Amber Sky, page 6
I inched closer to him and settled myself into the warmth of his arms.
He squeezed me tightly for a few seconds as he kissed the top of my head, then he loosened his hold on me and began stroking my bare shoulder with the backs of my fingers. “I want a big Christmas tree this year,” he said, a bright, wondrous quality in his deep voice. “I want to get it from that farm in Hatfield, where you can cut down your own tree.”
I was glad he couldn’t see the confused look on my face from his current vantage point. “Okay,” I replied. “But we’ll have to buy some more decorations.”
“We can go out there today,” he suggested. “I can push back my afternoon depo and take the day off.”
Now I was totally bewildered. Marc never took unplanned absences from work, especially not on a Monday.
“Marc?”
He didn’t reply.
“I want you to quit the firm.” I pushed the words out fast and hard before I could stop myself.
He still didn’t reply, but his fingers stopped absentmindedly stroking my arm.
“Say something,” I pleaded.
The rise and fall of Marc’s chest slowed beneath my head. “Okay.”
My heart stuttered a bit before it sped up. I must have heard him wrong.
“Did you hear what I said?” I asked. Surely, there had been a miscommunication.
“Loud and clear,” he replied. “And I agree. But it will take a few months to wrap up my caseload.”
“That was way too easy,” I remark.
He chuckles. “You read my journal. I’ve imagined a life outside the legal system for a very long time. I’m actually sort of glad you read it, though you never explained why you were looking in my desk drawers.”
My throat constricted as I recalled the day I found the journal. “It wasn’t any one particular reason,” I said, my voice hardly louder than a whisper. “It was mostly my own guilt over…” I stopped myself before I spoke the name of the ex-boyfriend I’d slept with while Marc and I were separated.
He was silent for a long while, then cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
My heart rate sped up again. “What is it?”
He unfolded his arm from around my shoulder and slipped it out from underneath my head. Then he turned onto his side, so we were facing each other. “I didn’t sleep with anyone while we were separated. I only said I did so you wouldn’t feel so guilty about what you’d done.”
I closed my eyes as I allowed this uncomfortable truth to sink in.
“But I don’t want you to feel guilty for doing something you were entitled to. I know you love me, and whatever happened meant nothing to you.”
I opened my eyes again. “How do you know that?”
He smiled at my question, not the reaction I expected. “Because… I told you no one knows you like I do.” His hand came up and landed on my face. “No one knows this face like I do,” he murmured, his breath tickling the hairs at my temples as he laid a tender kiss on my cheekbone. He traced his thumb along the ledge of my bottom lip. “No one knows these lips like I do.”
His hand gripped the back of my neck as his mouth landed on mine.
The Last Supper
Shadow has been working on my car for four days straight, and I’ve yet to see any progress on the enormous dent in the passenger side door. I’ve spent those four days mostly exploring the house, not wanting to stray too far, so I don’t get lost in the surrounding woods. My favorite part of the house is Shadow’s paintings.
An abstract depiction of The Last Supper hangs over the square table in the breakfast nook. In the living room, the painting of a sunset over the Great Smoky mountains is crooked, but I dare not straighten it. I can’t help but feel as if changing anything in this house will make it lose some of its magic and charm. I also can’t shake the feeling that being here is the key to regaining my memory.
I still can’t figure out why the house feels so familiar. But I know that I’m falling under its spell, just as I’m falling under Shadow’s.
I slowly enter the dimly lit garage where my new roommate is working under the hood of my SUV. The air smells of damp wood and gasoline. It’s a humid late-August afternoon, and the muggy air feels stifling in this small enclosed space. A dark stain of sweat marks a stripe down the spine of Shadow’s faded T-shirt. His forearms are smudged with grease all the way to the elbows.
“You look like you could use some lemonade,” I say, holding out an icy glass of pink liquid. “I made it using the lemons Mr. Beacham brought and some strawberries I found growing wild along the side of the house.”
He stands up straight, and sweat runs down his forehead in glistening runnels. He wipes it away with the back of his wrist before it reaches his eyes. “That’s mighty kind of you,” he says, slightly out of breath as he accepts the glass of lemonade. “But you might want to ration that sugar. We need it to get us through till next month’s delivery.”
My face blazes with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I totally forgot about that. That was really foolish of me.”
He downs half the lemonade and smacks his lips. “Don’t apologize,” he says, holding up the glass to stare at the slices of strawberry floating in the liquid. “That’s the best damn lemonade—” He stops mid-sentence, his face becoming redder than I imagined mine must be. “I shouldn’t have cursed. Forgive me.”
I curl my lip in confusion. “You cursed?” I ask, then it dawns on me he said damn. “Oh, my God!” I blurt out and his eyes widen. “Oh, crap!” I say as I realize I just took the Lord’s name in vain. And I said crap. He must think I’m either vile or insane or both. “I’m sorry,” I say, hoping he’ll infer my apology is meant to cover all my naughty utterings. If I have to repeat them aloud, I’m afraid I might laugh at the absurdity of this grown man’s innocence. Then, I’d really feel awful.
