by Grey, Shanon
Morgan bounded up, hauling deep gulps of air into her lungs. Perspiration ran down her face and between her breasts. She turned on the light and blinked to adjust. She scanned the room. Nothing. It was a dream. She was in her own bed, in her own apartment. But, that…that thing. It was huge. It had to be as big as she was. Was it a Gulatega? In her dreams, it had never appeared so large. Evil. It felt evil. In her dreams, she’d been frightened, but because it was unknown. The dream in itself had never felt evil—until now.
She pushed herself off the bed, trudged into the bathroom and turned on the lights. Her face was flushed. Her skin glowed pink, as though she’d been sunburned. She felt her forehead. Was she coming down with a fever? Definitely clammy, but no fever. Just to be on the safe side, she grabbed a couple of acetaminophen and washed them down with cold water from the tap. As she closed the medicine cabinet door, her eyes reflected back at her in the mirror. They had deepened to a dark green, almost black. She dropped the plastic cup. It rolled around inside the edge of the bowl before settling over the drain. She blinked. Slowly her eyes returned to their brilliant emerald shade. She returned to bed but lay staring into the lighted room until day broke. She got up grateful not to have fallen asleep again.
Knowing Jenn would be up and about, Morgan went in search of her phone. She was exhausted. How Jenn could go on so little sleep baffled her. Somehow, she did and it worked.
“Wow, I was just thinking about you.” Jenn’s jovial greeting never failed to make her smile.
“I’m in town,” Morgan stated simply. It was met with silence.
“I got in last night.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Jenn’s voice was low, careful.
“Yeah, I do, but not over the phone. I needed to get away for a while.”
“How far away?” Jenn’s voice sounded more chipper.
“Why?”
“Well, I was just looking at my schedule. With Meadow doing so well, I was thinking of coming down to see you. But, since you’re here…how about…” she drew it out, “we get away for a girls vacation? Spend some time together. Really catch up.”
“Really? You mean it?” It had been years since they’d done that. One or the other was always working. They had such fun together. It would give her a chance to fill Jenn in and maybe, just maybe, work out her thoughts and feelings about Dorian, and everything else, at the same time.
“Yep. I just inked you in. Not penciled, mind you, but with indelible ink.”
“Well, I’ll repack,” Morgan found herself laughing. “I’m going over to my parent’s for breakfast, and then I’ll meet you at your place, say, around eleven. Will that do?”
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”
“Nope. Surprise me,” she said and ended the call laughing.
****
As Morgan wound down the curving driveway to the home she’d grown up in, she felt a sense of relief, of welcome. This remained familiar. Nestled on two acres in the rolling hills just outside Williamsburg, the house was the classic Williamsburg cottage—a gabled, deep roofed, white clapboard, with twin brick fireplaces hugging either end. Built just after the Civil War, its bones were good. Her parents had covered the front steps with a small porch when she was in her teens. Her mother had complained about getting rain in the house for years. They’d studied many historical designs and finally found one in keeping with the classic architecture. They even had the classic picket fence and the customary garden in the back. Funny, Morgan thought, the garden had a similarity to the one behind the shop.
She climbed out of the car and looked over at the house. Her upstairs bedroom was on the end closest to the drive. One of the gables held the window seat where she’d sat on winter days, looking out at light dustings of snow and reading romance novels. Dorian’s image played across her mind. He would make one hell of a hero.
Her gaze caught the narrow windows on either side of the fireplace. In her room, they fit perfectly on either side of her bed. On nights when her parents had that fireplace going, her bed was warm and toasty. She saw a flicker of movement. Her mom waved from the window. Morgan waved back and headed toward the house.
The door flew open before she could touch the handle. Becky pulled her inside and into strong, soft arms. Morgan closed her eyes and sank into her mother’s embrace, hugging her tight. She inhaled the scent that was mom—warm vanilla with a hint of spice. She was never sure if her mother smelled so good from cooking and crafting or if she actually got it from a bottle. Over the years, Morgan had given her many scents. Okay, mostly experiments Morgan was dying to try out, but her mother always accepted them and immediately would touch pulse points. Funny, Morgan couldn’t remember her smelling of anything other than vanilla and spice.
Becky slowly stepped back, letting her hands run down Morgan’s arms until they were holding hands. Morgan blinked and her breath hitched as she looked at her mother’s aura. Her mother glowed. Spikes of color pulsed around her mother, just as it had around Meadow. She could hear her mother commenting but Morgan concentrated on the aura. It was vibrant and sharp, except for a small whitish area around her abdomen. Morgan remembered the hysterectomy. She held on to her mother’s hands a moment longer, taking one last scan before she released the grasp.
“You’re looking great, Mom,” she said, closed her eyes and stepped away. When she opened her eyes, her mother’s image had returned to normal, but she had a look about her eyes. She started to say something.
