Riding up into the mountains on the back of Mike Damatto’s motorcycle left Neal feeling chilled to the bone and slightly queasy. His friend’s cabin was little more than a rustic shack with a broken-down fireplace and a hodgepodge of mildewy furniture that might have come from Goodwill. But it was secluded, and she had to admit the view from the rickety deck was pretty awesome.
While Mike gathered up a few sticks of wood to build a fire, Neal inspected the place. It was one small squarish room, with chinks between the logs wide enough to let daylight in. One L-shaped corner served as a kitchen, with a small rusted sink set into a scarred green Formica countertop. In the opposite corner sat a sagging double bed covered with a brown, hairy-looking blanket.
“Great place, huh?” Mike said in a breathless, heaving voice.
Neal turned. He was down on one knee, blowing into a damp and struggling fire. Smoke billowed into the cabin, adding more soot to the already blackened stones above the mantelpiece.
She came over to inspect the fire. “Do you have the flue open?”
“Yeah. I think so.” He fiddled with the damper lever, and with a sickening metallic clunk, something black and heavy fell into the firebox. Sparks flew, and ash drifted out onto the dirty rug, but the flames caught and the smoke whooshed up the chimney. “Guess it’s open now,” Mike said with a laugh. He got up and wiped the soot from his hands onto the back of his jeans.
Neal sank onto the splintered wooden coffee table and stared into the fire. She was feeling rather green around the gills, and the smell of the smoke wasn’t helping.
“You OK?” Mike asked, peering into her face. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m just cold, and I got a little motion sick on that curvy road. The fire will help. I’ll be fine.”
“Got just what the doctor ordered,” Mike declared. He reached into his battered duffel bag and pulled out a six-pack. “Want one?”
Neal grimaced. “Beer? At ten in the morning? I don’t think so.”
“Whatever.” He popped the top on one of the cans and took a long swig. “But I’m telling you, it’s good for what ails you.” Flopping down on the sofa, he stretched his legs out, propped his feet on the table, and patted the cushion next to him. “Come sit.”
Neal complied. Mike put his arm around her and drew her close, and for a few minutes they sat in silence, watching the dance of the flames. Between the warmth of the fire on her face and the warmth of Mike’s body at her side, she began to relax, and her eyes grew heavy.
“I been thinking,” he said, his voice sounding fuzzy and far away. “You’ll be graduating come spring.”
“Right,” she murmured.
“So there’s nothing to stop us getting our own place.”
The impact of his words didn’t quite register. “What do you mean, our own place?”
He took a long drink of his beer and set the can on the floor at the side of the couch. “Me and you, babe,” he said. “Just the two of us. Together.”
Neal forced her eyes open and sat up straighter. “Live together? Us?”
“Why not? You love me, don’t you?” His jaw clenched in a hard line.
“Well, sure I do, Mike, but—”
“Then there’s nothing else to discuss.”
“There’s lots to discuss!” Neal countered. “There’s college, for one thing—”
He waved a hand to dismiss her objection. “You don’t need college. I can take care of us. I make good money, you know.” His voice carried a challenging edge, as if daring her to disagree.
“I know you do, Mike.”
“I’m a good mechanic,” he persisted. “Soon as I raise the cash, I’m gonna buy the shop.”
“That’s great, Mike, but—”
He lowered his feet to the floor with a thud and turned to face her. “But what? You don’t want to be with me? I’m not good enough for you?”
“Of course you are,” she soothed. “I’m here, aren’t I? With you?”
“Yeah. But—” He narrowed his eyes and scanned her face, as if looking for something. “You been with somebody else? ’Cause if you have, I’ll put him out of commission, I swear I will.”
A familiar wrench of fear twisted in her stomach. “No, Mike. There’s nobody else. Only you.”
“But you don’t want to live with me.” He got up and paced across the room—three steps—then turned back to her, his fists clenched at his side. “I don’t get it. You say you love me, you use me, and then when you’re done with me—”
“I didn’t say any of those things, Mike,” Neal interrupted, trying to keep her voice calm. “I haven’t used you. And I didn’t say I don’t want to live with you. I only said we need to discuss it.”
“OK, let’s discuss it,” he said, still standing. “Are you my girl or not?”
“Your girl?” she repeated. “Well, yeah. Sure.”
