The Year of Luminous Love (10 page)

Ciana raised her hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“Last October, when I turned eighteen, I filled out the forms and paid for a passport.”

Despite her pledge, Ciana laughed.

“You promised.”

“I’m laughing because I have a passport too. Olivia insisted. Said I should go visit the Beauchamp clan in France someday before real life rolled over me. But I still don’t have a notion to go to Europe.”

Arie rolled her eyes. “But college, living at home, studying art and history from books instead of up close and personal is in my future.”

They walked on, then entered the restaurant where several patrons and waitresses waved to them. They took a small café table for two near the window. “At least you’re going away to college,” Arie said.

“Nashville. Hardly far.”

A waitress came to their table and smiled. “Hey, Arie, Ciana. What can I get ya?”

They placed an order without bothering with a menu, and after the waitress walked off, Arie said, “That’s Martha Ellen, one of my cousins.”

“Who isn’t one of your cousins?” Ciana deadpanned.

“How’s Olivia?”

Ciana’s good mood darkened. “Weaker, and more and more lost in a world of her own making. Her heart’s having a problem too. Docs have her on all kinds of medicine.”

Arie understood the mortality factor better than most. “Well, she may have memory and health problems, but she’s still kicking, so don’t go dwelling on what hasn’t happened. One day at a time, remember?”

“I know, but I miss her. I hate seeing her deteriorate.”

“You’ve still got your mama.”

Ciana sighed. “But it was Olivia who taught me how to farm, gave me life rules to follow. She taught me how to make sweet tea in the antique glass pitcher when I was eight. When I was nine, Mom taught me how to measure out a jigger of gin and pour it into her glass with tea and lemon and fresh mint. She still likes it that way.”

Arie hurt for her friend. Her own mother was guilty of
“smother-love,” but Arie had always known that Patricia would storm the gates of hell for Arie’s sake. She slapped the edge of the table, making Ciana jump. “You need a boyfriend.”

“Are you joking? A guy is going to make my life better? How?”

“Not just any guy. The right guy.”

“No such thing.”

“You’re a cynic. I just know that ever since I’ve been around Jon Mercer, my outlook’s changed. I look forward to starting every day because I’m going to be near him. He makes my heart happy.”

“Endorphins,” Ciana insisted, biting into the sandwich just placed in front of her.

“It’s beyond chemistry, Ciana Beauchamp. I’m crazy for him. And you’ll feel different when the right one comes along for you. Wait and see.”

Ciana got a look in her eyes that made Arie stop talking. She asked, “What? Have you met someone?”

“Once,” Ciana confessed, without meeting Arie’s insistent gaze. “One night, one magical night.” Her face reddened. She looked contrite, as if she’d said far more than she’d meant to. “But it can never work out for him and me.”

“How do you know? Is he with someone else? You need to fight for him.” She straightened as a thought occurred to her. “He … he isn’t married, is he?”

Ciana laughed outright. “No way. But he is off-limits. I never should have said anything. It’s over anyway.”

Arie was intrigued. As far as Arie knew, her friend had never even had a serious crush. “Tell me about him. And what makes him off-limits?”

“It’s history,” Ciana told her, with a smile that intrigued Arie all the more.

“But—”

Ciana tossed her napkin onto the table. “Right now, I need to go over to Evergreen for my daily visit. Come on, I’ll run you home first.” She moved toward the door.

Arie jumped up, scrambled after her, bewildered by Ciana’s refusal to talk about the guy she’d met. They’d been friends forever, and Ciana had shared the secrets of her heart many times over the years. Why wasn’t she sharing now? When had this happened? Why was this a secret?

“Keys, please,” Arie asked, coming into the kitchen, where Eric sat hunched over a bowl of breakfast cereal and the sports section of the newspaper.

“What for?”

“Hello. Art day at the children’s hospital in Nashville, same as always. You told me I could take your truck last Monday.”

Eric groaned. “You still doing that?”

“Twice a month every summer for the past two years.” When she was seventeen, Arie had volunteered to lead drawing and painting classes on the children’s oncology floor two Saturdays a month. Even while she was going through chemo herself, sick and frail, she’d held the classes. And if a child was too sick to get out of bed and meet in the recreation area, Arie went to the patient’s room and gave a private class, because the real value of the work lay in helping kids express in their art what they might not be able to say with words about having cancer.

“When will you be home?” Eric grumbled. “I have a date with Abbie.”

Arie crossed her arms and tapped her toe. “Has Abbie ever seen you first thing in the morning, Grumpy?”

“Don’t be so nosy.”

Arie paused, studied her brother. “You love that girl, don’t you?”

“Whoa!” Eric said. “Where’d that come from? You know I don’t use the L-word for any reason except when I’m talking about my truck and Tennessee football.”

Arie smirked. Eric had serial dated over the years. Abbie held him spellbound. The whole family was talking about the two of them. “I’m sure Abbie will be thrilled to know you prefer two inanimate objects over her.”

Eric dropped the paper onto the table and peered up at his sister. “Is this bashing going someplace, Sis?”

