Beauty from Ashes: Authors & Dancers Against Cancer Anthology

by Vera Quinn

  “As above, so below. As within, so without. Magick mend and fire remedy—”

  She put her finger on his lips.

  “I swear my love to you for all eternity.” The fire flared as Cosette kissed him deeply. “So mote it be.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Ruth A. Casie is a USA Today bestselling author of historical fantasy and contemporary romance. She weaves exciting and beautifully told legendary tales that are both rich and engaging. Her stories are full of, ‘edge of your seat’ suspense, mind-boggling drama and a forever-after romance. For more information, please visit www.RuthACasie.com or visit her on Facebook, @RuthACasie, Twitter, @RuthACasie, or Instagram RuthACasie.

  A Dance for Lily Rose

  Aliya Dalrae

  Prologue

  Fat drops of rain rolled to the pointed metal tips of the umbrella hovering over me. I watched as they fell in slow motion to join their brothers and sisters in the pond-sized puddle collecting at my feet.

  I don’t know where it came from, the umbrella. One minute the rain mingled on my cheeks with the salty tears I’d come to think of as constant companions. The next, the path of the rain was averted, and the tears were left to trail on their own down the angles of my face. It was okay, though. All would eventually meet up in that puddle on the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Why not tears to rain?

  The crowd that had gathered beneath the tent was long gone, including the funeral director and his assistant. They’d run to their cars the minute the final amen was spoken. Someone tried to steer me to the waiting limo, but I couldn’t make my feet move. Not yet. I wasn’t ready.

  A shiny mahogany casket, protected from the rain by the recycled green tent, sat alone on its platform, a blanket of flowers warming its top. With the gilded hinges and brass handles, it really was beautiful, but I doubted I’d ever be able to stomach the sickening sweet scent of roses ever again.

  My entire world lay beneath the lid of all that bright and shiny. Twenty years of my life would in moments be buried in the ground with the husk of the man I’d loved for more than half my life.

  He loved the rain, my Max, would stand at the windows during the worst storms to watch the lightning and whoop at the clap of thunder that followed.

  “Did you hear that, Vivi? That was a close one!”

  Inevitably, I’d be on the sofa reading, or at the computer catching up with current events or social media. “Get away from that window, you goofball. That thing blows up, you’ll be cut to ribbons.”

  But he never moved. He just muted the television, turned off all the lamps and watched the light show nature provided for his viewing pleasure, and his alone. Another clap of thunder, and he’d turn to me, his chocolate eyes sparkling despite the darkened room.

  Even now, if I squinted my eyes, the casket would disappear and I could see him standing just over there, basking in the thrill of the storm swirling around us. Tall and lean, with a shock of dark hair that never laid quite right, he would smile at me and say, “Isn’t it beautiful, Vivi? How could anyone not love a rainy day?”

  The sound of thunder rumbling in the distance pulled me from the memory. When I blinked, I was back at the cemetery, my immortal beloved no longer laughing, just a few feet away but laid out in a long box. All those lean muscles would soon be nothing but dry, withered flesh, and every rainstorm, every flash of lightning or clap of thunder would be a bitter reminder that my heart was buried in that casket with him.

  “Vivian?”

  I heard the voice, but whatever magic held me to this spot prevented me from responding. If I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the existence of anyone else, then maybe, just maybe, this would all be a dream. Maybe I would wake up and Max would be there, lying beside me with sleep in his eyes and a wicked grin on his beautiful lips. He would pull me into his arms, and—

  “Vivian, come on. You’ll catch your death.”

  I glanced up, surprised to see my mother there holding the mysterious umbrella. I could have sworn she’d left with Abby and Bill, my sister and her accountant husband.

  “Standing out here in the weather ain’t gonna bring your man back,” she said. “Trust me, I know.”

  And she did. Daddy died just over a year ago, and I marveled every day at my mother’s resilience. At seventy-five, she got up every day, showered, put on makeup, and prepared to face the day. She had a full calendar, one to put a teenager’s to shame, and though I knew she missed my father fiercely, she never let his death stop her from living her life.

  I honestly couldn’t comprehend how she managed it. From the moment I received the call—There’s been an accident—I’d been incapable of rational thought. The fact that I stood here, five days later, in a properly somber dress and comfortable shoes, was more a testament to my mother than to myself. Had it been left up to me, I’d be at home, in my pajamas, watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island on MeTV. Max loved Gilligan’s Island.

  The umbrella disappeared, and I felt myself being pulled into comforting arms, my mother’s arms, and I let myself go. The tears that had flowed fine on their own, now fell as if from a bursting dam, heavy and warm. I buried my face in my mother’s hair and let them come, wrapping my arms around the strongest woman I had ever known. I allowed myself to absorb that strength, the comfort that only she could give.

  Minutes passed, maybe hours, the both of us standing in the rain, holding each other, missing our men. Then my mother pulled away and held me at arm’s length, studied me from head to toe and said, “All right then, you’ve had your cry. Everyone’s at the church waiting for you.”

