Page 42 of Loud Unspoken Memories

“I wonder if Anita’s family is doing anything for Thanksgiving,” Marti says, staring at her plate of food. “I think it’s important to keep up some semblance of normal when life spins out of control.” She sighs. “I guess I’m missing Charlie a lot today.” She looks up from the table, guilt in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

I shake my head, pick up the wine bottle, and fill our glasses. “You don’t need to filter yourself for my sake. You have a kid. It’s natural for you to talk about him.”

“Yeah, but…” Her words trail off.

“Marti, it’s fine. Really.”

I go to dig into my food when she puts a hand on mine, halting the motion. “Wait. My family has this tradition. It’s something we’ve done as far back as I can remember. My fatherwould make us say one thing we were thankful for. He’d say no matter how bad life was, there always had to be something, however small. After he died, we kept up the tradition.”

“Sorry. Not playing.”

Her hand falls away, disappointment in her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll go.” She chews that bottom lip again, deep in thought. “I’m thankful for snow. Snow angels, snowballs, snowmen. All of it. Even if I haven’t done the latter two. But maybe…” She looks at me hopefully. Then her body shivers. “But not ice. I’m definitely not thankful for ice. Which reminds me, I’m also thankful for you. You saved me. Twice.” She looks at me, her gaze soft and inviting. “C’mon, there has to besomething.”

I push food around on my plate.

“One thing,” she says. “Anything.”

I shuffle my foot. It runs into something soft. Bex is under the table. “Bex,” I say. “I’m thankful for Bex.”

I don’t elaborate and tell her why. That if he hadn’t barked his head off and led me to her, she’d be dead. And I’d be stuck here, trapped, with no way to escape. Visions of her under the ice cloud my mind. Her limp body. Her blue lips. Then the limp body becomes Phoebe’s. Her cold, lifeless, blue body lying on the steel gurney at the morgue. Panic crawls up my spine and I can feel the wine glass shake in my grasp.

For the second time, a soft hand lands on mine. “Well, there you go.” She picks up her fork. “Let’s dig in.”

One touch. That’s all it took. One touch from her to keep me from spiraling.

My heart rate slows. I gulp down some wine. Then I eat the best meal I’ve had in years.

Chapter Nineteen

Martina

I can’t stand eating in silence. So I talk. I talk about Charlie, but not too much. And Asher and Charles. I also tell him about my niece.

“Why do you call her Bug?” he asks.

“Her real name is Darla. Asher named her after our mom. Ever since she was little, she’s been fascinated with insects. She’s a real lifesaver when there’s a roach or spider in the house, which happens a lot in Florida. I’m petrified of bugs, but she has no problem with them.”

“And Bug’s mother? Is she in the picture?”

I shake my head. “She gave up all parental rights. In fact, she wanted to have an abortion. Asher talked her out of it. He said he wanted to raise the baby all on his own. He was twenty-seven and our dad had just died. I think he was secretly hoping for a boy since he was already stuck with me. But the moment she was born, he was entranced. He loves that kid so—” It dawns on me what I’ve been rambling about. “Aw, dang it, there I go again. Sorry.”

He waves off my concern. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”

I almost spit out my wine. “Are you kidding? Dallas, I absolutely have to walk on eggshells around you. You’re the most mysterious, closed-off, confusing man I’ve ever met. You live in a remote cabin with a secret room. You have a tragic past. A cell tower you installed so you could work up here for, what…ever?”

Without a single display of emotion, he pours himself another glass of wine and tops mine off. “So about that secretroom.” He looks at me like a parent scolding a child. “You’ve been in it.”

Guilt washes through me at the invasion of privacy. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was bored with you being gone half the time. But in my defense, you never explicitly said I couldn’t go in there. And, might I say, you’re one super talented dude. Your artwork is amazing.”

He glances over at the door. “Nothing in there is mine.”

“Not yours? Then who—” When realization dawns, I stop cold, not needing to put my foot in my mouth any more than I already have.

I sit back in my chair, feeling ten shades of regret. All those sculptures and paintings were created byher. His dead wife. The woman in the picture whose name I still don’t know.

“I’m… jeez, wow. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy like that.”

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