My family believed in trees, Christmas, and the land.
We Campbells grew Christmas trees on two hundred acres of lush rain-soaked Oregon farmland. We wholesaled them in a mammoth cutting operation that ran all autumn, and managed a U-cut business complete with hotdog stand and gift shop during the months of November and December. I knew our land as well as I knew my husband Dalton’s body—every muddy dip and hillock of the acreage, every inch of the roads that intersected it, every name of each neatly maintained field of trees. I knew where the Doug Firs grew, where the nobles were planted, where the Scotch pines and Grand Firs—Daddy’s favorites—prospered. Even after my two sisters and I grew up and moved to Portland to raise families instead of trees, even after Mama died, even as Daddy took a less active role in the business, the farm remained the center of our lives.
Daddy believed in the land so fervently it ruled his life. The farm required hard labor to keep it running: back-breaking spring planting, shoulder-shattering trimming in summer, a wearying autumn-long harvest. Beyond that, Daddy believed the trees talked to him.
Auguries, omens, portents. Call them what you will, the trees dispensed wisdom, and through the years Daddy and the trees predicted storms, foretold sickness, presaged promotions. The firs told him my first born child would be a daughter, my sister Veronica’s marriage wouldn’t last, our other sister Helen would encounter her future husband while hiking Cascade Head.
And even before I knew of it, the trees whispered of my departure to my father.
Children of the Fog | Prologue & Chapter One
Today marks the final day of Cheryl Kaye Tardif’s month long ‘Touring the World’ virtual book tour. Thank you to everyone for following along, reading and commenting on posts, and buying Cheryl’s latest novel Whale Song or her other novels Divine Intervention and The River.
As the grand finale, Cheryl visits NamelessGrace.com and shares chapter 2 of her unpublished novel Children of the Fog. Keep in mind this has not gone through final edits and there may be some changes.
Children of the Fog is a chilling story, one that is sure to make you get up and check your doors and windows…
Children of the Fog | Chapter Two
prologue
May 14th, 2006
She was ready to die.
She sat at the kitchen table–a nearly empty bottle of Philip’s precious red wine in one hand, a loaded gun in the other. Staring at the foreign chunk of metal, she willed it to vanish. But it didn’t.
Sadie checked the gun and noted the single bullet.
“One’s all you need.”
If she did it right.
She placed the gun on the table and glanced at a pewter-framed photograph that hung off-kilter above the mantle of the fireplace. It was illuminated by a vanilla scented candle, one of many that threw flickering shadows over the rough wood walls of the log cabin.
Sam’s sweet face stared back at her, smiling.Alive.
From where she sat, she could see the small chip in his right front tooth, the result of an impatient father raising the training wheels too early. But there was no point in blaming Philip–not when they’d both lost so much.Not when it’s all my fault.
Her gaze swept over the mantle. There were three objects on it besides the candle. Two envelopes, one addressed to Leah and one to Philip, and the portfolio case containing the illustrations and manuscript on disc for Sam’s book.
She had finished it, just like she had promised.
“And promises can’t be broken. Right, Sam?”
A single tear burned a path down her cheek.
Sam was gone.What reason do I have for living now?
She gulped back the last pungent mouthful of Cabernet and dropped the empty bottle. It rolled under the chair, unbroken, rocking on the hardwood floor. Then all was silent, except the antique grandfather clock in the far corner. Its ticking reminded her of the clown’s shoe. The one with the tack in it.Tick, tick, tick…
The clock belched out an ominous gong.
It was almost midnight.Almost time.
She drew an infinity symbol in the dust on the table.
“Sadie and Sam. For all eternity.”Gong…
She swallowed hard as tears flooded her eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, baby. I tried to. Oh God, I tried. Forgive me, Sam.” Her words ended in a gut-wrenching moan.
Something scraped the window beside her.
She pressed her face to the frosted glass, then jerked back with a gasp. “Go away!”
They stood motionless–six children that drifted from the swirling miasma of night air, haunting her nights and every waking moment. Surrounded by the moonlit fog, they began to chant. “One fine day, in the middle of the night…”
“You’re not real,” she whispered.”Two dead boys got up to fight.”
A small, pale hand splayed against the exterior of the window. Below it, droplets of condensation slid like tears down the glass.
She reached out, matching her hand to the child’s. Shivering, she pulled away. “You don’t exist.”
The clock continued its morbid countdown.
As the alcohol and drug potpourri kicked in, the room began to spin and her stomach heaved. She inhaled deeply. She couldn’t afford to get sick. Sam was waiting for her.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m ready.”Gong…
Without hesitation, she raised the gun to her temple.
“Don’t!” the children shrieked.
She pressed the gun against her flesh. The tip of the barrel was cold. Like her hands, her feet…her heart.
A sob erupted from the back of her throat.
The clock let out a final gong. Then it was deathly silent.
It was midnight.
Her eyes found Sam’s face again.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Sadie.”
She took a steadying breath, pushed the gun hard against her skin and clamped her eyes shut.
“Mommy’s coming, Sam.”
She squeezed the trigger.
1March 30th, 2006
Sadie O’Connell let out a groan as she stared at the price tag on the toy in her hand. “What did they stuff this with–laundered money?” She tossed the bunny back into the bin, then turned to the tall, leggy woman beside her. “What are you getting Sam for his birthday?”
Her best friend gave her a cocky grin. “What should I get him? Your kid’s got everything already.”
“Don’t even go there, my friend.”
But Leah was right. Sadie and Philip spoiled Sam silly. Why shouldn’t they? They had waited a long time for a baby. Or at least, she had. After two miscarriages, Sam’s birth had been nothing short of a miracle. A miracle that deserved to be spoiled.
Leah groaned loudly. “Christ, it’s a goddamn zoo in here.”
Toyz & Twirlz in West Edmonton Mall was crawling with overzealous customers. The first major sale of the Easter season always brought people out in droves. Frazzled parents swarmed the toy store, swatting their wayward brood occasionally–the way you’d swat a pesky yellow-jacket at a barbecue. One distressed father hunted the aisles for his son who had apparently taken off on him as soon as his back was turned. In every aisle, parents shouted at their kids, threatening, cajoling, pleading and then predictably giving in.
“So who let the animals out?” Sadie said, surveying the store.
The screeching wheels of shopping carts and the constant whining of overtired toddlers were giving her a headache. She wished to God she’d stayed home.
“Excuse me.”
A plump woman with frizzy, over-bleached hair gave Sadie an apologetic look. She navigated past them, pushing a stroller occupied by a miniature screaming alien. A few feet away, she stopped, bent down and wiped something that looked like curdled rice pudding from the corner of the child’s mouth.
Sadie turned to Leah. “Thank God Sam’s past that stage.”
