Page 3 of Tides of Redemption
Quiet voices drifted from the back storeroom while I browsed the art section. I tried not to listen, but Mason’s voice—taut with distress—carried.
“I’m so sorry, Emma. I wouldn’t do this if I had any choice.”
“But I need those hours.” Her voice cracked. “Tuition is due next month, and?—”
“I know. God, I understand. But I can only afford ten hours a week right now. As soon as business picks up…”
My chest tightened. The previous night, I’d heard the creak of Mason’s hardwood floor as he paced, a restlessness that matched my own sleeplessness. Now I understood why.
The storeroom door opened. A young woman emerged, wiping her eyes. Mason followed, his face drawn. When he spotted me, his expression closed off.
“Finding everything okay?” His attempt at a professional tone didn’t quite mask the strain in his voice.
I quickly pulled an art book from the shelf without looking and tucked it under my arm. “Just rebuilding my collection since everything’s in storage.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have to make pity purchases.”
“It’s not pity.” I raised my chin as I pulled another random book from the shelf. “I actually need these. The gallery’s reference library is…lacking.”
That was partly true. The gallery needed updating. But we both knew I was buying more books than necessary when I added two more books to those under my arm. I made my way to the counter and pulled out my credit card.
The muscle in Mason’s jaw twitched, but he rang up the sale without further comment.
Wind rattled the shop’s windows as I left, carrying my carefully bagged purchases. The sky had turned an ominous dark gray, and the air held that musky tang that preceded a major storm. My stomach clenched as I thought of Mason. He’d always hated storms. And with good reason.
I spent the afternoon at the gallery, changing exhibits. I removed a show of local Seacliff Cove artists and carefully packed away their paintings. I was disappointing the local artists, but their time was up. I replaced the exhibit with contemporary paintings by reclusive, renowned Seacliff artist Austin Beaumont. Beaumont showed his work exclusively at Coastal Light Gallery, and a new collection would draw sizable crowds from miles around.
I watched the weather deteriorate. By closing, the storm had become a monster, howling in from the Northern California ocean. A brilliant flash of lightning sliced through the storm clouds, casting everything in harsh white light for one breathless moment before the answering thunder arrived—deep and menacing—shaking the building to its foundation.
The mental image hit me like a physical blow: Mason’s parents, their car sliding over a cliff in weather just like this. Mason, twelve years old, waiting for them to come home.
Did storms still trigger panic attacks for Mason? Oh, they hadn’t happened every time it rained. Just those violent thunderstorms that echoed the horrible night of his parents’ accident. Throughout college, he’d explored every avenue for relief: therapy sessions, hypnosis, medications. Nothing had worked like the comfort of my arms. And I’d abandoned him to face those terrors alone, leaving him without the one remedy that seemed to work.
“Merde.” Was he panicking? I grabbed my coat and ran out the door, barely remembering to lock up. Rain stung my face as Isprinted the three blocks to the bookstore. The lights were off in the shop, but a faint glow came from his second-floor windows.
I took the stairs two at a time, my wet, squelching shoes slipping on the treads. “Mason?” My knock echoed in the narrow stairwell. “Mason, are you okay?”
Nothing.
I tried the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. “Mason? I’m coming in.”
The apartment was dark except for a single small lamp, its weak light barely pushing back the shadows. Thunder crashed again, and I heard a whimper from the direction of the couch.
Mason sat curled into himself, rocking slightly, his eyes unfocused. My heart cracked. In my imagination, he was twelve years old again, waiting for parents who would never come home.
I flipped on every light I could find, chasing away the darkness. Then I sat beside him and pulled him into my arms. He was shaking, his skin cold and clammy.
“I’m here. You’re safe,” I murmured.
His breathing was too fast, too shallow. I remembered how to help from all those storms during college. “Breathe with me, mon coeur. Deep breaths. In…out…in…out.…”
Slowly, his breathing steadied. His rigid muscles began to relax. When another thunderclap rattled the windows, he flinched but didn’t retreat into himself.
“I know I shouldn’t be here,” I said softly, though I made no move to let him go. “But I remembered how difficult storms are for you.”
“I’m fine now.” His voice was hoarse, clogged with emotion. “You can go.”
He pulled away, and I let him, though everything in me protested. That’s when I noticed the stacks of books on the coffee table. First editions, their spines pristine, their dust jacketscarefully preserved. I recognized many of them—I’d been with him when he bought the books, watched him handle them with reverence.