“Hey, don’t I get a turn?” Talbot grabbed Morgan in a bear hug. She slipped her arms around him and closed her eyes. He wore Old Spice. She would forever think of her father and Old Spice. She held on to his hand, stepped back and looked him up and down. His aura wasn’t as vibrant as her mother’s, but she’d never studied a man’s before. Its pulse was a little off as well. That scared her. His heart? She didn’t see anything murky or had any “feelings” like she’d had with Meadow. She rose on tiptoe and planted a kiss on the cheek. His skin felt warm and soft from his morning shave. She blinked and stepped back.
Her mother was watching her. She never missed a trick, Morgan realized.
“You feeling okay, Dad?” She asked, having smiled meekly at her mom.
“Funny, you should mention it. The doc changed my cholesterol medicine last week. I’ve been feeling a little off this week.”
She relaxed. “Well, you’d better call him. You know some people react differently to some of those. I thought you were doing great on the one you were taking.” It was more of a question than a comment.
Becky led them back into the kitchen. “You know how they are…” She pulled a pan of muffins out of the oven. “Still warm,” she said more to herself and brought them to the table in the bay window. Then she looked at Morgan, “Those doctors now have it in their collective heads that cholesterol should be even lower.” She waved Morgan into her seat, returned to the stove, gave the perfectly scrambled eggs a quick stir, dished them up and brought the steaming plate to the table. “Let’s eat,” she proclaimed and sat down. They took hands and closed their eyes in the blessing they’d said since before she could talk.
She inhaled. God, it smelled like home. She felt tears well up.
“Stop that.” Becky patted her hand. “You’re home now.”
“Eat,” her dad said, loading eggs onto his plate.
She glanced at her mother.
“I’ve put one yellow per two whites. I’m doing my part.”
Morgan smiled and picked up the crisp bacon.
“You seem different,” Becky commented.
The bacon broke between her fingers and fell to the plate. She looked at her mother, who innocently took a bite of eggs and purposefully didn’t look at her.
“A little, maybe,” she said.
“You love him?” Talbot slathered butter on a muffin. Becky took it away and handed him another one, unbuttered. He glared at her, or what appeared to be a glare, then nodded and smiled.
>
Their dynamics never changed. Morgan loved that about them. Her throat felt tight.
“I asked you a question.” Talbot said softly.
Morgan took a breath and let it out. “I don’t know. Maybe.” She didn’t know. Desire him? Definitely. Respect? Absolutely. Trust? Love? Those questions were harder.
“Well, something’s changed,” Becky smiled at her.
Morgan wondered if she was blushing. “A lot has happened.”
Her mother reached over and took her hand, squeezed and let go. “I know, honey. It’s been, what, a month? A lot can happen in a month.” She cocked her head and studied her daughter. “But it’s something else. You seem more confident. Your eyes are sparkling.”
Morgan looked down. Her mom reached over and lifted her chin. “Hey, it’s us.” She smiled at her daughter. “I meant they looked brighter, happy.”
She smiled back and grabbed the last muffin. “Last muffin!” she announced and bit into it. A rule of the house since she could remember—stemming from her dad finishing off her mom’s favorite snack, without leaving her a bite—demanded the pronouncement that the last item was taken, eaten, or whatever. She even did it alone. She wondered if she would pass that tradition to her own family.
“The airport was chaotic, both in Atlanta and here. I did buy sunglasses in Atlanta. You know, you’d think I’d have thought of that years ago.”
“You tried once. You said they made things look funny.”
“They do. But, that’s not nearly as bad as having people stare at me. It’s been so different being in Ruthorford. I guess because Melissa lived there and people were used to her…nobody pays any attention to my differences. It’s rather nice.”
“So you’re going back?” Morgan could see that her mom was trying not to sound disappointed.
“Yeah, I think I have to.” She took a last sip of coffee, dabbed her lips, and sat back. “Wow. That was fabulous.”
Becky stood. “Talbot, you’ve got dish duty. Morgan, come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Morgan brushed a kiss on his cheek and followed her mother upstairs.
She followed her mother into the guestroom opposite hers. It’d been converted into a workroom or studio. “Wow. This is fabulous.”
“Your dad did this for me. It only took him three weeks, once he got started. He said he got tired of having my stuff all over the kitchen table.”
“Yeah, but he’s going to miss being able to harass you.” Morgan walked around the room. A long worktable covered the center of the room. One wall had shelves and those shelves had drawers with clear fronts, so Becky could see her supplies. On the end, between the small windows, instead of a bed was a sewing table, forming an L along another wall to the dormer. It held a sewing machine on one end and an embroidery machine on the other. The large dormer had shelves on either side, with fabrics lying neatly stacked. The lighting had been upgraded as well.
As she watched, her mother pulled the door closed a bit. Behind it was a recliner, a side table and a light. She saw her father’s glasses sitting on the table. She shook her head. “Next, you’ll have him crafting.”
“Well, he does help me cut out patterns, now and again.” She laughed. “He just looked so damned uncomfortable sitting on a stool across from me.”
“It’s great, Mom. You should have done this years ago.”
“Years ago, this was our only guest room.”
Morgan swung around and looked toward her bedroom. She walked slowly toward the room where’d she’d grown-up. She let out a sigh of relief. Other than a new quilt in a beautiful fall motif, it still felt like her room. Of course, she’d never been one to junk up her space with the latest teen fads. Other than the princess canopy bed she’d had until she was thirteen, she’d always loved decorating, following in her mother’s steps.
