Page 20 of Ebbing Tides
She shook her head quickly. “No. It's, um … it's nothing. I just …” She exhaled, a tendril of smoke escaping those rosy-red lips. “My husband was an alcoholic.”
Stupid, I berated myself as my jaw worked from one side to another before I replied, “Oh.”
Melanie's face reflected her sadness for only a moment before she smoothed out the creases on her forehead and between her brows with a forced smile and a flutter of her fingers as she brought the cigarette back to her lips. “It's fine. I'm being ridiculous. But …”
She looked at me and gave her head a shake, her eyes sparkling once again. “I just can't believe you'reyou.”
With my lungs settled, I brought the cigarette back to my lips and nodded, my gaze holding hers. “And you'reyou.”
We stared for a moment, smoking and blowing ribbons in the direction of the open window. Then the color of her cheeks deepened still, just as they had all those years ago, and she looked away with a nervous laugh.
“Honestly, I can't believe you even remember me. That was so long ago.”
“Of course I remember you,” I said simply, not wanting to add that, even if I'd lost all memory of everything that had ever meant anything, there was little chance of forgetting her.
But this situation was crazy enough. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her.
She pulled in a deep breath as she nodded slowly, watching every move I made. Her eyes danced across my face, and an image of her twenty years younger flashed across my field of vision. Her skin might've been more youthful then, softer. Hercheeks a little rounder and full. But her eyes hadn't changed. They still held that same maturity and wisdom she'd possessed all those years before, but there was something else now. The evidence of an emotional scar, so deep that it had altered the chemistry of her soul. And it only made her so, so, so much more beautiful, if for only the reason that sheunderstood.
But, God, how I wished I could wrap my arms around her and protect her from every terrible thing that had carved those wounds in her heart.
She looked around the office and waved her hand in the air. “So, this is what you do now.”
“This is what I do,” I replied.
“You work the graveyard shift in a graveyard.” She flashed a pair of teasing eyes in my direction, and I smiled, nodding. “You know, all those years ago, I never would've pegged you to be as weird and spooky as Charlie, but I think it takes a special kind of strange to feel okay in a cemetery at night,” she said cooly, a bit conspiratorially, and a hearty chuckle rumbled through my chest.
“What can I say?” I said with a shrug. “I prefer the clientele.”
“You mean the dead,” she pointed out before taking a long drag.
“Some of the best people I've known are dead.” Then I tipped my head with consideration and added, “And also some of the worst. But … they talk less than the living.”
“I don't know that I agree with that,” she replied. “I've actually found the dead to be pretty obnoxious. Some of them never shut up.”
“Have you tried asking nicely?” I offered, cautiously joking.
To my relief, Melanie smiled, and there was nothing sinister about it. “You didn't know my husband.”
“I know enough to know he was very lucky,” I said, immediately wondering why I'd said it at all.
My stupid,stupidmouth.
But Melanie didn't flinch at the flirtatious comment. She kept smiling and bringing her cigarette to and from her lips with slow, intentional movements. Then she laughed, and I cocked my head curiously.
She waved a hand, dismissing my confusion. “No, no, it's just …” She licked her lips, and her smile seemed to be aimed toward something other than me. Something farther away and just barely out of reach. “Luke was anything but lucky.”
“Hmm,” I grunted, lowering my gaze to watch the almost-depleted cigarette roll between my fingers. “I guess I know the feeling.”
“Ohh,” she drawled, and I looked up to see her waggling finger. “There's a lot to unpack there. Don’t forget you once told me you were a shit show.”
I chuckled, unable to contain my grin. “I remember.”
“Well”—she stood, disturbing Lido from his comfortable position at her feet—“we’ll have to catch up tomorrow.”
I reached for a glass tumbler on the desk and snubbed my half-smoked cigarette inside before offering it to her.
“Tomorrow?” I asked as she accepted the glass as an ashtray.