At five years old–soon to be six–her son was the apple of her eye. In fact, he was the whole darned tree. A lanky imp of a boy with tousled black hair, sapphire-blue eyes and perfect bow lips, Sam was the spitting image of his mother and the exact opposite of his father in temperament. While Sam was sweet natured, gentle and loving, Philip was impatient and distant. So distant that he rarely said I love you anymore.
She stared at her wedding ring. What happened to us?
But she knew what had happened. Philip’s status as a trial lawyer had grown, more money had poured in and fame had gone to his head. He had changed. The man she had fallen in love with, the dreamer, had gone. In his place was someone she barely knew, a stranger who had decided too late that he didn’t want kids.Or a wife.
“How about this?” Leah said, nudging her.
Sadie stared at the yellow dump truck loaded with jumbo Lego, then pursed her lips. “Fill it with a stuffed bat and Sam will think it’s awesome.”
Her son’s fascination with bats was almost comical. The television was always tuned in to the Discovery Channel while her son searched endlessly for any show on the furry animals.
“What did Phil the Pill get him?” Leah asked dryly.
“A new Leap Frog module.”
“I still can’t believe the things that kid can do.”
Sadie grinned. “Me neither.”
Sam’s mind was a sponge. He absorbed information so fast that he only had to be shown once. His powers of observation were so keen that he had learned how to unlock the door just by watching Sadie do it, so Philip had to add an extra deadbolt at the top. By the time Sam was three, he had figured out the remote control and the DVD player. Sadie still had problems turning on the TV.Sam…my sweet, wonderful, little genius.
“Maybe I’ll get him a movie,” Leah said. “How about Batman Begins?”
“He’s turning six, not sixteen.”
“Well, what do I know? I don’t have kids.”
At thirty-four, Leah Winters was an attractive, willowy brunette with wild multi-colored streaks, thick-lashed hazel eyes, a flirty smile and a penchant for younger men. While Sadie’s pale face had a scattering of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, Leah’s complexion was tanned and clear.
She’d been Sadie’s best friend for eight years–soul sistahs. Ever since the day she had emailed Sadie out of the blue to ask questions about writing and publishing. They’d met at Book Ends, a popular Edmonton bookstore, for what Leah had expected would be a quick coffee. Their connection was so strong and so immediate that they talked for almost five hours. They still joked about it, about how Leah had thought Sadie was some hotshot writer who wouldn’t give her the time of day. Yet Sadie had given her more. She’d given Leah a piece of her heart.
A rugged, handsome Colin Farrell look-alike passed them in the aisle, and Leah stared after him, eyes glittering.
“I’ll take one of those,” she said with a soft growl. “To go.”
“You won’t find Mr. Right in a toy store,” Sadie said dryly. “They’re usually all taken. And somehow I don’t think you’re gonna find him at Karma either.”
Klub Karma was a popular nightclub on Whyte Avenue. It boasted the best ladies’ night in Edmonton, complete with steroid-muscled male strippers. Leah was a regular.
“And why not?”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Because Karma is packed with sweaty, young puppies who are only interested in one thing.”
Leah gave her a blank look.
“Getting laid,” Sadie added. “Honestly, I don’t know what you see in that place.”
“What, are you daft?” Leah arched her brow and grinned devilishly. “I’m chalking it up to my civil duty. Someone’s gotta show these young guys how it’s done.”
“Someone should show Philip,” Sadie muttered.
“Why–can’t he get it up?”
“Jesus, Leah!”
“Well? Fess up.”
“Later maybe. When we stop for coffee.”
Leah glanced at her watch. “We going to our usual place?”
“Of course. Do you think Victor would forgive us if we went to any other coffee shop?”
Leah chuckled. “No. He’d start skimping on the whipped cream if we turned traitor.”
They continued down the aisle, both searching for something for the sweetest boy they knew. When Sadie spotted the one thing she was sure Sam would love, she let out a hoot.
“This is perfect. Since his birthday is actually Monday, I’ll give it to him then. He’ll get enough things from his friends at his party on Sunday anyway.”
Little did she know that Sam wouldn’t see his gift.
He wouldn’t be around to get it.
? ? ?
“Haven’t seen you two all week,” Victor Guan said. “Another day and I would’ve called nine-one-one.”
“It’s been a busy week,” Sadie replied, plopping her purse on the counter. “How’s business, Victor?”
“Picking up again with this cold snap.”
The young Chinese man owned the Cuppa Cappuccino a few blocks from Sadie’s house. The coffee shop had a gas fireplace, a relaxed ambiance and often featured local musicians like Jessy Green and Alexia Melnychuk. Not only did Victor serve the best homemade soups and feta Caesar salad, the mocha lattés were absolutely sinful.
Leah made a beeline for the washroom. “You know what I want.”
Sadie ordered a Chai and a mocha.
“You see that fog this morning?” Victor asked.
“Yeah, I drove Sam to school in it. I could barely see the car in front of me.”
She shivered and Victor gave her a concerned look.
“Cat walk over your grave or something?” he asked.
“No, I’m just tired of winter.”
She grabbed a newspaper from the rack and headed for the upper level. The sofa by the fireplace was unoccupied, so she sat down and tossed the newspaper on the table.
The headline on the front page made her gasp.The Fog Strikes Again!
Her breath felt constricted. “Oh God. Not another one.”
A photograph of a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl sitting on concrete steps dominated the front page. Eight-year-old Cortnie Bornyk, from the north side of Edmonton, was missing. According to the newspaper, the girl had disappeared in the middle of the night. No sign of forced entry and no evidence as to who had taken her, but investigators were sure it was the same man who had taken the others.
Sadie opened the newspaper to page three, where the story continued. She empathized with the girl’s father, a single dad who had left Ontario to find construction work in Edmonton. Matthew Bornyk had moved here to make a better life. Not a bad decision, considering that the housing market was booming. But now he was pleading for the safe return of his daughter.
“Here you go,” Victor said, setting two mugs on the table.
“Thanks,” she said, without looking up.
Her eyes were glued to the smaller photo of Bornyk and his daughter. The man had a smile plastered across his face, while his daughter was frozen in a silly pose, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.Daddy’s little girl, Sadie thought sadly.
Leah flopped into an armchair beside her. “Who’s the hunk?”
“His daughter was abducted last night.”
“How horrible.”
“Yeah,” Sadie said, taking a tentative sip from her mug.
“Did anyone see anything?”
“Nothing.” She locked eyes on Leah. “Except the fog.”
“Do they think it’s him?”
Sadie skimmed the article. “There are no ransom demands yet. Sounds like him.”
“Shit. That makes, what–six kids?”
“Seven. Three boys, four girls.”
“One more boy to go.” Leah’s voice dripped with dread.
