Page 10 of Amber Sky

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 depressi

on. 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.

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