Pieces of metal and broken glass glittered in
my headlights. The pile-up earlier. I shivered, knowing I’d just missed it
coming this direction on my way to the theater.
Chills ran along my neck and down
my arms. Déjà vu of mine and Michael’s accident three years ago. In a week it
would be the anniversary of his death.
A sudden stab of pain pierced my
ribs. The thought caused my breath to leave and my car swerved just a little
bit.
A quick glance behind me at James
Douglas’s car made my face burn with self-consciousness. Would he think I’d
secretly drunk something to ease the pain from tonight’s humiliating performance?
Except James Douglas didn’t realize that I’d never touch alcohol again in my
life. Not even a sip of plain, benign beer.
I shuddered, tempted to turn around and head straight back to New
Orleans on Interstate 25. But I couldn’t do that to my parents, or my younger
brother. Sam had changed a lot the past couple of years, and I’d missed it.
Instead, I turned up the heater, running it full blast to get warm.
Even my bones felt cold. I felt as though I was suddenly getting so old.
Visiting Michael’s grave had created a peculiar aura of having aged ten years.
I eased back on my speed as I hit
the 30 mph sign on Main. Up ahead, the tree-lined streets were decorated with
thousands of lights. Even the church’s evergreens were lit with a brilliant,
blinking white. It was certainly beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
When I passed the church I snorted for the third time that
evening. Pastor John always had “creative” signs on the church billboard, which
was stuck into the manicured grass along the sidewalk—although the usual
green had become a silvery white of snow.
Whoever
is praying for snow, please stop.
That was a sentiment I could say “Amen” to.
My eyes flicked to my rearview mirror again. I noted that James
Douglas did not turn into the church yard. I’d assumed he was living
with his uncle, Pastor John. Maybe I’d assumed wrong.
Then I had a strange thought. Almost like a voice speaking inside my
head.
Maybe I was assuming wrong about a lot of things.
Chapter Seven
When the
sun peeked through the curtains, I rolled over, slipped my eye mask on, and
stuck ear plugs in so I wouldn’t hear my mother knocking at my bedroom door.
There was no way I was going to church and run into James Douglas.
His eyes were much too discerning, as if he knew what I was thinking. I
burrowed under the blankets, laughing at myself, but it was actually sort of
true. Silly, but true.
A prickling ran along my skin when I remembered the touch of his gentle
hands on my ankle, the whoosh of my stomach as he slid his fingers partway up
the calf of my leg. Just being doctor-ish of course—which he wasn’t. I
guess his years at med school could come in handy for first aid if the occasion
arose during a sermon.
I hadn’t had prickles since I was sixteen and Michael kissed me
for the first time on my birthday.
A burning in my eyes made me nostalgic all over again. I sat up,
ripped off my eye mask and stared out the window at a pale blue sky. The storm
from yesterday had disappeared. Bet it was only twenty degrees—if we were
lucky. Clear and cold.
Swinging my legs over, I tested out my ankle, rolled the ball of
my foot a few times and then stood to attempt a run to the bathroom.
The tiled floor was icy. “Dang! I forgot I need socks and slippers
here in the winter.”
I’d been wallowing in grief and guilt ever since I’d come home, and
now I was officially protesting church attendance. My mother was probably
having fits. A moment later, I realized with a sudden jolt of good humor that I
had the whole house to myself for another hour.
I smiled. I wasn’t so tired anymore.
Funny how I’d planned to sleep in for hours and then found myself wide-awake,
a million things going through my mind. The performance last night. James
Douglas’s evocative stare. Chills running along