The Fog, as the kidnapper was known, crept in during the dead of night or early morning, under the cloak of a dense fog. He wrapped himself around his prey and like a fog, he disappeared without a trace, capturing the souls of children and stealing the hopes and dreams of parents. One boy, one girl. Every spring. For the last four years.
Sadie flipped the newspaper over. “Let’s change the subject.”
Her eyes drifted across the room, taking in the diversity of Victor’s customers. In one corner of the upper level, three teenaged boys played poker, while a fourth watched and hooted every time one of his friends won. Across from Sadie, a redheaded woman wearing a mauve sweatshirt plunked away on a laptop, stopping every now and then to cast the noisy boys a frustrated look. On the lower level, one of the regulars–Old Ralph–was reading every newspaper from front to back. He sipped his black coffee when he finished each page.
“So…” Leah drawled as she crossed her long legs. “What’s going on with Phil the Pill?”
Sadie scowled. “That’s what I’d like to know. He says he’s working long nights at the firm.”
“And you’re thinking, what? That he’s screwing around?”
Leah never was one to beat around the bush–about anything.
“Maybe he’s just working hard,” her friend suggested.
Sadie shook her head. “He got home at two this morning, reeking of perfume and booze.”
“Isn’t his firm working on that oil spill case? I bet all the partners are pulling late nights on that one.”
Sadie snorted. “Including Brigitte Moreau.”
Brigitte was her husband’s right-hand-woman, as he’d made a point of telling her often. Apparently, the new addition to Fleming Warner Law Offices was indispensable. The slender, blond lawyer, with a pair of breasts she’d obviously paid for, never left Philip’s side.
Sadie wondered what Brigitte did when she had to pee.Probably drags Philip in with her.
“It could be perfectly innocent,” Leah suggested.
“Yeah, right. I was at the conference after-party. I saw them together, and there was nothing innocent about them. Brigitte was holding onto Philip’s arm as if she owned him. And he was laughing, whispering in her ear.” She pursed her lips. “His co-workers were looking at me with sympathetic eyes, pitying me. I could see it in their faces. Even they knew.”
Leah winced. “Did you call him on it?”
“I asked him if he was messing around again.”
Just before Sam was born, Philip had admitted to two other affairs. Both office flings, according to him. “Both meant nothing,” he had said, before blaming his infidelities on her swollen belly and her lack of sexual interest.
“What’d he say?” Leah prodded, with the determination of a pit-bull slobbering over a t-bone steak.
“Nothing. He just stormed out of the house. He called me from work just before you came over. Said I was being ridiculous, that my accusations were hurtful and unfair.” She lowered her voice. “He asked me if I was drinking again.”
“Bastard. And you wonder why I’m still single.”
Sadie said nothing. Instead, she thought about her marriage.
They’d been happy–once. Before her downward spiral into alcoholism. In the early years of their marriage, Philip had been attentive and caring, supporting her decision to focus on her writing. It wasn’t until she started talking about having a family that things had changed.
She flicked a look at Leah, grateful for her loyal companionship and understanding. Leah had gone above and beyond the duty of friendship, dropping everything in a blink if she called. Leah was her life support, especially on the days and nights when the bottle called her. She’d even attended a few AA meetings with Sadie.And where was Philip? Probably with Brigitte.
“Come on, my friend,” Leah said, grinning. “I know you really want to swear. Let it out.”
“You know I don’t use language like that.”
“You’re such a prude. Philip’s an ass, a bastard. Let me hear you say it. Bas…tard.”
“I’ll let you be the foul-mouthed one,” Sadie said sweetly.
“Fuckin’ right. Swearing is liberating.” Leah took a careful sip of tea. “So how’s the book coming?”
Sadie smiled. “I finished the text yesterday. Tomorrow I’ll start on the illustrations. I’m so excited about it.”
“Got a title yet?”
“Going Batty.”
Leah’s pencil-thin brow arched. “Hmm…how appropriate.”
Sadie gave her a playful slap on the arm. “It’s about a little bat who can’t find his way home because his radar gets screwed up. At first, he thinks he’s picking up radio signals, but then he realizes he’s picking up other creature’s thoughts.”
“That’s perfect. Sam’ll love it.”
“I know. I can’t believe I waited so long to write something special for him.”
A few months ago, Sadie decided to take a break from writing another Lexa Caine mystery, especially since her agent had secured her a deal for two children’s picture books.
“It’s been a welcome break,” she admitted. “Lexa needed a year off. A holiday.”
“Some break,” Leah said. “I’ve hardly seen you. You’ve been working day and night on Sam’s book.”
“It’s been worth it.”
“Is it harder than writing mysteries?”
“Other than the artwork, I think it’s easier,” Sadie said, somewhat surprised by her own answer. “But then, Sam inspires me. He’s my muse. Kids see things so differently.”
“Wish I had one.”
Sadie’s jaw dropped. “A kid?”
“A muse, idiot.”
Sadie grinned. “How’s the steamy romance novel going?”
“I’m stumped. I’ve got Clara trapped below deck on the pirate ship, locked in the cargo hold with no way out.”
Since the success of her debut novel, Sweet Destiny, Leah had found her niche and was working on her second historical romance.
“What’s in the room?”
Leah gave her a wry grin. “Cases of Bermuda rum.”
“Well, she’s not going to drink it, so what else can she do?”
“I don’t know. She can’t get the crew drunk, if that’s what you’re thinking. “
“What if the ship caught on fire?”
Excitement percolated in Leah’s eyes. “Yeah. A fire could really heat things up. Pun intended.”
They were silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.
“Hey,” Sadie said finally. “I’ve been tempted to cut my hair. What do you think?”
Leah stared at her. “You want to get rid of all that beautiful hair? Jesus, Sadie, it’s past your bra strap.” In a thick Irish accent, she said, “Have ye lost your Irish mind just a wee bit, lassie?”
“It’s too much work,” Sadie said with a pout.
“What does Philip think?”
“He’d be happy if I kept it long,” she replied, scowling. “Maybe that’s one reason why I want to cut it.”
Leah laughed. “Then you go, girl.”
Half an hour later, they parted ways–with Leah eager to get back to the innocent Clara and her handsome, sword-wielding pirate, and Sadie not so thrilled to be going back to an empty house. As she climbed into her sporty Mazda3, she smiled, relieved as always that she had chosen practical over the flashy and pretentious Mercedes that Philip drove.
She glanced at the clock and heaved a sigh of relief. It was almost time to pick Sam up from school.
Her heart skipped a beat.Maybe there’s been some progress today.
? ? ?
Please visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif’s websites :
http://www.whalesongbook.com
The cover art is a mock-up cover designed by the author for inspiration only. It is not the final cover, nor is the back text the exact text that will appear once this novel has been published.
