Page 31 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Silence falls between us, and with it comes the awareness that we are really alone, here on her porch. Sure, she has neighbors, but there is an air of magical seclusion on this jasmine covered porch.Inspiration comes from the unexpected.Emerson is inspiring me. She has since the day I set eyes on her a month ago, and she has no idea.
“What made you decide you wanted to live in Sea Cove?” Her question comes out hushed and hesitant in the perfumed night air. She seems nervous to begin a conversation with me. I don’t understand why I make her so damn jumpy. The last thing I want to do is frighten her off.
As the hour grows late, the little village quiets. For a Saturday night on a holiday week, it’s very peaceful back in the residential areas. People are worn out from the beach and sun and shopping. They’ve kicked back with their last drink of the night, enjoying conversations with friends, sitting on their porches or around beach bonfires. I feel strangely at ease here. I don’t know why that is so. After years of raucous partying, and the ever-present background noise of music to keep me company during the long nights, the quiet should unnerve me. With Emerson beside me, maybe I could learn to like it.
“We came here on vacation when I was a kid.” I slide my foot against the slats of the porch, liking the slickness the paint gives the wood. “I thought it was as good a place as any.”
“Do you still like it?”
“I’m not sure.”If I can get you in my bed, I will.I turn the book over in my hands, forcing my thoughts away from the direction they are headed.“It was much different back then. Didn’t seem as noisy, although this is quiet compared to what I’m used to now.”
“It certainly wasn’t as busy,” Emerson notes. “The town has become very popular.”
“Have you always lived here?” This is a novelty for me because I’m genuinely interested. Maybe if I understand her, I’ll understand my fascination.
“No, before my parents split up, we lived in Savannah. We moved here so we could be closer to my grandpop. I was eight. He and my grandma built the bookstore before she died. Grandpop died almost two years ago from lung cancer. He left me this cottage and the bookstore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. My grandparents died a long time ago, too. What about your mom? Your dad?”
“My parents, they divorced when I was young. Mom, she remarried and lives in Atlanta with my stepfather. He’s a state prosecutor, and she’s a country club wife. My dad moved onto a new life out in Arizona. We don’t speak with one another. I was the only kid, which is probably a good thing. Less of a hassle when it came to child support, I suppose.” She says, matter-of-factly, a sadness in her tone she can’t hide.
It does something funny to my chest. I’m silent for a long moment, digesting the strangeness of the feeling, Then, she casts a sideways glance at me from beneath a thick curtain of long, black lashes, and the odd moment vanishes. My heart slows because, goddamn, she’s beautiful. And she smells so sweet. Like warm cookies. Sugar and vanilla. And cinnamon. I wonder what brand of perfume she’s wearing. It’s unique and, at the same time, familiar. I want to buy a bottle of it for her. I could buy her all sorts of things. Jewelry, cars. Houses. I could take her anywhere she wanted to go. Show her what the world has to offer when money is no object.
“What about you?” she inquires, oblivious to my plans at buying her affections. “Your parents and all?”
“Currently in the middle of a divorce.” A pleasant daydream of seducing her on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea fades with the question about my parents. Fuck, I hope she doesn’t ask about siblings. I can’t talk about Alex, even if it has been almost three years. The accident is common knowledge, but still, I can’t discuss him. Not rationally, at least. Any mention of my dead brother will lead to a conversation of how I fell apart because of his death. How everything around me fell apart. How I allowed it to destroy me and everyone I loved.
“I’m so sorry.” Lowering her head, she gives me a sad smile then changes the subject. “Do you like living at Lullaby Tides? All that peace and quiet?” She points her toes as a ballerina might, and I admire them in the glow from the windows. They are petite and cute, polished in a surprising, dark lavender hue.
“I’m not sure yet. I think I might.” I sigh and roll my neck.
It’s unfortunate, but the image of me kneeling on the slick, wood porch, lifting her delicate foot and placing it in my lap, then licking my way from the tiny bones of her ankle, up her slender leg, until my mouth is between her thighs is replaying over and over in my mind. I shift on the porch swing, momentarily throwing our rhythmic rocking off cadence. I should hit myself in the nuts with the damn book she’s loaned me. Anything to get my mind off seducing her.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had so much quiet for such a long stretch.” I don’t count the seven months in Bali. That was far from peaceful as I fought the cocaine addiction.
“Do you miss your band?”
I consider that. Do I miss the guys?
Do I?
Yes and no. I miss the camaraderie we once shared. I miss the sense that we had made it… accomplished our dreams together. I don’t miss the fighting. Or the rivalry that sprang up later. The competition and constant snapping at each other. The tension between Dylan and myself hurt all of us. My self-destructive behavior hurt everyone the most. It was something I allowed to happen, something I instigated in many ways.
This is the first time I’ve really admitted that to myself. Since I didn’t quit the band, we’ll eventually get together to go over the songs I’ve written. Dylan will work his magic when it comes to the arrangement of my words and the chords, and the world will once again fall in love with the music we create. It’s been almost a year since we saw each other, although we’ve talked by phone and skyped several times. I wonder what he will think of the songs I’ve written so far. Damn. For the first time in a long time, a strange hopefulness swells inside me at the thought of working with him.
What really surprises me is that I don’t miss the thrill and excitement of performing. Maybe I’m far more exhausted than I realize. Maybe I’ll stay in this village longer than it takes to write the songs for this album.
“Do I miss them? Yeah, I sort of do. It’s a love, hate thing, I guess.”
Emerson laughs and it’s the sweetest sound. There should be sonnets dedicated to it. “I can understand that. At times, I feel the same about the bookstore. Some days, I wish… I wish I could distance myself from everything reeking of responsibility. Just throw my hands up and walk away. Then, I step inside the store and remember why I love it so much. It’s my grandpop, his heart, his memories. My grandma, too. They are alive in that little building. They put their heart and soul into that business, into their love of books, and passed it on to me. I cannot let them down.”
We rock in silence for a few moments more, then she asks, almost shyly, “Would you like something to drink? Some water? Or sweet tea?” With a tilt of her head, soft waves of black, glossy hair fall over her shoulders. A mischievous smile curves her lips. “Lemonade?”
I know I’m staring at her but I can’t help it. She is simply stunning in the moonlight, and the usual light of mistrust in her eyes seems absent for the moment. I clear my throat. “I’m swearing off that stuff for a while.”
“So, you didn’t move here simply so The Main Squeeze would stay in business? Every time I see you, you’re drinking their lemonade.”
“Well, I might start pissing lemon seeds any moment, so taking a break is a medical necessity.”
