Dandelion Dreams (29 page)

“I think I’m making it harder for you, Sage.”

Awake, I know only loneliness. But here, in this place, I am never lonely.

“Stay with me,” I whisper.

“I can’t,” he says, his voice full of anguish, his face crowded with pain. “I have to go.”

The salmon-roe colored sun sinks slowly behind the mountains.

Soon, I am in darkness.

And I am alone.

Even in the in-between.

Chapter 1

I heard their voices in the hallway. They wanted to help me, be with me, care for me. I closed my eyes, my hand gliding across my bulging belly. She moved—hesitantly, peacefully.

The door opened, but my eyes did not. I began to sing again.

“What’s she singing this time?” a hushed voice asked.

“Simon and Garfunkel,” came the reply.

Someone called my name, but I continued to sing.

“Celia…” Jules said.

“I know,” Celia answered.

“I’m worried about the baby. Sage won’t eat.”

My eyes drifted open. They felt heavy. Two faces stared at me until Jules, my best friend, crouched down next to the bed and ran a hand across my lank, greasy hair.

“She’s been this way for a few days—since we got back from the funeral.” Jules looked at Celia, who bit her lip in indecision before it was replaced by firm resolve.

“She needs a bath,” Celia commanded.

Jules shot up. “I’ll start the water.” Relief painted her face, knowing she could at least complete that task.

Celia reached her hands out to mine, and I took them. She was thin and willowy, but managed to hoist me up despite my bulk. Jules had set a green towel on the sink in the bathroom.

“I’ve got this. Call and order food,” Celia dictated to Jules.

“You sure?” Jules asked. Celia nodded. “But I don’t speak Fren—never mind. I’ll figure it out.”

The bathroom door shut.

Celia tugged on my shirt, and I lifted my arms like a child. I felt no shame. I sat in the tub of hot water while Celia washed my hair. A torrent of tears fell across my cheeks, lost in the bathwater, with no need to try and wipe them away.

“Love is pain,” I murmured.

Celia tilted my chin upward, so I was forced to meet her steady, somber gaze. Her mouth opened and she said, “I know.”

•••

Bold sunlight splattered through the glass windows of the bedroom. My swollen eyes refused to open, abused from days of crying.

I smelled coffee and bacon.

The little fish lurched inside me, and I gave a startled laugh. The sound resonated in the silence. I pressed a hand to my stomach. “
Okay.
Okay.”

The scene in the kitchen wasn’t a unique one. Celia stood at the stove, the sound of grease sizzling in a pan. Jules and Luc sat at the table, cups of coffee in their hands, speaking in hushed tones. Armand hovered near the bacon, filching a piece from the waiting plate. Celia smacked her husband’s rough, brown knuckles and grinned at him in affection. The sight before me almost made me smile as I stood in the doorway, feeling like a stranger in my own home.

“Sage!” Jules exclaimed when she noticed me hovering.

I shuffled into the room like a dying hospice patient.

“How did you sleep?” Luc asked. His gaze scanned my face, searching for the answer he already knew.

Evading the question, I asked, “Shouldn’t you be at the vineyard? Gotta get ready for the harvest in a few months.”

“We have help,” Armand interjected. “Don’t worry about us.”

I nodded absently as I took a seat at the table. My head buzzed from their presence. Celia set a plate of food in front of me and touched my shoulder before leaving the kitchen. I ate, but didn’t taste. Armand, Jules and Luc spoke softly to each other so as not to drive me back to my room. After just a few minutes at the table, the little strength I had found waned and I was tired again.

“I’m going back to bed,” I announced.

I walked upstairs and into my bedroom as Celia was finishing making the bed with freshly laundered sheets. She straightened and peered at me before touching my arm and commanding, “Get some rest.” She left, and moments later, I heard people shuffling towards the door, and my house was quiet once again.

I went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out one of Kai’s flannel shirts. It was red and black, faded from many washings. Raising it to my nose, I inhaled deeply.

I shrugged into the shirt and drew the collar up around my chin. I settled into bed and tugged the covers up over me, including my head. Shrouded in darkness, I exhaled under the comforter.

•••

As I gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, I stared into the mirror. “Say it,” I commanded my reflection. “Come on, say it.”