They are riding on a bus to Chichen Itza, Cass and her family, into the heart of the Yucatan, into the heart of the dark jungle, and their tour guide is unsuccessfully trying to teach them a Mayan greeting.
“Ba’ax ka wa’alik,” Gabriel says, standing in the aisle at the front of the bus. He is short and slight, which is typical for Mayan men, Cass has read. He uses a microphone, though his voice is resonant and would carry to the back of the bus on its own.
The phrase he is teaching them translates in English to, “Hello, what do you say?” Gabriel repeats the Mayan version. “Now you try.”
Corruptions of the odd-sounding phrase ring out from different parts of the bus, which is air-conditioned and has a bathroom in the back. Gabriel and a representative from their resort passed out water as they boarded, and promised beers later, so all the passengers are cool and comfortable.
“Boshko Wahleek.” Cass’s husband James stops his incessant whistling and attempts the phrase, too. He’s in the seat next to her, and he’s leaning forward as avidly as if he were attending a partner’s meeting back home in Seattle. After a week on the beaches of the Caribbean, he’s deeply tanned. Except for his crow’s feet. When he quits squinting at Gabriel and turns to smile at Cass, she notices the white wrinkles that radiate from his eyes like the rays of the sun.
“This is great, isn’t it?” James says, patting Cass’s bare knee. She hopes he doesn’t notice how quickly she pulls her leg away. Like everyone else on the bus, she’s wearing shorts, a cotton shirt and sturdy walking shoes. Stowed in the overhead compartment above her seat are the sweaters and shirts they’ve brought for the ride back. “Passengers often get chilled on the air-conditioned bus after a long day in the sun, so be sure to bring a light wrap,” the tour brochure had advised.
“You are all very close,” Gabriel lies. “Listen one more time. Bah-ahsko-wah-ah-leek.”
This time James pronounces it pitch perfect and leans across the aisle for a high five from Laura.
“Way to go, Dad.” She’s wearing a skimpy white tank and has pulled her thick dark hair into a ponytail. Headphones for her CD player dangle around her neck. As soon as she saw Gabriel talking, she removed them so she could hear.
Unlike Liam, whose headphones are firmly clamped to his ears as he stares out the window. He’d listened to a bit of Gabriel’s talk, long enough to be polite, but plugged himself back in once the passengers started attempting the Mayan phrase. Liam is better at languages than any of them. He’s currently finishing his fourth year of Spanish in high school. Cass knew the language well once. But her ability lies in the written word, not spoken, and here in Mexico the natives talk so fast she’s often lost. It’s a relief, in a way, not to have to be the one who listens and translates. In truth, though, they have little need to speak anything but English.
Cass finds her gaze locked on Liam. Her baby is about to venture into the world, his eminent departure her own self-imposed deadline for making a decision. Bushy eyebrows, dark eyes, strong jaw, blond hair. Heart-breakingly handsome. He feels the weight of her stare, turns to her and frowns as if to say, knock it off.
So she does, and looks out her own window. Through the front windshield, the road shimmers like a silver ribbon. But then the bus catches up to another tour bus, and ahead of that one she sees two others. On either side of the road, the tropical forest stretches as far as she can see. She’s been calling it the jungle, charmed by the romance and mystery of the word, but she isn’t sure if that is technically correct. Well, whatever. She can see over the top of the jungle canopy from the bus’s high seats. She’s accustomed to the towering firs and pines of the Pacific Northwest, but the trees here are shorter. Acacias and locusts and palms form a dense thicket of feathery green so overgrown its hard to imagine any human habitation among it, though once in awhile she spies a thatched roofed hut.
Back on the coast, their resort sits on a similar swath of land where the forest runs right down to the sandy beaches of the blue Caribbean. Cass thinks only the ocean is a strong enough force to stop the jungle, although the machines of men are doing their best. Their hotel is part of a new development devoted solely to Anglo tourists. Several other resorts along the strip are still being built, and though they will all have different names and themes, the end result will be roughly the same. “The Mayan Riviera, a lush new resort area, will soon feature as many hotels as the city of Cancun,” the tourist brochure crowed. The resorts are landscaped to mimic the look of the tropical forest, but it is in fact a thin and firmly controlled illusion. A vast cadre of locals maintains the manicured lawns and paths that artfully snake under palms and beside the serpentine swimming pool.
“It feels like they are racing against time,” Cass had said to her family on their first day at the resort. She’d nodded to a group of men in yellow polos and blue pants.
Blank looks from Laura and James had greeted her comment, though Liam had nodded thoughtfully. Her son was often the only one of the family who seemed to understand Cass’s outlook. The only other person she knew who “got” her was Martin. But she had sworn not to think of him on this trip. Instead, she will focus only on her family. Cass had the feeling even stronger early the next morning as she ran along the paths before the day heated up. Peacocks screeched and she smelled sweet blossoms and bug spray. A worker raked dead leaves from beneath a bush near where a group of guinea hens lay. If they ever stopped raking and spraying and trimming, the jungle would encroach in days, even hours, she thought, so palpable was its force.
And later that night, when they’d gathered at the lobby bar to await their friends from Colorado, Liam returned from the bar with a Planter’s Punch. Just eighteen, he was old enough to drink in Mexico, and he’d set out to sample every cocktail he’d ever heard of. He took a sip of the drink, smiled, and set it on a low marble table beside a bowl of popcorn. He settled on the apricot–colored banquette. Behind him, a fountain cascaded in a low rectangular pool, and Cass could see the flock of flamingos.
“I’ve figured this place out,” Liam said. “It’s Jurassic Park meets Dirty Dancing.”
James had laughed and clapped his son on the shoulder, telling him how clever he was, but when Cass thought about it, she wasn’t sure James had ever seen Dirty Dancing. “Chick flick,” he’d sneered when she’d wanted to re-rent it recently. She’d gotten it anyway, and watched it alone the next afternoon when she should have been writing. She hadn’t told Martin about watching it, though they usually always discussed movies, because he hated it when she wasted her writing time. Martin’s job as head of the English department at the University left him little idle time, and he abhorred laziness in others.
Cass pulls her mind to the present and returns her attention to Gabriel. She must not let her mind wander to Martin. She’s sworn she will concentrate only on her family.
Gabriel has started his spiel on Chichen Itza. “It is the largest of the Mayan ruins and to many, the most impressive,” he says. “We will see the Mayan ball court; a cenote used for human sacrifices, and of course, the famous temple of Kukulcan. You can climb the ninety-three steps to the top of the temple. It’s a fabulous view of the countryside from up there. But if you don’t make it all the way, don’t worry. We have a plan for you so you can still brag to your friends. You climb as far as you can, have your picture taken, and then tell your friends, ‘that was me on the way down from the top.’”