  She grabbed my arm and led me to the waiting sedan. I glanced over my shoulder, took one last look at the container that would soon be surrounded with concrete and dirt. A shiny brown box that would hold my love for eternity, while I was left with empty arms and a hole in my chest where my heart had once lived.

  I felt a tug on my arm and allowed myself to be pulled away from the only man I had ever loved.

  Chapter One

  It was hard to believe a month had passed since that horrible day. The first week was filled with preparations and planning, the funeral, the grave site, choosing a headstone, finding the important papers we would need for all the above.

  Max and I weren’t planners, not by a long shot. We were both on the cusp of forty, should have had half our lives in front of us, so we hadn’t bothered to organize anything “just in case.” Sure, we had a will, but we’d done it on a lark right after we got married.

  It was just the two of us, as the powers-that-be hadn’t seen fit to bless us with a family of our own. We tried for years to have a child, but the fourth loss, a stillborn at thirty-five weeks, nearly destroyed us. We held that tiny little body in our arms—a precious little girl who had ten fingers, ten toes and her father’s eyes, perfect in every way, except for the missing heartbeat and the here-I-am cry. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go through that again. Max either, but he was my rock.

  The losses took their toll on him as much as they did me. He tried to hide it, to be strong for me because he knew I was heartbroken. I heard him in the garage on more than one occasion, though, sobbing, bearing his grief alone so as not to burden me with it. It was wrong and selfish, but I knew as well as he did that I was in no position to comfort him. I barely held on the way it was.

  And so he carried the both of us, suffered in silence, and reminded me of all I had to live for. Of how full our lives were despite the absence of little feet pitter-pattering on our condo’s hardwood floors. It took time, several years’ worth, but eventually we both came out on the other side. We would never be the same—no one who’s lost a child ever was—but we carried a new strength, one that would get us through anything as long as we were together.

  We buried our little girl and put all thoughts of end-of-life planning in the rearview mirror. We took the lives of the children we lost, and we lived those lives for them. Right up until some drunken ass dec
ided to get behind the wheel of his SUV and travel the same roads as my Max.

  Once the flurry of preparations died down, then came the flood of offers from well-meaning family and friends. Let’s have lunch or come shopping with me. The kids have a pageant next week or come see little Rudy’s soccer game. I took most of them up on the offers, anything to get me out of that big, empty condo and away from my morbid thoughts. I can’t say I had a good time, but I had a “time” and it was better than wallowing in my grief.

  But now, even those good-intentioned folks had fallen back into their regular lives, thoughts of me and Max pushed aside by everyday things like making the mortgage payment or parent-teacher conferences. This left me on my own again to deal with the emptiness of my life, however I could.

  I went back to work with the construction management firm I’d joined right out of college. Mostly I worked on bid packages, putting together the information for various contractors to base their proposals upon in hopes of winning the next project in their field of expertise. The guys were glad to have me back, but I would catch them looking at me, that “poor Vivi” cast to their eyes before they realized they’d been caught. Then they would screw a smile on their faces and crack a lewd joke, because that’s what we did, and rush off amidst the awkward laughter.

  My commute was a short one, only twenty minutes or so of suburban driving on a good day. The only slowdown was the K-1 school around the corner from my home. At least a dozen buses merged with parents dropping off their little ones about the time I drove by.

  School had just started, and the weather was still warm, so I wasn’t entirely surprised to see an older gentleman kneeling on the sidewalk at the edge of the school zone, a little girl, maybe three or four, in a stroller next to him. In the brief moment it took to drive past, I watched him pointing at the buses, the child pointing with him and laughing. It made me smile—such a sweet moment in both of their lives. I wished I could tell them the good it did for my heart, seeing their interactions, their simple joy.

  Tail lights flashed in front of me, drawing my attention from the man and the child as I slammed my brakes on and screeched to a stop. My heart pounded in my chest, imagined thoughts of Max and his final moments exploding in my head, erasing any comfort the previous scene had provided.

  A squirrel scampered across the road, doing the scurry-and-stop thing three times before reaching its destination at the base of an old elm tree. The guy in front of me burned rubber, apparently in a hurry to get on with his day and unhappy about his decision to spare the little rodent its life.

  Easing up on the brake pedal, I made my start a bit more thoughtfully as my heart did its best to slow down to an acceptable pace. I understood the value of a life, even that of a nut-gathering rat with a fluffy tail.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the old man had stood and shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand, his other clasped protectively on the stroller’s handlebar.

  Take care of that baby.

  It was an absent thought as I drove away. I was off to fulfill another day of putting one foot in front of the other, of breathing in, then breathing out. Of hoping today would be the day I wouldn’t have to remind myself to do either one.

  Chapter Two

  The following day I found myself anxious to leave for work. I was ready well ahead of time, but for some reason couldn’t bring myself to get in the car and go. I glanced at my watch, which read seven thirty-five at last, grabbed my coat and my laptop and practically ran to the car.

  The school zone traffic was a repeat of the previous day, with buses jockeying for position against suburban moms and dads in their white-collar rides. All of them dodged pedestrian parents who, in my humble opinion, didn’t take enough care in guiding their five- and six-year-olds through the hectic traffic. There was a pulse to it, though, a dance if you will, all choreographed to the point where, despite the chaos, there was a pattern that could be seen as organized if not exactly beautiful.

