All I Ever Wanted: Of Love and Madness, Book Three

by Cimms, Karen

  It was also Billy. It was as if he’d walked up behind her. And for a second, she wanted to turn and find him there.

  She set the soap back on the display and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. The faint scent of lemongrass lingered on her fingers.

  “Did you want the soap?” the clerk asked.

  “Just that one.” She pointed at the orange-scented soap.

  She’d been able to keep Tom from sharing even one detail about her family, yet just an innocent whiff of Billy’s signature scent had set memories flying at her like bats from a cave.

  She paid for her groceries, climbed into the car, and sat in the parking lot, her fingertips pressed to her nose. The lights inside the store began to flicker off. The scent was barely noticeable. It might even fade before she got home. If not, she could just wash it off.

  She unbuckled her seat belt and bolted across the street. The bell above the door clanged.

  “I changed my mind.” She grabbed the bar of lemongrass soap and set it in front of the register.

  “I’ve already begun closing out—”

  “Please?” She swept up the remaining three bars.

  It was crazy. Stupid. She was trying to escape the memories, not crawl inside them. Walk away, Kate. Get back in the car and get the hell out of here.

  But no. She pushed the soap forward. “All of them.”

  * * *

  Kate unwrapped a bar of soap and put it in a fancy dish in the bathroom. She did the same with a second one, setting it on the nightstand next to her bed. The other two she wrapped carefully in tissue paper and tucked them away in the linen closet.

  Later that night, she lay awake, faint traces of lemongrass wafting up from the nightstand. She reached out in the darkness for the soap and held it beneath her nose, then she rubbed the corner of it on her pillow. She dropped the soap back into the dish, cradled the pillow in her arms, and drifted off to sleep on a cloud of painful, sweet-scented memories.

  Chapter Twelve

  That afternoon’s session with Liz had been one of the harder ones. Kate had talked about growing up with Joey and how difficult it was to lose him. And then, with everything that happened so soon after his death, she had shut down and never gave herself the time to grieve him properly.

  They had also spoken about why she no longer listened to music. That was simple. It was too painful. Music stirred up far too many memories. Silence was infinitely preferable. Silence let her hear the sounds of the birds gathered at her feeder or nestled in the thick hedge of rosa rugosa lining her patio. She could hear the patter of the rain on the roof and the lapping of the ocean on the cove.

  And of course there was Charlie. So silence? Not so much.

  After a dinner of cold fried chicken and pasta salad, she poured herself a glass of wine. It was only the second glass from the bottle she’d bought a few days earlier, proof that despite those last few months in Belleville and her first few weeks in Maine, she hadn’t turned into a raging alcoholic. She sat on the deck, rocking and watching the tide come in as the sun set behind her and evening nestled into place.

  She sipped and rocked, distracted only by the distant rumble of a motorcycle as it grew closer. Too close, in fact. The usual fears galloped back, along with a gnawing sense of frustration at her weakness. She darted inside and peeked through the dining room window. There was indeed a motorcycle in her driveway.

  Charlie went ballistic with the first knock.

  “Who is it?” she called, swallowing the fear in her voice.

  “Shane.”

  The tension unfurled as she unbolted the door and pulled it open.

  “That’s new.” She tipped her chin toward the neon-green crotch rocket in her driveway.

  “It’s my dad’s. Want to go for a ride?”

  He had to be kidding! “Thanks, but no thanks. Those things scare the daylights out of me.”

  “C’mon. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Pass.”

  He grinned at the bike and then at her. “I came to pick up your list. I’ll do your shopping tomorrow after class.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, where he handed her a plastic grocery sack.

  “What’s this?” She opened the bag and jumped. “Jesus Christ!”

  Startled, he took a peek. “Cool. Lobsters.”

  “You handed them to me!”

  “It was hanging on your doorknob.”

  She set the bag in the sink and hooked a thumb toward Harold’s house. “My neighbor.”

  “So the old curmudgeon’s back.”

  “That would be him.” She handed Shane the shopping list. “I have another job for you when you can get to it. I’d like a storm door put on the front. A good solid one with a heavy lock.”

  “No problem. Pick one out online and order from Home Depot. They’ll deliver it, since I don’t have any way to get it here, and then I’ll put it on for you.”

  “Can’t. I don’t have internet.”