Becky followed her daughter into her bedroom. “Honey, this will always be your room. You never were a messy child. I could vacuum, dust and make the bed and, voila, a guest room.” She put her arm around her daughter and squeezed. “Anytime, Pumpkin, you know that.”
“Thanks, Mom.” She turned and hugged her mother. “I love you.”
“Me, too, Pumpkin. Me, too.”
Morgan bounded back down the stairs. “Look, guys,” she included her father, wiping his big hands on a dishtowel. “Jenn and I are going to go away for a few days. Put our heads back on straight.”
“Jenn called. She apologized for taking you away. I told her to promise to join us for dinner when you get back and all’s forgiven. She wanted to know if we still had the hiking sticks your Dad made for you two.” Becky pointed to the corner by the stairs. Two five-foot limbs, carved, stained and polished, each with initials in it, stood in the corner.”
“Oh wow!” She walked over and picked hers up. “I haven’t thought about these in years.”
“Where’re you headed?” Talbot asked.
“She’s going to surprise me. But wherever it is, I gather we’ll do some hiking.” The tradition had started in their sophomore year, when Jenn had come home with Morgan on fall break. At first, it was small walks around the wooded property. With each trip home, the hikes got longer and further afield. Her father had given them matching walking sticks for Christmas the next year.
Morgan looked at her watch. “Yikes, I’m supposed to be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Wait,” Becky walked to the kitchen. “I packed some sandwiches and stuff.” She walked out with a real picnic basket.
Morgan shook her head. “I should have figured.”
She threw her arms around her mom and dad. “It’s great to be home. I’ve missed you.”
“We’ve missed you.”
“Dorian called, by the way,” her Dad said, almost hesitantly.
“He did?” Morgan felt her pulse jump and tried to appear nonchalant.
“What’d he want?”
“He’d like you to call him, for one. But, he also called to mention the stuff about Rob.”
Morgan heard the edge in her father’s voice when he said the name. “Apparently, the old boy has left the university and dropped off the radar.”
Morgan’s interest peaked. “Wow. I would never have thought him capable of robbery.”
Becky rubbed her hand down Morgan’s arm. “I’m glad you’re getting away. You girls be careful.”
“We will. Love you guys.”
****
Morgan pulled into the parking lot as Jenn loaded her bags into the large black Chevy Tahoe. Morgan whipped in beside her, opened the back door and brandished the hiking sticks.
Jenn grinned and held out her hand. “They found them.”
“Of course.” Morgan handed them over, hugged her friend, and pulled out her bag and the picnic basket.
“I do love your mother,” Jenn said and took the basket, inching up the lid to peek inside.
“Need a pit stop or are you ready to go?”
“I’m good. Where’re we headed?”
“Turns out, Uncle Mike has a cabin on Gwynn Island.”
Morgan finished wrestling her suitcase next to Jenn’s and turned to look at her friend.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in sunglasses,” Jenn commented. “It’s weird.”
“Weirder then my eyes?”
“I don’t think your eyes are weird. They’re you.”
“Thanks. Back to Gwynn Island.” She and Jenn had found the small Virginia island, located in the Chesapeake Bay off Mathews County, when they had taken off exploring one weekend during college. They loved it and used to fantasize about owning one of the little cabins that dotted the island. She wondered which one of those belonged to Dr. Yancy.
“Oh, yeah. He and I have had a chance to talk. Boy, have I got a lot to tell you.”
They climbed into the Tahoe and pulled out. Morgan yawned. Without looking Jenn spoke, “You look beat. Why don’t you nap? If you haven’t awakened by the time we arrive, I’ll get
you up. Or, maybe not. I could let you sleep and eat all the great stuff your mom packed.”
“No you won’t,” she laughed. “Mom made enough to feed an army. I think I will take a nap. I didn’t sleep well.”
“Nightmare?”
Morgan nodded, leaned back and closed her eyes. Jenn watched as she began to snore softly. Quietly fishing the phone out of her pocket, she dialed, and then spoke softly into the phone, “I’ve got her.” She clicked off.
Chapter Fourteen
Morgan and Jenn sat in Adirondack chairs they’d lugged down to the pier. Having finished off the cranberry chicken sandwich and her mom’s incredible potato salad—the best Morgan had ever tasted—they now sat, Merlot in hand, watching a spectacular sunset. Come morning, if they pivoted the heavy chairs 180 degrees, they would be enjoying a spectacular sunrise. They figured this was why Uncle Mike, as Morgan was beginning to think of him, had chosen this site for his cabin.
It definitely wasn’t one of the ones they’d spied years back. This cabin was rustic as done by an architect—wonderfully appointed kitchen and baths, beautiful furnishings. The only thing truly rustic in the whole place was the wide plank flooring. It appeared the Abbott House paid very well indeed.
“So,” Jenn was saying, “little did I know that when they took me out of that flea ridden hole they called a school and plunked me down in Virginia to room with you, it was intentional.”
