absently tossing bits of bread to the ducks. Her tears fell when he stopped and abruptly doubled over, hands gripping his stomach as if he’d been stabbed.  After throwing the empty bread bag in the waste bin, he wiped his shirt sleeve across his eyes before turning to wander aimlessly down another path, his steps halting and uncertain. Oh, how she’d wanted to go to him, chase him down, throw herself into his arms. Joe.

     He came every year, just as she did, but he never looked up the hill because their world had revolved around the lake.  It was where they’d met, where they'd talked and laughed, fed the ducks and had picnics, fell in love, and married in the gazebo built over the southern rim of the water.

     So today, once again, Elaine sat patiently, quietly waiting for him. Smiling to herself, precious memories drifted through her mind, each one hoarded like a bright, golden coin. But as the hours passed and the sun dropped lower in the sky, she began to realize that maybe this time he wouldn't come.  Had she missed him somehow, lost in her daydreams? Mistaken the date?  No. Something had happened. Why hadn’t he come?  Trembling, she surged to her feet, a terrible sense of dread making her frantic with worry.

     “Oh God. It is you.” Though she hadn’t heard his voice in a very long time, the deep, warm resonance slid across her skin with an intimate awareness that made her knees shake.  Desperately flinging out a hand, she steadied herself against the tree trunk, then slowly turned her head.

     “Joe,” she whispered hoarsely. In the fading light, Elaine could see the shock on his face, the burning questions in his eyes. His fists were clenched at his sides as he stared at her.

     “I saw—” He shook his head, then cleared his throat. “I saw someone sitting up here. She looked like you.” He swallowed audibly. “I had to see…” His voice trailed off as his eyes roamed over her body, her face. “How can you be here?”

     Mind whirling, unable to keep standing, she fell hard onto the bench. Joe stepped closer, shock slowly transforming into a hot anger that she could feel building inside him.

     “I come every year,” she said quietly.

     “You’ve been here every year and never once let me know? Never once let me see you?”

     “I’m so sorry. I wanted to, but after the accident—”

     He fell to one knee in front of her and tentatively took her hands as if she might not be real after all. Eyes locked on her face, he softly asked, “Why did you leave me, El?”  Lowering his head, he rested his forehead on her thigh.  “Why?” The muffled word was raw.

     Pulling a hand free, she smoothed it over his hair. “I’ve missed you so much,” she murmured. “To see you, even from a distance, kept me from despair.”

     His head shot up. He growled, angry again. “I didn’t have that luxury. You took everything when you left me!”  Eyes shadowed, he said bitterly, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

     Elaine took his face in her hands and leaned toward him. Her kiss was soft and tender. “I…I just…couldn’t.” Breathing the words against his lips, she whispered, “I love you,” before she kissed him again.

     Joe resisted for several heartbeats, then with a groan, moved to the bench and pulled her into his lap. The feel of her arms around him, the bittersweet touch of her mouth, the weight of her body, was almost unbearable. He had dreamed of this, on so many long, dark nights after she’d gone. Lifting his head, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture so familiar and easy it made his breath catch for a moment. “You’re still so beautiful.” He frowned slightly. “Why are you here? Why have you come back to me now?”

     Elaine kissed her husband once more, then slid off his lap and stood in the quiet under the old Sycamore tree as early evening settled over the landscape. She smiled and held out her hand. Joe took it and got to his feet.

     “Let’s take a walk around the lake,” she said. “I have so much to tell you.”

     As they made their way down the slope, Joe said firmly, “I won’t let you go again, Elaine. I mean it.”

     Smiling at the scowl on his handsome face, reveling in the solid clasp of his hand, Elaine said softly, “No, we won’t let go this time.”

                                             ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

     The caretaker was on his way to lock the iron gates for the night when the headlights on his little cart illuminated the shape of two people in a passionate embrace. He veered in their direction to tell them it was time to leave, but before he could get closer, they began fading in a soft misty shimmer of light.

    Unfazed, the old man carefully turned the cart around. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen couples reunited here, and it wouldn't be the last.  Love was a powerful bond after all. Smiling, his eyes roamed fondly over the neat rows of headstones as he drove slowly toward the cemetery gates.

Epilogue...8 Weeks Later

Lily wrapped a warm woolen scarf around her neck, then grabbed one of the many jackets hanging in the small mudroom beside the kitchen.  Shrugging into it, she slipped out the back door and stood for a moment in the clean, cold air of the French countryside.  As she walked the meandering paths of her mother’s flower and herb gardens, she smiled at the raucous sounds of the party that followed her up the gentle slope to a wooden bench under an ancient Sweet Chestnut tree.

     Leaning into a slight hollow in the gnarly, rough bark Lily looked out over the landscape.  The glow from a perfect half-moon made the night seem like a scene from a fairy tale.

     Hearing a soft footfall, she turned, then smiled at Katy, her elven beauty enhanced by the moonlight.  Tucking her hands in the crook of Lily’s elbow, Katy rested her head against the other woman’s shoulder and sighed happily.  “I’ve missed this place.”

     “Me, too.”  She lightly poked Katy with her elbow.  “I’ve missed you.  How’s it going with dissolving the Cantrell empire?”

     “Without your grandfather’s help, Dom would have just walked away from the whole thing.  If Taurin hadn’t returned his medallion I don’t know how we could’ve proved that Dom’s father wasn’t around anymore.”  She laughed softly.  “Bit hard to tell his corporate executives their CEO was a demon from Hell.”

