Page 80 of When You're Gone

‘Now?’ Sketch asks.

I clench my thighs and the bruising inside me twangs, warning me that it will need some time to heal. I shake my head. Disappointment falls over Sketch’s face, but he keeps smiling.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But just so you know, I’m probably going to be thinking about this every waking moment until we do it again.’

I pout. ‘Is there no room for me in your dreams?’

Sketch gathers me into his strong arms and squeezes until crushed air bursts out my open mouth.

‘I’ve been dreaming about you every night for the past eleven years,’ he whispers. ‘And now I know, sometimes dreams come true.’

I allow my full weight to fall onto Sketch, and I lie silent and still, waiting to see if I’m too heavy. Sketch lets out a satisfied groan and nuzzles his head into the crook of my neck. ‘I love you, Annie,’ he whispers sleepily. ‘I always have, and I always will.’

I kiss the top of his head and close my eyes as I replay our lovemaking over in my mind. I savour every wonderful detail the way I do when I finish reading a great book. I’ve read countless books, almost all of them romance. No book ever warned me about how lying on top of my hero with my naked breasts pressed against his firm chest would make me feel. Sure, the words on the page tried, but any books that came close to describing this sensation I dismissed as fiction. Because I truly believed nothing could ever feel this good. This safe. But lying here, in Sketch’s firm grip as night pushes the day away and the stars come out to shine, I allow myself to believe that maybe Sketch is right. Maybe dreams really do come true.

THIRTY-TWO

ANNIE

Time is passing by quickly. Days rush into weeks, weeks blend into months, and I’m spending more and more time at the Talbot farm. The large farmhouse is slowly beginning to feel like home. I’ve established a routine, and without enforcing it, Sketch and his father have come to respect my timetable. They wash up for dinner without me calling them, and Sketch even helps me wrap up leftovers to take home to my mother. And of course, Sketch and I flitter away most afternoons in the orchard. The days we’re not making love, I’m reading and Sketch is painting. Some days, we even have time to do both.

But with spending more time on the farm comes the sacrifice of spending less time with my mother, and I worry about her endlessly. She’s a healthy weight for the first time in years, thanks to the leftovers, but I notice her limping occasionally, and last week, when she sneezed, she was yielding to pain in her chest when she tried to straighten back up. I’ve no doubt her ribs were as black and blue as the autumn sky in Sketch’s latest painting.

My father is crafty. It came as no surprise when I discovered that he traded home-baked goods that I brought from the farm for repair work on his bicycle. It only took a couple of bread-and-butter puddings and a handful of apple tarts to have his bicycle on the road again. With a saddle once again under his bottom, he is home from the pub not long after he downs his last drink. And sometimes, when the farm needs me to work long and hard, he’s home before me.

Sketch understands my worries, and he’s tried to find solutions. He offered to create a job for my mother on the farm, but I know the Talbot farm finances can’t stretch to pay another salary. Pa has already insisted I’m paid generously for any overtime. And besides, my father would never agree to my mother working outside the home. Sketch offered to pick my father up from the pub at night and drive around until he sobers up enough to take home. But Sketch’s mornings can start as early as five a.m. I couldn’t accept his offer; Sketch would be exhausted.

I’m staring out the kitchen window at the leaves on the trees as they turn from a summer green to the golds and browns of autumn, when I feel Sketch’s hands slip around my waist. I squeak and laugh as I squirm away from his messy fingers covered in paint.

‘Wash up, you filthy thing,’ I joke, pointing at the sink full of sudsy water.

Sketch steps around me and dunks his hands into the sink. ‘Open it,’ he says, as the water splashes up to his elbows.

I hurry to help him and reach for the buttons on the sleeve of his shirt that he has rolled halfway up his bicep.

‘Not my button, Annie. The box.’ Sketch tilts his head towards the table behind us.

I turn around and find a rectangular-shaped box waiting in the centre of the table. It’s multi-coloured like a rainbow, and I know straight away Sketch has hand-painted one of the crates from the chicken coop. It’s beautiful. It smells of roses and fresh linen. I roll up onto my tiptoes and peer inside. Bright sky-blue cotton stares back at me.

‘Can I?’ I ask, looking back at Sketch before I dare to touch it.

‘Of course,’ he says, drying his hands off on a towel. ‘It’s for you.’

I reach in and scoop out the material as if I was picking up a newborn baby. A beautiful dress unfolds and the pleats of the skirt fall out and fan around like an open accordion.

‘Is it really for me?’ I bounce excitedly.

Sketch’s eyes twinkle. ‘Yes, Annie. Do you like it?’

‘Like it?’ I hold it up against me, as if I’m wearing it. ‘I love it. Oh, I love it so much. Thank you, Sketch. Thank you.’

I spin on the spot and sway my hips from side to side. The beautiful, full skirt swings with me.

‘It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen in my whole life. How can I ever say thank you enough?’ I gush without taking my eyes off the soft fabric.

‘Say you’ll wear it to the next dance.’

My face falls.

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