Beneath the Scars (39 page)

Chris also stood up, announcing he had to get to the office. I curled into the corner of the sofa, dragging a blanket over my lap. I was constantly cold. Thoughts of the day swirled in my head as I stared at the satchel on the table.
Move on
, Bill said. Was I ready to move on now?

Karen’s voice broke through my musings as she handed me a cup of herbal tea. “Are you okay, Megan? You look so tired and worn-out.”

“It’s been a lot to take in,” I answered, sipping the warm beverage. “I haven’t slept well the past couple nights.”

She frowned. “It’s more than a couple missed nights. You look positively exhausted. You’re hardly eating, and I hear you throwing up all the time.”

I shrugged, struggling not to cry at her words. “Nerves. It’ll get better now.”

“No, it’s more,” she insisted. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” I whispered as the tears broke through.

She wrapped her hands around my cold ones. “I know, sweetie, but I think you need to see a doctor. It’s more than a broken heart.” She squeezed my hands, frowning. “You can barely keep water down. I’m worried. Please let me make an appointment with your doctor.”

“If it’ll make you feel better, okay.” I drew in a deep breath. “Then I’m going back to Cliff’s Edge.” I smiled at her, wiping the tears away. “I have a book to fix.”

“Will you finish your story?”

“Yes. It’s time to close that one and start fresh.”

“Can you?”

I shut my eyes, Zachary’s scarred, hurt face filling my mind. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back. Bill was right—it was time to move on. “Yes.”

“Okay, then. Deal.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The house smelled musty. I’d arranged for it to be cleaned before I arrived back, but it still carried the lingering odor of neglect. Elliott ran ahead of me, sniffing and pawing around. Walking from room to room, I opened the windows, letting the rush of the cleansing, salty air flow through the house. I hesitated at the door to my bedroom. It was clean and tidy—the bed made fresh, but I swore if I drew in a deep breath, I’d still be able to catch a trace of Megan in the air; the scent that had haunted my mind all this time. Cursing at my own stupid thoughts, I flung open the window. If there was any remaining scent lingering, it would be gone soon enough. Neither she nor her scent had a place in my life anymore.

It was more difficult to enter the studio, since the room hadn’t been touched, even by the cleaning staff. The last painting I’d been working on was still on the easel, unfinished and sparse. What made my chest ache, though, were the pictures of Megan. She was smiling in the sunlight, laughing, angry, glaring at me, and the last one: her sleeping on the blankets that were still piled on the floor in the corner.

I’d developed the photos and created a collage, dry mounting them on a large board. She was beautiful and life-like as I stared at the images, lost briefly in memories of times I thought were the happiest of my life. Fuming once again that she was invading my thoughts, I shoved the board behind a pile of blank canvases, turning the pictures to the wall for good measure. I would get rid of it in the next while, since I never planned on transferring the images to canvas now. I opened the window and turned around, staring at the almost empty space. My eyes fell on the blankets in the corner of the room. Megan’s nest, as she liked to call it. Without another thought, I crossed the room, bending down and running my fingers over the thick material, once again remembering her.

Remembering
us
.

The vision of her curled on the pile of blankets and pillows filled my head. She had been sitting, reading as I worked away that afternoon, and fallen asleep. When I’d looked up, I’d had to capture the moment, grabbing my camera, trading it for my paintbrush. Her bright hair spilled over the blue blanket, eyelashes dark laying on her pale skin, and the way her hand curled up under her chin, as she slumbered, called to me. I snapped away, embedding more of her images onto film, thinking one day I would attempt to recreate them on canvas. I recalled rousing her with my touch, slowly bringing her awake with warm kisses and trailing fingers. We made love on those blankets, my body telling her all the things my mouth couldn’t yet say. My apology and conflicted feelings had been silent but powerful as I surged into her warm, welcoming body.

It had been the last time she was in my studio. Our world had ended only a couple days later. I looked down to see my hand fisting the material, grasping it so hard, it was tearing. I stood up abruptly, shaking my head. Why was I thinking about that afternoon?

I wondered if it was a mistake coming back to Cliff’s Edge. Maybe it was too soon. Perhaps I should have never returned, but something kept nagging at me it was time to come back, and finally I gave in.

Walking out of the studio, I closed the door behind me, shutting out the memories.

The next few days, I spent settling back in. Other than closing the window, I kept away from the studio. Mrs. Cooper had been kind enough to send Mr. Cooper out with groceries so I didn’t have to venture into town. Elliott and I walked the beach and in the woods, not surprised that, as usual, our private area was deserted, except for me.

It had been three months since the day I left, throwing a quickly packed case and Elliott into the SUV, then driving straight to Canada. There, a small cabin, and an even smaller town offered me refuge, while I figured out my next step. For days I paced and cursed, the pain in my chest threatening to overwhelm me. I couldn’t eat or sleep. Dormant feelings of rejection and worthlessness simmered under my marred skin, making it feel as if it was stretched too tight over my bones. I shied away from the news or radio, not wanting to know the stories and rumors that had occurred. In desperation, I immersed myself in books, photography, and painted like a man possessed. Canvas after canvas came to life under my hands as I lost myself in a world where I didn’t have to think—only create. The views there were different from my house in Maine. The scope was vaster, the scenery angrier, my perception darker. Some of the pieces were magnificent. Most of them I left sitting in the cabin, knowing I would never share them with the world. They were too personal. The paint on those canvases was thicker and edged with rage in many places. Rage was an emotion I could hold on to. Rage over my own foolishness. Rage over what had occurred and how I opened myself up to a world of hurt because of a pair of wide, brown eyes that gazed up at me in seeming adoration.