  I trudged through the twenty-mile-per-hour zone, and there at the end of it, parked on the sidewalk just like the day before, were the old man and little girl. Today they wore identical shirts, white and red horizontal stripes that looked adorable on the child but made the gentleman seem a little silly in a “Where’s Waldo” sort of way. His smile was broad, though, and together they laughed at the bumblebee-like hive of activity taking place before them.

  I wondered who they were, where the man lived and how they had begun this ritual that would one day become a special memory for them both. Perhaps her parents worked, and he had volunteered to babysit while they were off making a living. Or perhaps the father was never in the picture, the mother a drug addict, leaving the girl to be cared for by her loving and devoted grandparents.

  Or maybe—and this was purely possible—maybe he wasn’t her grandfather after all. Maybe the man was her father, born to him and his wife later in life. He could certainly be much younger than he looked, perhaps aged prematurely by life events beyond his control. But now, having taken early retirement from his job at the truck and bus plant, he was able to spend these early morning moments with his precious little girl. He would be able to watch her grow up without the distractions of a job or a schedule.

  I spent the rest of my commute and part of the morning going through all the possible scenarios, the wonderful and the not so pleasant. Whatever the reality, these two people had, in as many mornings, become a beacon of hope for me. Something to look forward to each day, to daydream about, to enjoy.

  That evening, when I got home from work, tired and weary from too many long stares and pitying glances, I walked into the condo with a new purpose.

  Max was everywhere. He was in the curtains I’d sewn when we first moved in. I didn’t realize until they were hung that they were beyond crooked. He’d laughed at my disappointment, insisting that they were perfect and that they never be replaced.

  He was in the case of Labatt Blue that had been pushed to the back of the fridge. It was his favorite beer, and I’d restocked it that day, not knowing, of course, that he would never come home to drink it.

  He was in the living room couch, the one with the saggy springs. He determined we could never replace it because his body had formed an imprint in the cushions and no other sofa would be as comfortable.

  And he was in the bedroom, in the bed where we made love, where we tried so hard to conceive a child that would live beyond my womb.

  He was everywhere.

  I walked to the closet and opened the door. All his things hung neatly on hangers, the slacks on the left just inside the door, shirts next to them, and then sports coats and suit jackets. Shoes were his guilty pleasure, all of them in their original boxes, stacked up like building blocks on the shelf above his clothes.

  Everything was in its proper place, perfectly arranged as Max had left it.

  A wave of rage swept through me, the perfection of the closet a virtual slap in the face against the turmoil of emotions that swept like a cyclone through me, through my life. I picked a box from the stack, opened it, and threw it and its contents—a pair of brown Oxfords—onto the floor. Another box, containing a reddish pair of penny loafers, joined the first on the floor. The next thing I knew, the shelf had been all but cleared, and I was up to my ankles in cardboard, leather and suede.

  The discord stoked my anger, and I reached for the final box tucked in the shelf’s farthest corner. I grabbed hold and yanked it down, thrown off balance by its weightlessness. I landed on the shoe-covered floor in an awkward pile, the feather-light box clutched to my chest.

  Ignoring the toe of the cowboy boot poking my posterior, I lifted the lid from that last box. If I hadn’t been sitting already, I would have ended up on the floor anyway. My vision swam, first from dizziness then blurred through the tears that sprang to my eyes.

  I laid the lid to the side and wiped my eyes on my sleeves to clear away the hallucination I knew I must be experiencing. I closed my eyes and took
a deep breath before opening them again. The box’s contents didn’t change.

  Inside, cradled in a bed of yellowed tissue paper, lay a pair of black toe shoes. My toe shoes.

  I knew they were mine, because I recognized every scuff, knew exactly where each mark came from, which performance, the date. I gently lifted a shoe from the box and looked inside. Sure enough, my initials were scribbled there in faded black marker. VG, Vivian Granger. My maiden name, the name I was born with, the only name I ever danced under.

  But that was a million years ago. I hadn’t danced since my freshman year in college. It was a much simpler time, a year of joy and music, and of course, ballet. My father agreed to let me minor in dance, but only if I majored in something sensible, like business. It seemed like a compromise I could live with, and so I agreed.

  I was good back then. Very good, and my mother was thrilled when I came home with the news that I, a freshman, would be dancing prima ballerina in the winter production of Swan Lake.

  My father’s reaction had been less enthusiastic. “How are your grades?” he’d asked, and I laughed and kissed his cheek.

  “My grades are fine,” I lied, because I wouldn’t let something as silly as a few Ds ruin my happy moment.

  The show was a huge hit. I even had recruits from dance schools as far away as New York asking me to audition. I was flying to the moon and thought nothing would ever top all the wonderful, amazing things filling my life that Christmas.

  I was wrong.

  Before going home for the holidays, I joined some friends at a pre-break Christmas party. I would leave the next morning for two weeks with my family. However, for one more day that year I would hang with my friends, revel in my fame and soak up the accolades they continued to pour upon me.