“And there’s nobody else.”
“Nobody.”
“Then we should be together.”
“We are together, Mike,” Neal said. “But moving in together is a big step. It’s a serious decision. And I guess I never thought about living with anyone until—” She stopped. She couldn’t say it.
“Until what? Until you were married?” He uttered the word as if it were a curse, an obscenity.
Neal ducked her head. “Yes,” she whispered. For all her talk about change, about liberation and independence and living the kind of life she chose, she realized in that moment that something in her still clung to the values she had grown up with. Marriage. Family. Purity of heart, faithfulness of soul. The legacy that had been passed down to her through nearly a hundred years. Try as she might, she could not escape it.
“Listen,” Mike was saying. He had returned to the sofa and now sat close with his arm around her again. “I love you. I need you. Before you came along, I had nothing. No ambition, no future, nothing. You’re my whole life. Without you, well, I don’t know what would happen to me.”
His words, clearly intended to win her over, had the opposite effect on Neal. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed, not only by her own losses, but by his expectations. Flattering as it might be to be the center of someone else’s world, it was also a terrible burden, this realization that she must keep the universe in balance or another human being might go flying off course into destruction.
Mike was still talking. “We don’t need to be married, babe. Don’t you understand? What we got is bigger than that. We got each other. You wait and see. It’ll be just the two of us—forever. I won’t ever let you go. Never.”
He was embracing her then, kissing her, stroking her face and shoulders with his grimy, soot-stained hands. He smelled of motor oil and beer. Neal’s stomach turned over.
He took her hand, led her across the room, and pressed her down upon the brown hairy blanket. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw that lost-puppy expression, an earnestness that bordered on desperation. And she did not resist.
Just as she had not resisted before.
In an intimate, candlelit corner of the Courtyard Restaurant, Abby sat with her back pressed against the wall and her fingers entwined with Charles Bingham’s across the spotless linen tablecloth. Night had fallen, and in the glass panes of the windows overlooking the square, candle flames reflected back like glimmering constellations.
Dinner had been perfect. Charles had ordered for her—a heavenly concoction of angel hair pasta with shrimp and scallops, and for dessert, a chocolate mousse pie light enough to float off the plate. Perfect. Until a strolling violinist stopped at their table. Then her mind spun out of control, and she found herself fighting back visions of Devin Connor’s sky-blue eyes and easy smile, hearing in the chambers of her mind the music that gave wings to her soul and set her heart flying.
“Abby?”
She blinked and looked up. Charles was frowning at her, his eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I . . . I drifted.”
“Well, drift back in my direction, will you?” He captured her fidgeting fingers and held them. With his free hand he reached into his pocket, drew out a small red box, and set it on the table between them.
“Charles, I—”
“Please, let me say this, Abby, and don’t interrupt. We haven’t been dating very long, I realize, but we’re not kids. We’re two mature adults, and we know what we want out of life.” He released her hand, picked up the box, and opened it. Inside was a modest diamond ring—not flashy or ostentatious, but very nice, very sensible. “What I want is you,” he went on. “I want to marry you. Please say yes.”
Abby stared, transfixed, at the solitaire. “I . . . I don’t know, Charles,” she stammered. “This is rather sudden.”
He smiled at her, his hazel eyes catching the candlelight. “Fair enough. But before you come to a decision, at least give me a chance to make a case for myself. I may not be the most exciting man in the world, but I’ll be a good husband to you. Although a college professor is far from rich, I make a good living, and you wouldn’t have to continue to work unless you wanted to. I don’t expect you to leave Quinn House, of course. I’m more than willing to live there. We’re both sensible, down-to-earth people, Abby. We’d have a good life together; I’m sure of it.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “you’re probably right.”
She continued to look not at his face but at the ring. It made sense, really. Here was someone to share the burdens of life, to relieve her of some of the overwhelming responsibility she had carried for so long. With John Mac, she had experienced her one true love, the fire and passion, the laughter and the tears. A woman couldn’t expect that kind of relationship twice in a lifetime. So what if her heart didn’t leap up and shout when Charles entered the room? He was a good man—a safe, stable, reliable man. Life with him would be peaceful, if not passionate. Simple. Uncomplicated. Exactly what she had wished for.
A fragment of Devin Connor’s music flitted through her mind, but she pushed it away.