Taking a deep breath, I said the words I had trouble forming. “Again.” My knuckles were white with stress, my mouth taut with rage. “Widow. I am a widow—widow, widow, widow.”

Tears of anger glistened in my eyes. “Widow!” I shouted as I punched the mirror. The glass shattered, but I didn’t feel my knuckle slice open.

“Widow,” I moaned, sinking down onto the floor, clutching my bleeding hand. I breathed heavily, trying to control my sadness, my tears, but it all came at me with the force of a mountain squall.

“Sage!” Jules cried from the doorway of the bathroom. “I heard—” She crouched down next to me. “What the hell did you do?”

“The mirror...”

She looked around, as though she didn’t know what to do. Settling on a course of action, she grabbed my uninjured hand and helped me up. “Go to the bed and wait for me. I’ll clean all this up after I tend to you.”

“My very own nursemaid. Perfect.”

She shot me a look that spoke volumes, and then gently pushed me towards the bedroom and out of the destruction. In resignation, I sank onto the bed and examined my right hand. Bloody mess.

Minutes later, Jules came into the bedroom, carrying first aid items and putting them on the bed. “Why?” she asked, swabbing my knuckles with hydrogen peroxide. I winced at the sting.

“I’m a widow.” I waited while she cleaned my hand, picking out a few shards of glass. “You going to tell on me?”

“So they can commit you to a psych ward?” she joked, despite the fear in her blue eyes.

“You think they’ll go that far?”

“If you keep hurting yourself. You’re pregnant.”

“I know.”

“Are you
trying
to hurt yourself?” she asked, deeply concerned.

“Blunt New Yorker, party of one.”

“Sage, that’s not funny. You have a
baby
to think about.” She sighed and continued wrapping my hand in a bandage.

•••

“What happened?” Armand demanded as he clutched my hand to examine my wound.

“Glass,” I said.

“How?” Celia’s gaze slid to Jules, but I answered before she could say anything for me.

“I broke a mirror.”

They glanced at my bandaged hand.

“Jules already gave me a lecture,” I informed them, wanting to spare him wasting his breath on a needless scolding.

“I don’t care what you two have talked about. I know you’re hurting—but this? This
cannot
happen again,” Armand stated. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Jules nodded in silent agreement as he spoke, seemingly glad that he was reprimanding me.

Armand continued, “Sage? Answer me.”

“Okay, I hear you,” I replied.

Armand’s look softened, and he moved slowly to take me into his arms. “We’re worried about you, Sage.”

Celia cut the tension by asking, “Are you sleeping well?”

“Okay,” I said.

We walked into the kitchen and Celia took a casserole dish out of the oven and placed it onto the counter. Jules and Luc set the table, and Armand poured a couple glasses of wine. I pulled up a chair and made myself comfortable.

“I’m not singing to myself anymore,” I said to break the silence.

Luc stifled a chuckle, smiled, and patted me on the shoulder. Everyone else glanced at me to see if I was joking.

“I’m fine, seriously.”

The meal was relatively quiet. My makeshift surrogate family observed me closely, watching to see how I behaved. I felt like a monkey in a zoo. I wondered what they would do if I climbed onto the table and started to make chimp noises. The idea had me laughing hysterically.

“What’s so funny?” Jules asked.

“Nothing.”

“Seriously, what is it?”

I began to sing, “‘
And all the monkeys aren’t in the zoo, every day you meet quite a few’
.”

Luc cringed. “I thought you were done singing?”

“It comes and goes,” I replied. I stood. “Thanks for dinner.”

“I made a cake,” Celia said. “Would you like a slice?”

“Thanks, but maybe later. Dinner was great.” I kissed her cheek and left the kitchen.

“She’s manic,” I heard Luc say as I walked away.

“She’s grieving,” Celia corrected.

I wasn’t ready for bed, so I headed to the turret. I hadn’t been up there since I’d returned to France, but it was as welcoming as an old friend. Taking a seat near the window, I stared out at the darkening sky. “‘
Would you like to swing on a star…’”

•••

“You’re awake,” Jules greeted in surprise as she came into the kitchen.

“Yep.” I continued to whisk a bowl of eggs with my uninjured hand.