“You apologize a lot,” he remarks curiously, but before I can reply, he continues. “This is real good lemonade. I’m sure it’s worth the cup of sugar you used.”
“Two cups.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Well, we’ll just have to get our sweet fix elsewhere,” he says, his mouth turning up in a modest smile.
I want to grab him by his scruffy beard and press my mouth to his, but I wonder if this man with no television or phone knows what it means to be kissed. Will he think I’m attacking him?
I shake my head as I watch him drink the rest of the lemonade and lick his lips. “I’ll take that,” I say, taking the glass from his hand, making sure to brush the back of his hand with my fingertips. “I’m going to go for a walk in the woods. I’m starting to feel a little cooped up in there. Do you have any suggestions for places to avoid or paths to take that will lead to somewhere beautiful?”
He steps out of the garage so he can look across the grassy backyard to the tree line where the woods begin.
“Actually,” I continue, “I was thinking of starting at the front of the house, where I crashed. I thought maybe I could look for my phone again, then set off from there.”
He glances at a small lean-to shed on the side of the garage, then he stares at the ground. “I wouldn’t stray too far if I were you,” he says, glancing at the tree line again. “It’s easy to get lost in those woods.”
His warning feels ominous, but I try not to let it frighten me. I only plan to walk in one direction, and I have no inclination to go very far. After my experience in Mr. Beacham’s truck, I have a strong feeling Shadow is the only person I can trust out here.
It doesn’t take long for me to figure out I’m not going to find my cell phone in the muddy ditch where I crashed. Even if I do find it, it will most likely be dead. The word dead sparks a wave of fiery anger in my belly. How is it I can remember my father took his own life, but I can’t remember how old I am?
As I trudge out of the ditch, I realize my sneakers are waiting for me on the ridge. I had the forethought to remove my shoes before descending into the muddy depression. Somehow, I can’t remember taking them off. I shake my head as I grab my sneakers and set off toward the tree line behind the house.
The forest is awash in creamy, yellow sunlight, the tall, spindly trees glowing as they sway in an elusive breeze. I continue in a straight line due south of Shadow’s property. It only takes a few minutes before the woods open into a clearing. A vast meadow with waist-high grass and a sea of yellow and lavender blooms as far as the eye can see. It’s breathtaking.
Just as a huge grin spreads across my face, it quickly vanishes when I hear the tinkling laughter of a very young girl.
The tops of the high grass seem to move in waves as a small person runs through the meadow. Is the girl lost? But she’s giggling. She must not be scared, which stands to reason that she cannot be missing. But there are clearly no adults, or anyone else for that matter, present.
I have to go after her. I can’t ignore a lost child. Nausea overcomes me as I’m hit with a sudden, violent memory.
I’m standing over the toilet, and the water is dark red with a large clot floating on the surface.
I fall to my knees, my arms hugging my abdomen. “I can’t do it.”
The tall grass scrapes my cheeks as I fold into myself. In my memory, someone covers me in a blanket. My heart is breaking wide open.
The sound of the little girl’s laughter comes back to me. I rub my flat abdomen with one hand and clutch my shoes in the other as I get to my feet.
Using the back of my wrist to wipe tears from my cheeks, I call out, “Where are you?” Fear poisons my blood as I realize I no longer see the grass moving. “Where are you, sweetheart?” I call out a bit softer this time. “I just want to help.”
I can’t leave this little girl out here alone. The high, silvery tone of her laughter tells me she can’t be older than five or six, but the fact that she’s not tall enough to be seen over the top of the grass means she might be younger. She’ll die if I leave her out here.
The sound of her giggles seems farther away now, but I can’t determine which direction it’s coming from with the grass so still. I consider calling out to her again, but then I wonder if she’s actively running away from the sound of my voice.
I stand in the middle of the meadow and close my eyes as I try to determine where the girl’s voice is coming from. But when I open my eyes, my heart nearly stops at the sight of Shadow’s face. “Oh, my God. You scared me.”
I don’t apologize for taking the Lord’s name in vain this time as I’m suddenly angry at him for following me.
“I told you not to go too far,” he says. “We have to head back.”
“No, there’s a child out here. She’s lost. We can’t just leave her out here.”
He doesn’t look surprised or concerned by this information. He seems disappointed.
“There’s no one out here.”
I step sideways to look past him to the vast field beyond, and I still see no movement. But now, I also don’t hear any laughter.
I swallow hard and brush the dirt off my right foot before I slide it inside my sneaker. “It was probably just the wind,” I say, cleaning the debris off my left foot and wincing as I notice a scrape on the back of my heel.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, the sharp edge of his disappointment smoothed by genuine concern.
I stare at my dirty, bloody left foot. “I… I don’t remember hurting myself.”
“I can carry you back,” he offers.
I chuckle and shake my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s much too far. I can walk just fine.”
I try once again to put on my left sneaker, but it hurts too much, so I opt to walk back wearing just one shoe, half limping and half hopping all the way home.
Every step we take in the direction we came, the dry debris on the forest floor scrapes against the abrasion. By the time we reach the tree line, I can feel the sticky warmth of blood on the bottom of my heel. But something else I see makes me forget my discomfort.