“Not a bashing, Bro. Maybe just a wake-up call. If you love this girl, don’t put off telling her.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” he mumbled under his breath, something they used to say to each other as kids. But his face was beet red, so she knew she’d scored points.

She wiggled her fingers. “Keys.”

Eric dug into the pocket of his jeans and dangled the truck keys on the end of his forefinger. “You park way in the back lot away from other cars. I don’t want some idiot dinging up my paint with his car doors.”

Arie snatched the keys, bowing. “Grasshopper will walk a mile to protect precious red paint.”

He made a move to grab and tickle her, but she scampered to the side door. He grinned, calling out, “And only put high-octane gas in it too.”

“I’ll leave it as I got it,” she called out. The door slammed behind her, and she dashed to the shiny red truck.

As Arie drove the fifty-two miles to the hospital in Nashville, she engaged in her favorite pastime—daydreaming about Jon Mercer and how much she liked him and wanted to be with him. She’d been infatuated before, but what she felt for Jon was different. She hadn’t exaggerated when she’d told Ciana that being with him had given her life an amazing jolt. Jon was physical perfection, but he was also kind and gentle to his core. The way he handled horses, with both firmness and affection, gave her insights into his nature. She knew that she was falling hopelessly in love with him. Before, she had been some crush-addled preteen. Now she was a grown woman living her life on the edge of eternity, and Jon was the embodiment of all she wanted in a man.

The choke hold of having cancer had created deep insecurities in Arie. With each relapse had come new fears, escalating from
Who will be my friends?
to
What guy will ever kiss me?
to
What man will ever want me?
She already knew she could easily love Jon Mercer for the rest of her life. The unknown was, could he love her? She didn’t ever think about how long she’d live.

A horn honked and Arie startled, realizing that she’d been so deep in thought that she was drifting into the other lane on the expressway. She snapped upright and pushed the gas pedal, and the truck’s powerful engine shot the vehicle forward and back into her lane. Lordy, if she wrecked Eric’s precious truck, she’d be banished to Alaska!

At the hospital, she found a parking space way back in a corner of the lot. Inside she rode the elevator up to Pediatric Oncology and stepped out in front of the nurses’ station, where the busy RNs warmly greeted her. Ruth said, “Your budding artists are waiting in the rec room.”

“Any new faces?”

“Cory’s back.”

Arie’s heart squeezed. She’d first met Cory a year before, when he’d been five, a beautiful little boy with a rare form of leukemia. His mother was a famous country singer, using the code name of “Lotty Jones” to help protect her identity from a prying press. The media hounded her constantly, and she wanted Cory to escape them and any lurid tabloid headlines they would create. Cory had taken to Arie immediately because she liked to draw and paint and so did he. He drew well for such a young child, especially fanciful creatures from outer space.

The pediatric floor was clean and bright with colorful walls and white and yellow floor tiles, laid out like the yellow brick road to Oz. Every room door was painted a different and vibrant shade. Arie breezed into the rec room, which was flanked with glass walls on two sides that looked out into the corridors. Her little artists were waiting, some in wheelchairs with IV poles and fluid drips, others in chairs at the low long tables. Each wore a protective apron over their hospital issue pj’s. Cory and Lotty sat to one side, but he perked up when Arie entered. At the end of each table stood a stack of ceiling tiles.

“Bet you’re wondering what we’re going to do with these,” she said, holding up a plain white twelve-inch square tile. “We’re going to decorate them with special markers. And once the tiles are finished, the janitors are going to take out some of the old boring ceiling tiles in our halls and put your wonderful decorated ones in its place.”

“Will they stay up forever?” one small girl asked.

“I think so. So do your very best work and don’t forget to
put your names on your tile. We’re going to make this ceiling gorgeous!” She passed out the tiles.

Lotty asked, “Can I help?”

“Thanks.” Arie handed her boxes of fresh markers.

“It’s a great idea,” Lotty said. “I know they try to make this place cheerful, but …” She let the sentence trail.

“But it’s still a cancer ward,” Arie finished the thought.

Lotty shrugged.

“How’s Cory?” Arie asked.

Lotty’s eyes filled with tears. “Not so good. Doc says he’ll have to go back on chemo. I haven’t told him yet.”

Arie recalled when she’d been dragged back into treatment, how angry she’d been. She’d felt cheated and deceived. “He’ll get through it. He’s a great kid and a fighter.”

“Like you.”

Arie smiled kindly at the beautiful petite woman whose rich, husky voice could sing with a fire and intensity that earned her awards on almost every CD she recorded. She had tons of money and could buy anything she wanted. Except her son’s health. Cancer was no respecter of age, race, or money.

The county fairground was decked out with flags, banners, and streamers. A carnival stood at one end, and at the other was a football-field-sized arena surrounded by stands and packed with sunburned tourists. Ciana sat tall in her saddle as the long parade of horses and riders cantered through the arena gates and wove in concentric circles to cheering spectators. In the center of the arena wearing baggy pants and painted faces, rodeo clowns performed tumbling routines. Following the mounted riders came the men and women competing for cash prizes and the glory of winning a coveted belt buckle.