“That will be you, Mom,” Laura teases.
“Hey, she’s fitter than you,” Liam says. Cass hasn’t noticed he’s taken the earphones off until he speaks.
“I meant her fear of heights, dummy,” Laura says.
“I thought you were getting over that, Mom. I mean, you said you were going parasailing tomorrow,” her son says.
Cass smiles her noncommittal Mom smile, which she hopes doesn’t look like a grimace. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
In truth, the thought of parasailing terrifies her. From the beach all week she has watched the boat tow the blue and white parachute back and forth, people dangling beneath it, looking like the toy soldier parachutists she used to throw off her mother’s porch. But she thinks if she could just do one thing outside her comfort zone she could move forward in her life. She’d thought maybe she could manage the parasailing, that it would be like sitting atop the Ferris wheel. It hadn’t occurred to her there’d be anything on the Chichen Itza tour to challenge her fear. And lately her fear seems to be getting worse. Even the stairs she runs down every morning on her usual route at home give her vertigo, so that she has to clutch the railing in order to not feel as if she’s pitching forward from one reality to another.
“What can you tell us about Mayan astronomy?” James asks.
“Ah. Yes, the Mayans were great astronomers,” Gabriel answers. “But I can more easily explain their methods once we arrive.”
The stars are James’s passion. His predilection to become deeply obsessed with a topic is what had attracted Cass to him all those years ago. And she is almost certain it is what makes their relationship such a failure now. James, it seems, can see into the heavens, but hardly notices what is right under his nose.
When they first met, it had been painting. The university they attended had a large art department and James took classes in various media, wore a black beret, and carried a large portfolio everywhere. His first crisis of faith came because of art. “I’ll never be good enough to do anything with it,” he announced one day. And then he’d shlumped around campus, morose, and slept on Cass’s couch, refusing sex or any other sustenance. Until one day Cass came home to the table set with the only two placemats she owned, beeswax candles aglow, Coltrane on the stereo. (Jazz had been James’s previous passion.) Potatoes baked in the oven and steaks sizzled on the grill outside on her apartment’s tiny balcony.
“This is a momentous occasion,” he said as he whipped off his apron and held out a chair for her. “I’ve decided to go into law.”
Law had been good for James, allowing him ever more expensive passions. There was a model train phase (their basement still cluttered with boxes full of the half-laid out tracks), and the motorcycle phase that required the purchase of not only the bike, but an expensive helmet and several leather outfits. The bird watching phase had meant expeditions to eastern Oregon, with days spent behind binoculars, and James calling out the birds so that Cass could note them on his life list.
And now, stars. Saturn’s rings magnified in the telescope, or the craters of the moon looming through the eyepiece like pockmarks on a teenager’s face. James could wax poetic about the constellations, spout the dates of upcoming eclipses, point out the winter circle, or the summer triangle. Cass was actually quite interested in astronomy but James’s overwhelming enthusiasm left little room for her.
The stars were how she’d gotten him here.
“I hate vacations,” he said, right after Cass and Laura had broached the subject of Mexico. The Parkers—their Denver friends—had just called and invited them, and Cass, listening to Molly Parker talk about Mexico, had envisioned it as a place that might open her up, the place she had been searching for. She felt boxed in, trapped in a life devoted to appearances. She wished for a landscape to support her own passion, which, she felt certain, she would recognize when it finally appeared.
“You just hate vacations when you can’t take your laptop, Daddy,” Laura said. “You like it just fine when we go to the beach every summer.”
“Because he works the whole time,” said Liam, just entering the kitchen from rugby practice.
“We could visit Mayan ruins,” Cass said. “Weren’t they really into astronomy?”
Cass had seen the spark of interest on his face. Laura apparently noticed, too. “Think of how many stars you’ll be able to see down there,” she exclaimed.
“I wonder if I could take my telescope,” James said, and Cass knew he was already in Mexico.
And now they are here for real, though the trip is almost over. James, whistling under his breath, leans towards her, his hand again angling toward her knee, and suddenly she can’t stand it, can’t stand sitting next to him, and can’t stand his whistling. She turns her head toward the window. James says something to Laura instead. Cass doesn’t listen to them, just stares through the glass.
The bus is passing through a small village. From her perch in a plush air conditioned seat high above the street it looks as if all the buildings in town have been built up close to the narrow road. Cinder block boxes with open doors and windows—no glass—form both stores and houses. Through one doorway she sees a display of Coke and potato chips. Through another, a man swings on a hammock. There isn’t, as far as she can tell, any electricity, in either the stores or the houses.
“Do you, Cass?” James nudges her. “Do you?”
“What?” she says.
“Want to go home day after tomorrow?” Both James and Laura stare at her, waiting for confirmation of their opinions of the trip.
“No,” Cass smiles. “I don’t want to go home. I could stay here forever. I love Mexico.”
James pats her knee and this time she’s sure he doesn’t notice how she pulls it away from him. “Me too. I love it here too.”
Conveniently he’s forgotten how loudly he squawked when he paid the travel agent for the airplane tickets, how he complained about missing the NCAA tournament. Cass wonders how long it will take him to forget Mexico, lays odds he’ll have his cell phone out the minute they set foot in the Houston airport, and guarantees to herself he’ll be talking to a client as they shuffle through customs.
But Cass does love it here, she really does, especially the less touristy parts, which she would have preferred to see more of. She loves the small fishing town where the resort shuttle deposits them for shopping and a better taste of the local flavor. A few days ago they’d bought silver jewelry and colorful sarongs, Dos Equis T-shirts and beer mugs. When they were finished shopping, they’d stopped to eat at an open-air cantina.
Cass had sipped her cerveza and watched the parade by the café. Well-heeled tourists in crisp shorts and clean T-shirts. Young Americans with dirty hair and overloaded backpacks. Mexican merchants stood outside their stores and tried to beckon customers in. “Hola, amigos! I have beautiful jewelry for the lady. You like, I promise.”
The waiter brought their dinner, fish crisply fried and wrapped in a fresh tortilla, tasting, Cass thought, like a little bit of Nirvana on a plate. A Mariachi band stopped to play at their table, and James frowned as he tried to figure out how much to tip them. Cass excused herself to use the bathroom, which featured a yellow-stained toilet and no place to wash her hands.
“I think this is the real Mexico,” she announced when she returned to the table, where a dog had arrived and sniffed the floor.
“If this is the real Mexico, you can have it. I’ll take the resort version any day,” James had said.
