I curled into the corner of the sofa, Dixie beside me, her warm body heavy with sleep. I stroked her fur, wishing I could sleep, as well, but that peacefulness wouldn’t come to me. Instead, when I shut my eyes, images bombarded me, and rest proved to be elusive. I didn’t know how to move forward—to get past all these feelings and memories.
My gaze fell on my journals. I had picked them up numerous times over the past couple days, after Karen had carried them in and set them down. My fingers had traced the supple leather over and again, remembering the expression on Zachary’s face as he gave them to me. He said he wanted me to fill the blank pages with my words; how when they came back to me, the books would be there, waiting.
Before I realized what was happening, I had removed one journal from the box and opened up the thick pages.
I had the words.
Our words. They needed to come out of my head and live on these pages.
The pages of us.
I picked up one of the special pens he had chosen and began to write.
Time slipped away, and it was the clearing of Karen’s throat that broke my concentration. Startled, I looked at her, realizing the room was filled with the morning sun. I looked down at the journal in front of me surprised to see I had filled about a third of the book.
“You’re writing,” Karen’s voice was surprised but pleased.
“I am.”
“A new story?”
I shut the book, putting the cap back on the pen, tracing my finger over the spine. “My story.”
She sat beside me. “Your story?”
“I can’t stop thinking, Karen. The words play continuously in my head. I have to get them out.”
“So you’re writing about you and Zachary?”
“Yes. I thought—”
“Tell me,” she encouraged, sounding concerned.
“I thought if I wrote them out—let all my feelings and thoughts flow into these books—these journals he gave me—maybe I could find some peace. Figure out a way of moving forward.”
“Makes sense.”
I looked over her shoulder. “Can we go into town later?”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Sure. Why?”
“I want to take Tempest to Ashley and Jonathon. I want to see if they know someone who can fix it.”
“Why?”
“It means something to me. It has from the second I saw it. I need to have it repaired.”
“Megan—”
I held up my hand. “Don’t say it. I want it repaired for me.”
“Okay, then, we’ll go into town later. Coffee and toast first, though.”
Leaning forward, I squeezed her hands. “Sounds good.”* * *Ashley was horrified went she saw the damage to the painting, but knew a professional restorer who could repair it. It would never be whole again—the same way Zachary would never be whole. It could be repaired and to the unknowing eye, look fine, but it would never be the same—undamaged. The symmetry was almost ironic, and not lost on any of us. She told me she had a quick email from Zachary stating he would be out of touch for the foreseeable future and not to expect any new work. She shook her head as she told me he must’ve also canceled his email account since her reply bounced back. “He isn’t answering his cell phone, either,” she informed me. “His voice mail says messages would be checked infrequently. Mrs. Cooper might have other information since she looks after his house.”
The news saddened me further, but I wasn’t surprised. I hated that he was closing the door on the few people who truly cared for him, and wasn’t listening to anyone who was trying to reach out. I also knew if Mrs. Cooper had more information, she would respect Zachary’s privacy and not give it to me.
I was surprised to see how empty the back gallery was, and she explained they had removed Zachary’s paintings with all the reporters around. “Zachary would hate the thought of people buying them to resell, or use as part of the stories that will come out. We’ll hang them back up when it all dies down.” She squeezed my hand. “It will die down, Megan. Especially with him gone.”
I nodded, masking my anger. He shouldn’t have had to go anywhere. Cliff’s Edge, this small, laid-back town was his home, but because of me, because of Jared, he had left.
A small voice in my head whispered he shouldn’t have run. He should have given me a chance and believed in me, in us, more. Ignoring the pain those thoughts caused, I thanked Ashley and hurried across the street where Karen was picking up a few things. I kept my head down, hoping no reporters had returned and recognized me. I didn’t want to experience that again.
Karen was ready, so we headed back to her place, with plans to watch a movie and an early night. “I am tired,” I admitted, when she commented on my appearance, gazing at me from her chair.