Page 131 of The Oscar Escape
She surveyed the grounds. Most of the trees had said goodbye to their foliage. Muted gold and washed-out brown leaves carpeted the sprawling track of land dotted with headstones. The blanket of fall colors crackled and crunched beneath her feet. Since she was a girl, she’d loved the sounds of autumn. Step by step, she traveled the worn path to her parents’ resting place.
She set the items in her arms on a gray stone bench across from her mom and dad’s white marble gravestones. She’d been so young when she lost them. She couldn’t pinpoint an exact recollection of her time with them. But one intense emotion always warmed her heart when she thought of them.
Love.
She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her parents had loved and adored her.
And maybe that’s why a thread of trepidation wove its way through her heart. She wouldn’t want to disappoint them.
She kicked at a tuft of dried grass. “Hey, Mom and Dad, it’s been a while.” She sank onto the bench and looked over her shoulder at her stolen wheels. “Don’t be mad about the truck. It’s one of the least bonkers things I’ve done over the last couple of weeks. But you probably already knew that.” She made little circles against the cool stone with her index finger. “You probably also know about Oscar. I like to think that you guys can only see the PG parts of my life when I’m fully clothed and not getting banged six ways from Sunday in a creaky lighthouse museum bed.” She gasped. “And oh my God, am I talking to you guys about sex?” She cringed, then busted out laughing when an old memory resurfaced. “When Aunt Harper and Uncle Landy tried to give me the birds and the bees talk, they turned beet-red, then took me to Cupid Bakery. They let me get whatever I wanted. I ordered every bonbon in the case and even a batch that was cooling in the back. It had to have cost a fortune.” She chuckled as voices in the distance carried on the breeze. She turned toward the sound but couldn’t see over a juniper hedge.
She peered at the billowy puffs of gray clouds in the sky, then concentrated on her parents. “I better get to it. I’m at a crossroads, and I don’t know which path is meant for me. You guys are legends. Your legacy is cemented in music history. You had it all. Success and love. I don’t know if that’s possible for me.” She removed her violin from its case, retrieved the bow, and drew it across the strings. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What would you want me to do?” She closed her eyes and did what she’d been doing since she’d returned to Denver. She played the Paganini piece and allowed images of Oscar to carousel through her mind.
The notes led her back to the schoolhouse on Havenmatch Island. She could smell the scent of grilled cheese sandwiches mingling with the bite of ocean air. She’d taken a chance playing for the islanders, and he’d backed her up. He’d stood there beaming with pride and drinking her in. Even as a girl, she’d known when he was watching her. A palpable surge of fizzy energy would trill from her heart to the tips of her fingers and toes. It triggered a hitch in her breath and amplified her confidence. When he’d gone MIA after they’d kissed on his twenty-first birthday, she’d spent years yearning for that spark, that heady vibration she’d never experienced with anyone else.
Why had everything fallen apart?
Why had he betrayed her?
He was supposed to be her love match.
Was this it? Had their chance at a lifetime of love passed them by?
Her violin playing echoed her heightening anxiety. Unable to stop, she increased the tempo. Going from soft, crisp notes to a visceral, vibrant, thunderous fortissimo dynamic, she played her damned heart out. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She sliced the bow, assaulting the strings, challenging them to keep up with her and not buckle under pressure.
“Who am I? Who am I?” she cried.
Was she pleading with herself, her parents, Oscar, or the universe?
She had no idea.
She carved out the final note with a violent flick of her wrist. It roared through the open space like a primal scream. Breathless, she raised the violin and bow into the air like she was making an offering to the god of stringed instruments. “Who am I?” she raged.
“Who are you? What a silly question. You’re the little girl with the violin. And your timing is impeccable.”
Running on pure adrenaline, Aria swung around, pivoting wildly toward the direction of a woman’s voice.
Who the heck was this chick?
She stared at the newcomer. The woman was petite and slim, rocking a powder-pink-colored sweater with a jaunty matching floppy hat. Silver bangs peeked out from beneath the brim. The senior citizen raised a teacup to her lips and took a sip.
Was this some rage-induced vision?
Aria cocked her head to the side. “Who are you?”
“Oh, you’ll remember me soon enough.” She gestured to the bench. “Now stop crying. Pick up your things. And don’t forget the chocolates.”
“Why?” Aria stammered and glanced at her parents’ gravestones.
“Don’t worry about them,” the lady in pink replied with a hint of amusement as she gestured toward her parents’ resting place. “They’re not going anywhere.”
“Okay,” Aria got out, utterly confused as she gawked at this strange little woman.
“You see,” the lady in pink continued with a coy grin, “it was Martha’s turn to pack snacks, and she forgot.”
Who was Martha? Why was this woman talking about snacks at a cemetery?
Aria took a step toward the smirking lady and got a whiff of what was in her teacup—and it wasn’t tea. It was something much stronger. She studied the woman’s face. Hold on a hot second. There was something familiar about her.