“Did you sleep?”

“Yeah, crashed hard.”

“Good.”

I heard the relief in her voice.

“You’re cooking.”

“Trying to,” I said. “The bandaged hand makes it difficult.”

She paused and bit her lip before asking, “Are you feeling any better?”

I didn’t look at her when I answered, “Nope.”

“I’m still worried about you. We all are.”

I nodded. “Yeah.” I dumped the eggs into a heated skillet; they crackled and the smell wafted up to my nose. There was hunger behind the pain. The baby was determined to keep me alive, no matter how much I wanted to give up. She needed me, depended on me. I had to pull it together—if not for myself, then for my daughter.

“I’m not suicidal,” I promised. “I’m just—”

“I know.” Jules’s blue eyes raked over me, taking me all in.

My hand went to my stomach. She was my lifeline, yet I felt completely disconnected from her. “I can’t give up,” I said. “No matter how much I want to.”

Jules poured herself a cup of coffee, the smoky steam rising up to curl around her face. She smelled it and sighed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said when I had finished eating.

“Really? I’m not unwanted?”

“No. I’m not sure I’ve said thank you for living with me.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

“Yeah, but you’re more than a friend,” I stated. “You’re family. Anyway, I hope I never have to return the favor. I hope life treats you better than it’s treated me.”

She swallowed and looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. So unlike Jules.

“Your presence pushes out the silence. Thank you for that.” I stood and stretched my arms over my head. My lower back was habitually tight. I winced.

“Where are you going?”

“I think I’ll walk around the lake,” I said. “Get some fresh air.”

“Want some company?” she offered.

I shook my head. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t turn on the
Mama Mia!
soundtrack and sing to me.”

Jules gave a small smile. “I thought you were the one who liked to sing.”

Chapter 2

I walk along a dirt path littered with summer leaves. In the distance, I hear the call of birds and the chant of the wind. I turn my face up to the sky and smile.

An old grandfather of a tree rests in the middle of a small clearing. Through its bending and twisting branches, I see a jean-clad leg hanging out of the canopy. I hurry over to the tree and, without thought, climb it. I swing up and settle myself next to the owner of the leg.

Kai holds a box of Cracker Jacks and pops a handful of caramel deliciousness into his mouth. I hear the crunch, crunch, crunch of popcorn, caramel and peanuts.

“Want some?” he asks. “I’ll share.”

“You’d share your Cracker Jacks with me?”

He grins and pushes the brim of his baseball cap higher on his head. “Does that prove how much I love you?”

I laugh. “Without a doubt.” I reach for the Cracker Jacks, and after I swallow a bite, I inform him, “I wrote a book.”

“Did you?”

“Impressed?”

“Very. You are a woman of many talents.”

“Not so many,” I murmur.

“No?”

“What do you do with too many gifts?” I ask.

“Use them.”

“Or lose them?” My smile turns into a grimace. “If you had asked me what I wanted a few years ago, I would’ve given you an entirely different answer than the one I’d give now.”

“What did you want a few years ago?” he asks.

“I’m not sure I remember anymore. I don’t think it’s important.”

We fall silent. I wait for the wind, but no breeze strokes the leaves or teases my hair. Things feel stagnant in a way I can’t describe.

“I’m proud of you,” he says finally.

“Why? Because I wrote a book?”

“Because you’re no longer hiding who you are. It takes courage to be who you really are.”

“Or it takes too much effort to bury who we truly are. Maybe I just got tired.”

He snorts. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“No, I don’t think I do.” I lean my head back against the tree and close my eyes. I can’t look at him when I admit, “I don’t tell people about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here. This place. Wherever we are. I don’t tell them we meet and talk.”

“You think they wouldn’t understand.”

I open my eyes and glance at him. “I don’t want to share you. Not even your memory.”

•••

Scattered pages of the manuscript surrounded me like a blanket of fallen leaves. I rubbed my face with ink-stained fingers, leaving smudges on my cheeks.

Now, as the pinkness of dawn crept through the drapes, I set the papers aside and sat up. There was a small foot underneath one of my ribs. I winced and gently pressed against my belly. She moved her foot, and I took in a deep breath.