The door on the lean-to is wide open. I glance at Shadow as he walks next to me, but his gaze is fixed on my bloody foot. I feel a heightened curiosity building inside me the closer we get to the shed. Until we’re right in line with the open door, and my stomach drops. The walls inside the lean-to are entirely covered with shotguns.
Tomorrow’s Promise
Ten months earlier
I walked into the kitchen and set down my purse on the counter. I was bone-weary and tired of telling five-year-olds to form a straight line. Other teachers enjoyed the brief respite they got from classwork on assembly days. I preferred being in the classroom with the children rather than wrangling them like cattle.
“Hey, honey,” I said to Marc as I headed for the refrigerator to pour myself some water from the filtered pitcher.
Marc stood at the sink, looking through the window at our back terrace, but he didn’t reply.
“How did everything go with the Walton case?” I asked as I set the pitcher on the marble island and headed for the cupboard on Marc’s right to get a drinking glass.
He turned toward me as I opened the cupboard. His eyes were wide with apparent shock, and the sight of it put me on edge.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
Marc looked me in the eyes. “You’re pregnant?”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, God. For a second, I thought you were going to tell me something was wrong with Dad.”
He grabbed my waist before I could turn away. “Baby, are you pregnant?”
His blue eyes almost appeared black from the size of his dilated pupils. He was searching my face for an inkling of the truth.
I pressed my lips together as I tried not to smile, not wanting to appear too pleased. God punishes hubris, doesn’t he? Isn’t that why he took all three of our last pregnancies? Because we were too happy, too celebratory?
But I couldn’t contain myself.
I smiled as I nodded fervently. “Yes,” I whispered, as tears welled up in Marc’s eyes. “I think it happened sometime around the New Year.”
His eyes sparkled like a child who’d just opened the most important gift on his wishlist. “So you’re only, what, three weeks along?” he asked, laying his hand flat on my lower abdomen.
“I didn’t want to tell you this early. In fact, I don’t even know how you found out.”
“The doctor’s office called me,” he replies. “They said they tried leaving you a voicemail, but you hadn’t returned their call.
“Oh, yeah. My phone ran out of charge. It died when I was using it during the assembly. What did they say?”
“They said they had to bump your appointment tomorrow from noon to two p.m. Doc is likely going to be up late delivering a baby tonight.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem. I have the whole day off.”
Marc looks as if I’ve punched him in the gut. “You weren’t going to ask me to come with you?”
“I…I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m so scared of something going wrong. I thought…maybe I could keep it a secret until I’m past the first trimester. I’m just…” I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat didn’t budge. “I’m terrified.”
His breath was warm on my forehead as he exhaled heavily through his nose. “I’m scared, too, baby.” He brushed the backs of his fingers over my cheek. “But I can’t let you bear this alone.”
I let out a sigh of relief as I lay my head on his shoulder and relaxed into his arms.
I woke to the sensation of having to use the restroom. Blinking against the darkness, I tried to avoid looking at the digital clock on Marc’s nightstand as I rose from the bed. Looking at the clock always made it difficult for me to fall back to sleep. But as soon as I was on my feet, I realized Marc’s side of the bed was empty.
I padded across the bedroom, emerging onto the second-floor hallway. A thin, golden strip of light illuminated the bottom edge of the door leading into the one room that had no purpose. I approached slowly, my heart rate picking up as I imagined what Marc might be doing in there.
Turning the doorknob, I carefully pushed the door open, and my jaw dropped. Marc had moved all the furniture we’d bought for Mira’s nursery into the center of the room. He didn’t see me as I entered, his attention focused on painting the walls a soft, neutral gray color.
He moved the paint roller up and down as swaths of Revere Pewter gray paint covered the soft coral-pink we’d chosen for Mira. As he turned to dip his roller in the paint tray, he noticed me standing in the doorway. At first, he didn’t speak. After a moment, his face split into an easy smile.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, laying his paint roller in the tray and rounding the collection of furniture toward me.
I shook my head. “I had to pee,” I whispered. “Have you been up all night?”
He stood next to me, turning to face the room. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, as his eyes seemed to judge the quality of his painting job. “I finally thought, ‘Maybe I should paint the nursery. Give it a fresh start.’ What do you think?”
I was more interested in watching Marc and the slightly manic look in his eyes as he considered his work. “I think gray is perfect,” I replied truthfully.
He turned to me, his smile widening. “Really? So do I,” he said, heading back toward the corner where he’d set down his paint roller. “I was thinking a gray base coat with some wispy white clouds and maybe a castle or a dragon in the clouds, or something else whimsical. What do you think?”
I chuckled nervously. “You’re going to paint a mural?”
He looked confused by my skepticism. “Of course. You can help.” He seemed to tack on the last three words as an afterthought.
I entered the room, wincing inwardly at the sight of the diaper genie and the changing table I hadn’t looked at in weeks. I rounded the furniture and stood next to Marc. We stared at the pale gray wall in front of us for a while in silence. As I saw a gray slab of drywall and plaster, Marc apparently saw a canvas.
“How about instead of a castle in the clouds, you paint one word,” I offered, raising my hand to write the letters in the air. “Tomorrow.”
