Page 1 of The Past

CHAPTER 1

Fiona

Blackburn Farms, Kentucky– Present Day

The house issilent.

Too silent.

And it’s times like these that the grief moves back in, settling upon me like a weighted blanket that never feels comforting, merely claustrophobic.

I’m in the formal sitting room, my favorite because of the big windows that overlook the long, oak-lined driveway.Next month the leaves will start turning colors and dropping, but for now, we’re soaking up the last warm rays of summer.

A cup of tea sits on the table, untouched but only because it’s still cooling.The boxes of photo albums from the attic are stacked beside me, on the floor, and piled onto an adjacent chair.More spill across the coffee table—frozen moments of a life now fractured.

It’s been almost a month since my youngest son, Wade, died, and there are times I think I can survive this.

And there are times… like right now… I don’t want to go on.

I pick up an album, a dulled burgundy canvas covering with a placard on the front that doesn’t identify the year or what’s inside.While I was the type of mother who took a million pictures of my kids as they grew up and dutifully put them in protective coverings inside the albums, I never labeled them.Over the years, I would memory surf, and the disorganization never bothered me.On the contrary, it was always a lovely surprise, not knowing what I would find when I opened one up.

I flip the cover and my heart lurches at the very first photograph.It’s of all my children, taken a good twenty-five years ago, if I’m guessing at their ages.Ethan, the oldest, already looking so serious, as if he knew he’d be running the Blackburn empire one day.My precious twin girls, Kat and Abby, holding hands as they jump off the dock and into the pond.

And there’s Wade… always the most mischievous, pushing his brother Trey into the water from the bank.A perfect moment frozen by the snap of the shutter, when everyone was happy and carefree and never suspected the tragedy that would befall us one day.

I focus on Wade with his toothy grin and smile at the look of shock on his brother’s face as he realizes he’s about to get very wet.I close my eyes… calling back the memory, letting it play in my head like a beloved motion picture.Their shrieking laughs that never once grated on my nerves, no matter how rambunctious or playfully rotten my brood could be.

My throat tightens.I press my fingers against my lips, willing myself to hold it together.It’s been a month and it’s time to let the pain go and only remember the good times.

Another photo—Trey, Kat and Abby splashing in the pond shallows as Ethan watched over them.Wade, no older than five, drowsily curled in my lap.My beloved Tommy must have taken this picture when I wasn’t paying attention, and I run my fingertip over Wade’s precious face.His life so full, so bright.And now, we’re all missing a piece we can never replace.

I bite my lip, but it doesn’t stop the tears that spill.I don’t bother to wipe them away, knowing more will just replace them.

Besides, I’m Irish.We’re big on our feelings and I’ve never been one to quash them for the sake of unnecessary stoicism.I’m a mother, and I’m allowed to grieve the loss of a child.

A quiet shuffle of feet pulls me from my thoughts.I glance up to see Sylvie standing in the doorway, her small frame hesitant, her green eyes filled with something I recognize—pain and uncertainty.She’s only been with us for five months, a granddaughter who was a stranger to me when she stepped foot on Blackburn Farms, and now as precious to me as all my children.She’s Ethan’s only child and still finding her place, still adjusting to a family she didn’t know existed until recently.Wade was her uncle for only a handful of months, and yet they bonded tight.She’s mourning him, same as we all are.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says softly, her accent lilting over the words.She was raised on a beautiful winery in France, a legacy that she might return to one day when she’s older.

But for now… she’s ours.

“Yer not interrupting,” I assure her, patting the space beside me.“Come, sit.”

She pauses only a moment before crossing the room and curling up beside me.Her small hand presses against my arm, offering comfort.A child, but so intuitive, so aware of emotions bigger than she should have to carry.

“Where’s yer dad?”I ask.

“Working with Skylar,” she murmurs.

I wince at the reminder.The new hire who’s taking over Wade’s duties as one of our horse trainers.

She peers down at the album.“Who is that?”she asks, pointing to the photo I’d just been looking at.

“Yer uncle Wade.”I point out her other aunts and uncles, and Sylvie giggles at their shenanigans.

Glancing at the multitude of photographic memories scattered around, she asks, “Were you going through all of these?”

“There’s way too many to get through them all.”I close the album on my lap and set it on the table beside my tea.“I had hoped to start organizing them.Ye could help if ye want.”

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