Now she glances at him on the bus. If not for the stars, it would have been impossible to convince him to go into the jungle. He would have preferred another day by the water, Pina Coladas from the beach-side bar, lunch at the buffet, followed by a dip in the Caribbean and then another drink. But Cass is avid to see the ruins, desperate for another glimpse; however tourist enshrouded, of the real Mexico. The freedom of the place attracts her, certainly, but more than anything, it is the honesty. Dirt is dirt. The jungle is the jungle. You can have at it with a machete, but it is still the jungle. In Mexico, it seems, she can see life with her own eyes. Perhaps it is honesty, then, she reflects, which her own true passion is.
She can hardly wait to share that insight with Martin, who constantly exhorts her to “take her blinders off and live life.” Easy for him to say, with his cushy—at least from Cass’s point of view—job. Oh, but she’s forgotten. She’s not to think of him.
And so she tries to think of James, who now is nearly bouncing in his seat with excitement. She had pulled out the astronomy trump to get him on the tour today.
He emotes about astronomy at great length, stretching the patience of even close friends like the Parkers. Cass notices the looks that pass between Molly and her husband, Richard. Last night, for instance, as they sat in the lobby bar, when James started in on the stars, Richard had quickly changed the subject to work issues. James had rapidly become engrossed in debating the relative merits of paralegals and had never noticed the slight.
The subject of secretaries was not one that interested her, so she had excused herself to order another glass of wine, even though the bar’s selection of Merlot was minimal. While she waited at the long wood bar to get the bartender’s attention, Molly appeared at her side. Her friend’s cheeks bore two red circles like a clown’s make-up. Cass wondered how many drinks Molly had consumed.
“I came up here to ask how you can stand it,” Molly said.
“Stand what?” The handsome bartender stood before her, finally, and she asked for the Merlot. “You want anything?” Molly shook her head and waited for the bartender to walk away. “How do you stand the way James flaunts his relationship with the women in his office in front of you?”
Cass had to stifle a laugh. Molly had picked up the tension in Cass’s marriage, she’d just guessed wrong about the players. “There are a lot of things I’ve learned to ignore about James.” It’s a lame response, but she can’t think of any other.
“You’re so brave,” Molly had said. “When Richard had an affair with that Karen woman, I thought I’d die.”
Cass has heard play by play descriptions of Richard’s affair and the ensuing havoc it wreaked on the Parker marriage during late night phone calls from Denver. But she didn’t tell Molly that she knows for certain that James is not having an affair with his secretary, though not for lack of trying. Bourbon-drenched and sobbing, James had confessed the failure of his one attempt at extramarital sex to Cass after last year’s Christmas party.
Instead, she had made appropriate noises of sympathy to Molly until the bartender returned with her Merlot. Cass felt Molly’s disappointment at her failure to offer up a confidence of her own.
Cass stares out the window of the bus. Her dilemma is her own to solve, and goes way beyond the simple shelter of gossip that Molly desires. Now Gabriel stands up again and the sound of microphone feedback fills the bus. Even Liam removes his earphones. They turn into a parking lot crammed with cars and more buses. “Number one-oh-two, we are bus number one-oh-two. Very important for you to remember! We will meet on the other side of the gate for our tour.”
Later, what Cass will remember most about Chichen Itza is the heat and her failure of nerve. The crumbling limestone edifices of the once powerful city sit on vast stretches of grass and dirt. Their little group from the bus joins throngs of others, walking from ruin to ruin and listening to Gabriel’s spiel. Heat shimmers up from the ground in visible waves. Cass gulps water from the blue labeled bottle, a brand ubiquitous in Mexico, and seeks out shade when she can.
Liam is fascinated with the Mayan ball court, where some ancient forerunner to rugby was played. He seems entranced with the idea that either the game’s winners or its losers—archaeologists disagree on which—were sacrificed at the end of the match. Liam eyes the high limestone ring through which the ball had to be passed to win. “Sometimes it took weeks for one side to accomplish this,” Gabriel says. Cass watches the expression on her son’s face, imagines he’s calculating the difficulty of passing the ball through the ring. James whistles softly beside her, impatient to see the temple and hear about astronomy.
It’s a long walk in the hot sun from site to site, and Cass is beginning to appreciate the cooling breezes of the Caribbean that are absent here. Her T-shirt is blotched with sweat by the time their group reaches the cenote. She’s given up worrying about how she looks, tells herself it’s a very American notion to fret about such a natural function as sweat. She’s so hot she can barely concentrate on Gabriel’s explanation of the sacrificial cenote. The Yucatan’s limestone ground is dotted with these sinkholes called cenotes, Gabriel explains, and this one was discovered to have been a sacrificial pool when a former owner drained it and found mounds of bones.
Fascinating stuff, to be sure. Relief floods her when Liam emerges from a refreshment stand with four bottles of water. She drinks half of hers in one long swig, pours part of it down her back, then runs to catch up with the rest of the group.
And finally James gets his hit of astronomy. They reach the base of the Kukulcan pyramid, where she watches tourists swarm its steps. Gabriel points to the carvings along the side of the pyramid and the serpent’s head at the bottom of the flanged wall. On the day of the spring and fall solstices, Gabriel says, the light falls in just such a way as to make a design of a serpent all the way up the side of the temple. Only later, looking at a postcard in the gift shop, can Cass visualize what he means.
“Just last week there were thousands of visitors here to see the phenomenon,” Gabriel says.
“Damn, we missed it,” James says.
“We can come back next year, Daddy,” Laura says. “I know Mom would want to.”
Cass considers her daughter’s comment. Next year, Liam will be away at school and Laura will be in her junior year of college. And where will Cass be? She herself doesn’t know.
She shrugs and smiles at her daughter. “You never know what will happen. I guess we’ll just have to see.”
And then the tour is over and Gabriel says he’ll meet them in an hour. “What’s the number of your bus?” he asks the group.
“One-oh-two” they shout in contented unison.
And its time to climb the ninety-three steps to the top of the Temple of Kukulcan. If Cass stops to think about it she’ll dive to the ground and cower in the heat and dust. Instead, she strides to the base of the pyramid and starts the ascent. All around her, others climb, too. Men run past with an abandon that makes her shiver, women clamber up the steps on all fours, like giant spiders. James and Liam have shot past her, but Laura seems content to match her pace. Halfway up, a person jostles Cass from behind. She turns her head at the intrusion, and sees the vast expanse of jungle below, immediately feels the vertigo overwhelming her. She sits on the step. Smells sweat, hers or someone else’s, she doesn’t know.
“You coming, Mom?”
Cass glances up. Laura has passed her now. Liam and James are already at the top, striding along the narrow walk outside the stone room on top. Looking up at them makes her dizzy. But so does looking down. She clutches the stone step beneath her. It’s hot and bumpy, its surface rutted from centuries of climbers.