     In a simple, well-planned maneuver, the figure of Jamieson Cantrell was seen boarding his private jet shortly after Halloween, leaving Seattle in the early morning hours for a quick flight back to San Francisco.  Tragically, over the Pacific, the plane had exploded with no survivors.  Dom and Mickey had planned it perfectly, using the medallion to escape after lighting the fuse.

     “There are dozens of lawyers handling sales and deals and all that financial stuff.”  She giggled. “Though most of the time Dom just wants to stay in bed.”

     Quietly Lily said, “I was wrong about him, Katy.  It’s so obvious he adores you.  I’m sorry I misjudged him.”

     “Don’t be sorry.  In the beginning it was all about revenge.”  She lifted her head and smiled at Lily.  “But it didn’t take long for me to turn him from the dark side.”

     They were laughing when the soft murmur of voices made them look over their shoulders.  The click of a shutter told them that Jean Michel, Lily’s father, had arrived with his camera.  “Ah, my princesses, how beautiful you are in the moonlight.”  He came around the tree and snapped several more shots, then cheerfully scolded Katy, “You were supposed to bring my girl back to the house, not stay out here with her.”

     Solemnly, Katy stood and faced Lily.  “Dearest Lily, your cher père wants to take group photos.  You must come back to the house immediately.”  Then her eyes went past Lily and she said softy, “My ride's here.  I’ll meet you at the house—”

     “Later,” growled a deep voice as Dom prowled up the slope.  Without taking his eyes off Katy, he smoothly lifted her into his arms and walked away, Katy’s muffled laughter wafting on the air as they melted into the darkness.

     Shaking his head, Jean Michel sat down next to his daughter.  “Her man might be rough around the edges, but no one could ever care for her more.  It’s good to see her so happy.”  He wrapped an arm around Lily’s shoulders and pulled her close.  “And you, mon ange, are you happy?”

     “Very happy.”

     “Daniel is the one, yes?”

Lily grinned and nestled against her father’s side, his large, comfortable presence warming her heart.  “Yes, Papa, he’s the one.  I hope you approve.”

     Jean Michel was quiet as he pondered her words.  His world revolved around his family, the sunflowers and his photographs.  As he sat in the cool night air, his mind raced with images of the woman beside him, from the first moments of her life, squalling and red-faced, to her scraped knees and gangly limbs, through her heartbreaks and triumphs.  She was strong and independent and he loved her unconditionally.  It would take a very special man to be worthy of her.

     Used to her father’s long, pensive silences, Lily let her thoughts wander in the quiet of the French countryside, the silvery glow from the moon adding a gentleness to the dips and rises of the familiar terrain.

     After Taurin had brought them back, Lily had insisted that Dom and Katy stay in the spare bedroom, at least for a few days.  On the second morning, Mickey had appeared in the kitchen and just in time for breakfast, he cheerfully explained between mouthfuls that his medallion had been returned to him.  Later, when Dom said he couldn’t figure out how to declare his father dead so he could unload his businesses, it was Mickey who came up with the plan.  Before leaving, Mickey had ordered the four of them to France for Christmas.  No excuses, no begging off, no exemptions.  Be there, or face the wrath of the family.

     Daniel spent a few days in San Francisco, packing things to ship, putting the house in the hands of a realtor, then had settled in at the bookstore, and into Lily’s life with no effort at all.  He was knowledgeable about the books, charming and friendly with the customers, and with Katy traipsing around the globe with Dom, it had been incredibly helpful to have him around.  For that and other reasons, Lily mused happily.

     Her apartment was messy and comfortable and warmer now, not her place anymore, but theirs.  She had even taken some photos of him on the sly, adding them to the wall in the kitchen.  Daniel had a habit of wandering over to the wall before dinner, lingering over the faces of her family as he quietly sipped his wine.  That night she held her breath as he perused the usual suspects, then choked on the wine when he saw himself mingled with her family.  It was one of her best moments: the look on his face, the realization that he had more than just his brother, that she had done such a wonderful thing for him.

     “Do you truly love him?”

     Startled out of her reverie, she smiled up at her father, then stretched to kiss his cheek.  “Truly.”

     With a sigh, her father slapped his hands on his knees, then stood up, his camera swinging from his neck.  “Your grandfather said you and Katy went to Hell and back for those two men.”  Lily widened her eyes at that revelation.  Jean Michel shrugged.  “Mickey and I have never kept secrets from each other.  That was one of his rules when I married his daughter and a promise I will have from your man as well.”

     “You have it, sir.”  Daniel’s voice was quiet and sure as he stepped around the tree.  Lily got to her feet.  Daniel smiled at her, then held out his hand to her father.  “I’ll promise anything you want, sir.  Well, except for go away and never come back.”  Jean Michel studied him for a moment, then he grinned and took Daniel’s hand in a firm grip, pounding him on the back for good measure.

     “You love her?”  Her father asked, not relinquishing Daniel’s hand.

      Daniel ignored the painful handshake and looked at Lily.  “Beyond reason and with all my heart.  It’s you Lily, it’s always been you.”

     “Then welcome to the family.” Jean Michel smiled broadly. “See you at the house in a few minutes.  I want to get some photos before Christmas Eve is over.”  He started down the slope, sure they hadn’t heard a word he’d just said.  When he reached the path, he turned back for a moment.

     Silhouetted against the night sky, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, the kiss was magical in the moonlight.  Smiling, Jean Michel raised his camera and took the shot.

 

** THE END **