I wanted it to be hate. Hate for those eyes and the woman behind them. Hate for what she had done.

Yet, I was never able to feel that hate. Not for her.

No matter how hard I tried, it was impossible.

Somewhere, deep in my heart and my brain, was the smallest seed of disbelief. Doubt that the woman I had finally lost my heart to could have ever betrayed me that way. I wanted it to be real; I wanted to believe her sweet words and gentle ways had been real—meant only for me.

I wanted to believe she had seen the man behind the scars and loved him, despite them—despite his past.

A tiny part of me refused to believe she hadn’t loved me. In the darkness of the night, when I lay awake and the memories washed over me, that quiet voice told me I’d been wrong.

I was missing something and Megan loved me.

Which only fueled the rage even more.

Any reporters that had been hanging around Cliff’s Edge had long since left. The story became old and not interesting enough to stick around for in case I reappeared, but, as a precaution, I was determined to keep a low profile. Early fall was now upon us, and the town slowly began to empty of tourists, yet I still stayed close to the house and beach. I only ventured into town once, late at night, to pick up supplies. I hadn’t even let Ashley and Jonathon know I was back, and I knew Mrs. Cooper would never violate my trust. She was the only person I had contacted when I returned.

Jonathon had been in touch on the rare occasion I would check emails in the small café that had internet access. My cabin was far too remote to offer such amenities. He begged for my return or at least for new pieces to sell. Every painting the gallery possessed was sold, and he wanted more. I never answered back, but I had a few upstairs he could have if he wanted them, as well as the ones I had brought back with me. Perhaps being back would help inspire me. I shook my head as I took a sip of wine, unsure I would once more feel inspired. I returned to close this part of my life, to decide whether or not to sell the house. I wasn’t sure I would ever feel the same about the place now, or ever feel as safe as I had before everything happened. The memories were too many and far too fresh.

As hard as I tried to deny it, Megan was everywhere. I could hear her laughter in the house; see her walking on the beach. Certain times when I would walk into a room, I swore I could smell her fragrance lingering in the air, even though I told myself it was impossible. This morning, when I awoke, a bright color caught my eye. Tucked behind the lamp was one of her many hair ties. She was forever losing them and I would find them scattered all over the house. For a brief moment, I stared at it before lifting it to my nose. It smelled of her—floral and light. A burst of anger tore through me and I grabbed the trash can, tossing in the hair tie. In the bathroom, I found her lotion in the cupboard and flung it in the can. I yanked the top dresser drawer open, almost snarling at the sight of some of her socks. She always had cold feet and was in constant need of warmth. My fingers closed around the fuzzy material, an image of her feet resting in my lap, as we watched a movie, caused my eyes to burn with unshed tears. I emptied the entire drawer, not caring what all was inside.

Downstairs, I grabbed a trash bag and dumped the overflowing tin into it. Megan, or whoever had removed her things, had done a lousy job, and I was determined to finish it. Elliott followed me, low whimpers escaping his throat. I tore open cupboard after cupboard, ignoring his discomfort. A half empty bottle of corn syrup ricocheted off the floor as I flung it blindly, remembering her sweet smile I thought was only for me. The pictures Jared showed me proved I was wrong. An unopened jar of raspberry jam hit the bottom of the bag so hard it shattered, as I thought about licking the sticky mess off her fingers one morning, then making love to her on the kitchen floor. Her face that morning had been glowing and alive. Not like the last time I saw her, pale and ashamed, a face in the crowd,
his
arm holding her. With a roar, item after item went in the bag. I wanted no reminders of the woman who deceived me. Nothing that would sneak up on me and cause the ache in my chest to burst into life and throb with an intensity I thought would kill me.

Tucked under the edge of the sofa, I saw a pair of her flip flops. I shoved them in the bag and walked all around the house dragging the bag behind me. I paused at the bottom of the stairs, panting. All that was left was the studio—the pictures.

The memories.

Leaving the cumbersome bag, I walked up the stairs, my feet feeling heavier with each tread. Outside the door, I paused, glancing toward Elliott, who was lying with his face buried in his paws, low whimpers in the back of his throat. I knew he could sense my anger, and it was upsetting him. I wasn’t entirely sure myself where all my anger had come from after so many months. With determination, I stepped inside and yanked the collage board out, planning on carrying it downstairs and disposing of it. Instead, I leaned it on the wall and stared. Her sweet face,
Megan’s
sweet face, with those wondrous eyes, stared back at me. Ice-cold fury morphed into pain. Twisting, ripping pain that made my throat tighten and hands shake. Weariness draped over me, as I realized: she was still there, in my heart. As firmly entrenched as my hatred of my parents, was my love for her. No matter what had transpired, no matter how much I wanted to hate her, I never would. I couldn’t forgive or forget, but she would always reside there. She would always be with me.