Gilt (31 page)

That is, of course, if our relationship found solid ground. We had no opportunity to pursue anything remotely romantic with the house full of people, but I knew he was there, waiting for me. It was a comforting feeling. There was no pressure but there was possibility.

A faint breeze helped dissipate the crushing humidity of the day while high scudding clouds hid then revealed the sun. Far away, beyond the road, I saw a farmhouse but otherwise the landscape was a mosaic of crops, sunlight, and sky. I crossed the drive, lured by the sound of Dan's saw in the garage. I looked upward, amazed by the expanse of blue. Last night Dan and I sat on the back porch and stared into the distance. It seemed so black until your eyes got accustomed then you saw the stars that blazed so brightly. I forgot how dark it was in the country at night and how the stars glowed with life once you got beyond the range of human lights.

The saw stopped its grinding. Bruce Springsteen's wavering voice drifted from the old boom box in the garage. I paused in mid-step, suddenly paralyzed by sadness as the words from
Into the Fire
strengthened with the breeze. I had tried to avoid Springsteen's
Rising
album when John was alive because it dealt with subjects that so involved me--rescue workers and firemen. And I avoided it completely after John's death because I was afraid of the memories it might invoke.

I stared, unseeing, at the barn in the distance as the haunting words reached me, words about love and duty, smoky graves and fear. Was that what John felt? Did he feel a need to give his life in order to save the poor child and her puppy? A tear wound down my cheek, almost keeping time to the wavering music.

It had been a long, long time since I cried for John. I hadn't allowed myself to imagine how he felt or what he encountered while he ran up those stairs to rescue that child. Prior to this, I thought of him in abstract terms: the man I tried to leave behind. My husband who died. I never thought of him as a fireman who died doing what he was trained to do.

Was he frightened when it happened? Did he try to console that poor little girl? John loved animals, and his pity would have been for the puppy almost as much as for the child. How did he find them in all that smoke and chaos? Did he reassure them? I imagined the horror, the smoke, and the crushing sense of failure he must have endured--and finally, at the last, the fear. For the first time I felt I finally grasped it. John was a man who lived for duty, honor, and love. That was the way he would want to die.

"It's okay, Gem."

I turned. John moved from the shadows of the garage, the sun glinting on his turnout coat. "I did what I wanted to do. You had nothing to do with it. Move on now."

"I'm afraid to, John," I whispered. "I don't want to lose you."

"Afraid of losing me? Or are you afraid of the future?"

"I don't know," I admitted. I moved closer to him and did something I wanted to do since that first moment he appeared to me. I touched his face, feeling cool flesh under my fingers. "I thought I loved you, John. But I'm not sure any more if I know how to love."

His hand encircled mine and he gently kissed my fingers, his lips like a warm breath of air on my flesh. "You loved me as well as you were able, and that's all that anyone can ask for."

"Was it enough for you?"

He smiled. "Yes. If we had more time, I think we would've worked it out. But we didn't have the time. It's your time now. Do what you want to do. Be who you want to be."

Bruce Springsteen's voice behind me held all the pain and fear that I imaged John had felt. My throat tightened with grief but then I looked up into his face. He smiled at me, and suddenly I knew that Dan was right. John was a fireman. It wasn't what he did. It's who he was. He died the way he wanted to die, doing his job. I suddenly felt lighter, free. "Thank you, John." I wiped at a tear. "Good-bye."

John laughed softly. "Not good-bye, Gem. I'll see you later."

He always said good-bye to me when he went on-shift and I knew why. He was never sure if he would come home. But now, this cavalier
see you later
was a promise.

The sun popped out from behind a cloud and I closed my eyes, suddenly dazzled by brightness. When I opened them, John was gone. The saw resumed its buzzing as Bruce Springsteen launched into
Waitin' on a Sunny Day
.

I turned to the garage and walked toward my future.

The End

About the Author

J L Wilson writes mystery novels, paranormal romance novels, and the History Patrol series which features romance, reincarnation, and time travel. She also teaches writing in a series of workshops and blogs on a regular basis in a variety of spots online.

Want to know more? Catch up with her here:

Her web site:
http://www.jayellwilson.com

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Would you like to read more about Jack Tinsley's story? Check out
Twistered
, which provides details about Jack before this story. Check J L's web site for the details.