“I know you’ll probably need some time to consider my proposal,” Charles was saying. “And that’s fine. I can wait as long as—”
“No.”
“No, you won’t marry me, or no, you don’t need time to think?”
“No, I don’t need time to think. Yes, Charles, I’ll marry you.”
He took the ring from the box and fumbled with it as he tried to slip it on her finger. It was too small. It finally slid over the knuckle into place, but it pinched her flesh and she took in a quick breath.
“I’ll take it tomorrow to get it sized,” he offered apologetically.
“It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”
He slid his coffee cup aside and took her hand, running his thumb back and forth across the face of the diamond. Abby looked at her watch. “I suppose we’d better get going or we’ll miss the play.”
“Right.” He signed the check, pocketed his credit card, and stood, extending a hand to help her up. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said, laughing lightly.
It seemed a strange response, given the fact that a handsome, eligible man had just asked her to marry him, but for the life of her, Abby couldn’t think of anything else to say. The overriding emotion that filled her at this moment was not joy, or excitement, or even anticipation.
It was relief.
The house was dark and quiet. Edith had put her supper in the oven at 350 degrees, just like her daughter had told her. Neal Grace wasn’t home yet, and Abby probably wouldn’t be back until after eleven.
She shuffled through the living room turning on a couple of lamps, but the exertion wore her out, and by the time she got across the room, she had to brace against the mantel to catch her breath.
She ought to be using her cane, Edith thought. Even in the house. But something in her resisted the idea. An image rose to her mind—a feeble, white-haired old crone, hunched over with osteoporosis and leaning hard on her walking stick. Was that what she looked like to others? To her own daughter? To Neal Grace?
A tear welled up in her left eye. She tried to blink it away, but it leaked out and dripped onto the mantel.
She hated this. No one should live long enough to become a burden to the people she loved. And she was a burden; Edith knew it without question, even though Abby never said so. That girl could never hide anything. The expressions on her face spoke volumes, and the particular one she wore all the time these days was a look of sheer exhaustion and utter frustration.
Edith understood and didn’t fault Abby for her feelings. There was only one place to put any blame for this: squarely in the lap of God.
“Why didn’t I die?” she whispered to the empty house. “Why did you make me stay? Why leave me here half-alive and good for nothing?”
No answer came. Just the quiet ticking of the clock and the creaking of the house as it settled in for the night.
Her eyes wandered to the bookshelf next to the fireplace, where Grandma Gracie’s Wishing Jar sat cradled in its velvet-lined box. From childhood she had heard the legend of the phoenix, that magical, mythical bird who went to its fiery death singing its sweetest song. Edith shook her head. She had tried to go down singing, too. She would have welcomed death, embraced it as a long-awaited friend. But something—Someone—snatched her back.
With a shaking hand she reached out, took the jar from its place, and held it up to the light. “Why?” she repeated. “I wish I knew. I wish I could understand—”
A screaming wail pierced the silence, and for a minute Edith stood frozen in place. Then she identified the sound: the smoke alarm! But that wasn’t possible. Her dinner hadn’t been in the oven more than fifteen minutes. Hadn’t Abby said— No, she remembered with a surge of panic. Abby had said to put it in the microwave.
The acrid scent of melted plastic assaulted her, mixed with the odor of burning cheese. She turned toward the kitchen, caught a glimpse of gray smoke wafting up toward the ceiling. With the Wishing Jar still clutched in her good hand, Edith ran for the door. She had to turn the oven off, had to clean up the mess before—
But she forgot. She couldn’t run. Her left leg weighed her down like lead, caught on the edge of the living room rug. She was falling, falling . . .
The ginger jar slipped from her grasp and hit the rug an instant before Edith did. It fractured clean open and lay there, its two halves wobbling, the red-and-gold phoenix spreading its wings in preparation for flight.
From a great distance, she heard a heavy thud and knew it was her own body making contact with the floor. But she felt no pain. Her eyes were fixed on the Wishing Jar, broken, just out of her reach. Light seemed to stream from it—a pristine white light, glowing, illuminating everything. A light so bright she could see nothing else.
Her head swam with dizzying speed, and a flash like lightning caught her behind the eyes. But nothing mattered except the light. She had to reach it, had to get inside it.
If she could only get to the light, she would be safe and whole. And everything would be all right . . .