“I need to rest,” she tells her daughter. “You go on. I’ll catch up”
But Cass knows she’ll go no further. She’d been foolish to challenge the boundaries of her bubble, crazy to think she could handle parasailing. Now she’s not even certain how she will get down from the pyramid. She experiments with descending to the next step, slowly sliding her bottom down. Dizziness overwhelms her. She fights the rising panic.
She closes her eyes and fills her mind with thoughts of Martin. Sitting across the table from her in the dark bar he loves to frequent near the University, raising his Gimlet to toast her. Lecturing his freshman English class. Buckling his pants and tucking in his shirt just so after they have made love. Martin had asked her again, right before she left Seattle, when she would decide. Cass had hoped that a week in the Yucatan with her family would make everything clear. But now, sitting on the bumpy steps of the temple, her life seems inextricably complex, like a knot tied so tightly it can never be undone.
She opens her eyes. She sees the world open up beneath her from the temple steps, like a vast abyss. It terrifies her. And all she can think to do is ease her way back down to earth, one step at a time.
Charlotte Rains Dixon is a freelance writer living in Portland, Oregon, who considers both Nashville and LA her second homes. She writes copy for the internet and print media, teaches creative writing at Middle Tennessee State University and privately, does ghost writing, and also writes fiction and screenplays. She received her MFA in creative writing from Spalding University in 2003. Charlotte blogs about all of these endeavors and more at www.wordstrumpet.com.
June, 2007
I had been summoned to Barnyard’s and that only meant one thing - fun and laughter with precious friends.
This time it was a relaxing barbecue hosted by my timeless friend Dorothy as a celebration for her youngest son who was leaving home for a life of independent bliss. David had grown into a fine young man, the image of his mother. Thanks to her devoted teaching and the encouragement and support of a loving family he had excelled at his designer studies and made us all very proud. At first appearance you’d believe him to be quiet. Yet beneath the pensive smile was a fascinating intellect and a devilishly captivating humour that always made you feel as if he genuinely enjoyed your company. I would miss him dearly but I knew that he‘d always be a constant in everyone‘s life. He was just made that way.
The day was cloudless and warm and as I approached the turn off I caught glimpses of the house framed by the gaps in the hedgerow. The fallow fields had been given over to meadow just as Dorothy had always wanted and it looked as if her front garden now stretched for miles in languished splendour. Elegant red poppies and fresh faced blue cornflowers straddled the gentle breeze swaying in mesmerizing unison. Yellow cowslips en mass and dainty pink knapweed, complimented the scene making it reminiscent of a Monet masterpiece that fetched your heart into the canvas and made you follow it. It was going to be a perfect day.
September, 2005
It’s early evening on a busy London thoroughfare; a man lies face down by a park gate. Crowds of people pass within feet of him. To some he is invisible whilst others jeer him for being so drunk - but no one stopped. A youth on his way to a date leans over him, talking to him quietly and patiently, finally realises the man was not drunk but had been stabbed. He took off his new jacket using it to stem the blood flow and called for help. The man was discovered in the nick of time and survived.
Dorothy had always hankered after a career; she had a brilliant business brain and had qualified as an auditor but decided to put it on hold to raise her first born son. He had been a difficult birth and grouchy baby but she was patient and loving. Still, that didn’t stop her heaving a sigh of relief as she enrolled him into playgroup.
Fate would have her way and just a few weeks later Dorothy was pregnant once again. Another difficult birth ensued, her second son, a breech baby almost died but happily recovered and once again Dorothy resigned herself to be a stay-at-home mum, a role she thoroughly enjoyed.
This time, I used to hear her say, “I’ll get on that career ladder!!”
As the months turned into years, son number 2 was safely at playschool and Dorothy prepared to enroll in refresher courses, buy the business suit and add a much needed income to the household budget.
May, 2006
A young man hurries to a poorly lit bus station eager to catch the last bus back to his Halls of Residence. As he turns the corner he is horrified to find a man beating his girlfriend to within an inch of her life - without thought of danger he pounces on the attacker who turns and flees. The woman is in a bad way; luckily he manages to hail a passing cab and takes her to the safety of a hospital. The woman made a slow but otherwise full recovery.
Turning up the long tree lined drive, for some reason Henry Fonda came to mind. I pictured him in the Grapes of Wrath loading all his belongings onto a truck and looking forlornly at his home as he set off to find work during the great depression - and there I had it, the great depression. It was a link to thoughts of Dorothy and her time of morose self loathing all those years ago.
If I look back 20 years I can still vividly recall the disheveled Dorothy that stood on my doorstep. Even though we were good friends she looked like a stranger, her sanity had temporarily abandoned her and she was going into complete shutdown.
Dorothy was once again pregnant but this time it had sent her into that dark, solitary, airless place, that foul smelling place that taints your soul and blinds you from all reason. We talked and talked all that day, she opened up like a burst water pipe at the relief of being able to express her disappointment, one she wouldn’t share with her loving husband as she didn’t want him to feel the guilt of their ‘mistake’ and the desperation that was driving her over the edge. I can still feel the tremors reverberate through my body as she confided in me that earlier in the day she had been seconds away from walking in front of a bus.
“How would that driver have felt?” I raged at her, temporarily disappointed that my friend could contemplate such an awful act but then I remembered my own really low points and how hard it is to claw your way out of those dark, dank pits of isolation.
“The only other option,” she concluded through floods of tears “…is a termination…”
There, she had finally said it out loud; the situation was now real whereas before it had been a bad dream, a ghoulish nightmare she wanted to go away.
Somehow, for whatever reason she didn’t mention the termination again. It was as if she had finally reached the point of acceptance, one that would have us move forward into a half light. There was no clear path but a realisation of where you were and where you could go.
February, 2007
At a quiet junction a pedestrian stops as a motorcycle approaches at high speed. He raises his hands to his face in horror as the cyclist loses control and crashes into a wall. The onlooker knows exactly what to do because he’s had first aid training. The biker thrashes about in excruciating pain. The pedestrian calms the struggling man while he calls for help on his cell phone. The cyclist had broken his neck as well as other serious injuries - after many surgeries and long months of therapy he was able to resume his life.
The pregnancy seemed long and very quiet. She did everything expectant mothers were supposed to do but there was no bloom or spark or conversation about babies. Her adoring husband worked tirelessly to keep stress to a minimum and finally this little bundle named David was born - and the silence continued.
After a few weeks she was back on the doorstep, a vulnerable, trembling Dorothy holding her babe in arms as if it belonged to someone else. There was an eerie silence broken by a strangled cry…
“I’m frightened to love him,” she wept. “I have been so bad I fear god will take him back!” Her face looked as if it had forgotten joy of any kind.
