Beneath the Scars

“If it’ll make you feel better, okay.” I drew in a deep breath. “Then I’m going back to Cliff’s Edge.” I smiled at her, wiping the tears away. “I have a book to fix.”

“Will you finish your story?”

“Yes. It’s time to close that one and start fresh.”

“Can you?”

I shut my eyes, Zachary’s scarred, hurt face filling my mind. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back. Bill was right—it was time to move on. “Yes.”

“Okay, then. Deal.”26ZacharyThe house smelled musty. I’d arranged for it to be cleaned before I arrived back, but it still carried the lingering odor of neglect. Elliott ran ahead of me, sniffing and pawing around. Walking from room to room, I opened the windows, letting the rush of the cleansing, salty air flow through the house. I hesitated at the door to my bedroom. It was clean and tidy—the bed made fresh, but I swore if I drew in a deep breath, I’d still be able to catch a trace of Megan in the air; the scent that had haunted my mind all this time. Cursing at my own stupid thoughts, I flung open the window. If there was any remaining scent lingering, it would be gone soon enough. Neither she nor her scent had a place in my life anymore.

It was more difficult to enter the studio, since the room hadn’t been touched, even by the cleaning staff. The last painting I’d been working on was still on the easel, unfinished and sparse. What made my chest ache, though, were the pictures of Megan. She was smiling in the sunlight, laughing, angry, glaring at me, and the last one: her sleeping on the blankets that were still piled on the floor in the corner.

I’d developed the photos and created a collage, dry mounting them on a large board. She was beautiful and life-like as I stared at the images, lost briefly in memories of times I thought were the happiest of my life. Fuming once again that she was invading my thoughts, I shoved the board behind a pile of blank canvases, turning the pictures to the wall for good measure. I would get rid of it in the next while, since I never planned on transferring the images to canvas now. I opened the window and turned around, staring at the almost empty space. My eyes fell on the blankets in the corner of the room. Megan’s nest, as she liked to call it. Without another thought, I crossed the room, bending down and running my fingers over the thick material, once again remembering her.

Remembering us.

The vision of her curled on the pile of blankets and pillows filled my head. She had been sitting, reading as I worked away that afternoon, and fallen asleep. When I’d looked up, I’d had to capture the moment, grabbing my camera, trading it for my paintbrush. Her bright hair spilled over the blue blanket, eyelashes dark laying on her pale skin, and the way her hand curled up under her chin, as she slumbered, called to me. I snapped away, embedding more of her images onto film, thinking one day I would attempt to recreate them on canvas. I recalled rousing her with my touch, slowly bringing her awake with warm kisses and trailing fingers. We made love on those blankets, my body telling her all the things my mouth couldn’t yet say. My apology and conflicted feelings had been silent but powerful as I surged into her warm, welcoming body.

It had been the last time she was in my studio. Our world had ended only a couple days later. I looked down to see my hand fisting the material, grasping it so hard, it was tearing. I stood up abruptly, shaking my head. Why was I thinking about that afternoon?

I wondered if it was a mistake coming back to Cliff’s Edge. Maybe it was too soon. Perhaps I should have never returned, but something kept nagging at me it was time to come back, and finally I gave in.

Walking out of the studio, I closed the door behind me, shutting out the memories.

The next few days, I spent settling back in. Other than closing the window, I kept away from the studio. Mrs. Cooper had been kind enough to send Mr. Cooper out with groceries so I didn’t have to venture into town. Elliott and I walked the beach and in the woods, not surprised that, as usual, our private area was deserted, except for me.

It had been three months since the day I left, throwing a quickly packed case and Elliott into the SUV, then driving straight to Canada. There, a small cabin, and an even smaller town offered me refuge, while I figured out my next step. For days I paced and cursed, the pain in my chest threatening to overwhelm me. I couldn’t eat or sleep. Dormant feelings of rejection and worthlessness simmered under my marred skin, making it feel as if it was stretched too tight over my bones. I shied away from the news or radio, not wanting to know the stories and rumors that had occurred. In desperation, I immersed myself in books, photography, and painted like a man possessed. Canvas after canvas came to life under my hands as I lost myself in a world where I didn’t have to think—only create. The views there were different from my house in Maine. The scope was vaster, the scenery angrier, my perception darker. Some of the pieces were magnificent. Most of them I left sitting in the cabin, knowing I would never share them with the world. They were too personal. The paint on those canvases was thicker and edged with rage in many places. Rage was an emotion I could hold on to. Rage over my own foolishness. Rage over what had occurred and how I opened myself up to a world of hurt because of a pair of wide, brown eyes that gazed up at me in seeming adoration.