Poor, poor woman. Hormones, situations, family, pressures - how can any mere mortal be expected to cope with all this??? I screamed in shocked silence.
Putting one arm around her and cradling David with the other I stated the obvious.
“Dorothy, he’s here now, a precious human being and you must look after him just like you did his brothers. He’s a gift; he needs and deserves your care and attention but most of all he needs your love.” I falteringly added… “Whatever happens is out of our hands,” because it had to be said. “None of us know what our future is to be, we can only deal with it one day at a time.”
I looked into little David’s placid face and knew like all newborns, he was here for a reason; he had his place in this world….
And so it was, Dorothy reclaimed her natural grace and resumed her enviable skills of motherhood raising a wonderful, adoring family. Some years later she converted an outbuilding into a little farm shop where she sells her home made fare to delighted customers. Cakes, jams, preserves, free range eggs, butter and other expertly made produce, her business brain is in top gear. She graciously embraced the concept that sometimes we do not get to travel the road we desire because the manner in which we cope with life’s hard lessons often leads us to a path better suited.
You will have realised by now that the young man in the factual accounts of being in the ‘right place at the right time’ was David. Three times to my certain knowledge he has helped save a life. If David hadn’t visited us on earth, three people may have died. What a sobering thought that is; I can hardly believe it.
This example is extraordinary but all our lives are affected by many different people for a variety of reasons - however fleetingly. We all have our parts to play in the grand scheme of things. It may not be to save another but it certainly is to help as many as we can along the way, be it shelter, a shoulder to cry on or just an encouraging smile. Life really is a tapestry, full of meaning - we just need to weave a little of ourselves into the fabric. David is but a single golden thread.
© WalksFarWoman 2007
The Arc of Time is a new take on an ancient tale and is dedicated to Lari Davidson. Lari accepted The Arc of Time for publication in Ultra! published by Aardworlf Publishing. This was to be the Premiere Issue of a benefit magazine for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Unfortunately, just shy of having it all ready to go to final print, Lari passed away suddenly. The magazine never went to print. If you download and read The Arc of Time, please consider making a donation to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation in memory of Lari Davidson’s marvelous efforts.
I gaze out the window of my new apartment and wonder if the trees will ever turn. Or will the leaves just wither, brown and drop to the ground in anonymous heaps? My mind strays home to Quebec, a landscape where the recurrence of change lies under the sway of cold and drought, blossom and seed. Where the wind is like a fist. I used to watch it snatch the leaves and scatter flaming colours across the road. They soared like flocks of exotic birds, vaulting to a chorus of a chaotic harmony. I’d kick the leaf piles along the roadside and watch the wind beguile the odd leaf to a solo performance. But I’ve chosen to pursue my studies here, in Vancouver, where the Olympian conifers defy the seasons and command passive subjugation on an unmoving stage. Here nature has no clock. She stands still. Glancing at my watch, I grab my jacket and head for the university. The old cafe that I pass every day looks inviting. Longing for coffee, I enter. The dirty windows barely let in enough light to see. I smell lemon wood polish, cooking grease and old furniture. Johnny Lang drawls: “Lie to me and tell me everything’s all right. . . .” A smile tugs at my lips. This isn’t Starbucks. As I approach the service counter, I glimpse a young bearded man seated at a table. He’s wearing the same checkered shirt he wore during registration day when we shared a conversation while waiting in line. Does he remember me? I order a coffee then fumble with the milk and sugar. Carefully balancing the mug, I wander to a table close to his, wanting to share his company but not wanting to impose. He sprawls, reading a ragged paperback held in one hand and stroking his beverage with the other. As I stand poised at the chair, I catch him looking in my direction with a shy but inviting smile. He puts down the book. When our eyes meet, his smile broadens and he says in a pleasant tenor voice, “Hi.” I smile back, remembering the deep stare of those feral eyes. “Hi.” My hand grips the chair back haltingly. Sensing my indecision, he stutters, “W-would you care to join me?” “Okay,” I respond, feeling my cheeks warm under his guileless gaze. I contrast his awkward invitation to the boisterous charm of Eric, my ex-boyfriend back east, and find this young man’s unassuming coyness refreshing. As I take the seat across from him, he adds, “You’re Sarah, aren’t you?” “Yes.” I can’t remember his name. “Jim,” he reminds me. “Come to this hole often?” “First time,” I admit with a nervous smile. “Ah, that explains why you ordered the coffee,” he says, leaning back in his chair and scratching his beard. I notice he’s drinking apple juice and grin. “That bad, eh?” I sip the coffee and sadly agree. Definitely not Starbucks! “You’re studying to be a botanist, aren’t you? ”I nod, stunned that he remembers my area of specialization. I can’t remember his. “Maybe you can trace its origin,” he says with a crooked smile. His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Or maybe just use it in my chemistry class!” I laugh and lean back. “How do you like Vancouver? Pretty mild, isn’t it.” I shuffle my feet and lean forward, thinking of the eastern winds. “A little too mild maybe. I’m from Quebec where the seasons blow in and out. Land of the blizzards, you know. Seems like Vancouver only experiences two seasons: wet and wetter.” I’m relieved that he laughs. It makes his eyes wrinkle and his tanned face look like leather. I notice that the colour of his eyes match his shirt. He’d blend into the forest easily. “I know what you mean,” he agrees. “I’m from BC’s interior mountains. We get blizzards too. Since moving to the coast I’ve had to look for the seasons too.” His chestnut eyes draw me in. “Here, Mother Nature’s a subtle matter. You need to sniff her out.” The clock chimes the hour and he looks up. “Oops! I’m late for class.” He stands up. “Nice talking with you, Sarah. Maybe I’ll see you here again.” “Sure,” I say. “But I think I’ll order a tea next time.” “Good idea! Bye.” “Bye.” I watch him dart out with a wave. As I stroll toward the campus for my first class, an earthy perfume enfolds me in a heady embrace and I stop to take it in. Inhaling deeply, I distinguish a chorus of autumn scents from the heavy musk of decaying vegetation to the sharpness of the earth itself. I could grow to like it.
~ The End ~
Nina Munteanu hosts a wildly popular blog called The Alien Next Door where she magically juggles being a scientist and a story teller. An environmental consultant by trade, Nina is also a published science fiction author whose new book, Darwin’s Paradox, is scheduled for world-wide release November 1, 2007. Published by: Dragon Moon Press. Available at: Amazon.com and Amazon.ca.
Welcome to Nameless Grace. Here you will find some of the brightest authors to ever grace the literary scene.
I am Karen Mason of Starfire World Syndicate, and I’ll be your host on this incredible journey. Join me in welcoming these beings of light as they glide over the trails of your heart.
The authors appear in this showcase because they embody that inexplicable beauty that we have come to know as Nameless Grace…