  He looked gobsmacked. “You’re kidding. How do you check email and stuff?”

  “I don’t have email and stuff.”

  “Seriously? Even my grandmother has internet.”

  “Seriously.” She grimaced as the bag thumped against the inside of her stainless steel sink. “So, my door? Find something good and solid, and let me know how much. I’ll give you the cash, and you can order it and have it delivered. Please?”

  He stretched out his hands and mimicked riding the bike. “Maybe I’ll head over now—vroom, vroom—and check ’em out.” He tucked the list into his back pocket. “I’ll call you later and let you know how much.”

  Before he left, he gave her one last chance to go for a ride. “You don’t even need a helmet,” he added, as if that would sell her on risking her life.

  “Thanks, but no.”

  She closed the door and turned the dead bolts. Then she stowed the lobsters in the refrigerator. First thing in the morning, they were going for a swim.

  * * *

  A few days later, Kate heard a muffled knock on the new storm door. She peeked out the kitchen window. Harold stood on the front steps, holding another bag.

  She opened the door and unlocked the storm door. As taciturn as ever, he shoved the bag into her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said with abundant patience, “but like I told you, I don’t eat lobster.”

  “Who said it’s a lobster?” He turned neatly and headed down the steps.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” She carefully opened the bag. Sure enough, there were two lobsters inside. This was getting ridiculous. “Harold!”

  He marched back, reached into the front pocket of his checked shirt, and pulled out a small index card. “Here’s my grandmother’s recipe for lobster bisque. It’s an award winner.” He handed her the card and stomped down the steps.

  Before she could remind him again that she didn’t eat lobster, he stopped and faced her, squinting against the morning sun. “Funniest thing happened. I pulled a lobster from my trap this morning, and he was already wearing one of my bands. Fancy that! I assume he’s an old friend of yours?”

  He gave a little wave as he left, laughing all the way.

  What were the odds? She stared after him until the movement of the bag demanded her attention. Her “friends” were getting antsy. She carried the bag into the kitchen and set it in the sink. The recipe Harold had given her seemed easy enough, other than cooking the lobster.

  “How does that go again? Stick them in head first so you don’t hear them scream?”

  The thought alone was enough to make her march down to the dock and let them go, except the tide was out, and it would be hours before she could set them free.

  “When in Rome,” she muttered as she pulled out Joey’s lobster pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove to boil. If he could boil a lobster, she sure as hell could. She imagined him looking down at her, laughing, and enjoying her discomfort. Or maybe he was cheering her on, reveling in her
pushing herself beyond her comfort level, which was exactly what she was about to do.

  Later that day, she stood nervously on Harold’s front steps, holding a large plastic container of lobster bisque. She knocked. When he didn’t answer, she rang the bell. It took everything she had to not run back to her house. She waited a few moments, then rang it again.

  A gruff voice called from deep inside. “Coming!”

  When Harold opened the door, he didn’t seem surprised, although he was a bit disheveled.

  “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

  He scrunched his face as his hand rose to smooth the ruffled hair at the back of his head. “No.”

  She didn’t believe him. What was she doing here bothering this man, anyway? It’s not like she wanted to encourage any sort of relationship. This was a stupid idea. Just give him the soup and go already!

  “I, um, I made your mother’s bisque.” She handed him the container. “I added a few touches of my own. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind? My mother was a terrible cook. I gave you my grandmother’s recipe.”

  She resisted rolling her eyes. Was he always this cantankerous? “Right. Sorry. Anyway. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The door closed with a snap.

  “Well,” she said. “Alrighty then.”

  * * *

  Harold was back a couple of days later with the empty container and another bag. He was making it difficult to live as a hermit.

  “I told you,” she said, trying not to sound rude, although maybe that’s what was needed, “I don’t eat lobster.”

  “You ate the soup.”

  “I tasted it, that’s all.”

  “Your loss.” He thrust the bag at her.

  “Harold, really. This is very nice, but I don’t eat lobster.”

  “Who said it’s lobster?” His pale blue eyes sparkled.

  “I’m not falling for that again.”

  “Suit yourself.” He pulled a folded slip of paper from his shirt pocket, handed it to her, and stalked across the lawn.

  She peeked in the bag. Clams. And a recipe for clam chowder.

  A few hours and one trip to Gehring’s later, she had a large pot of clam chowder simmering on the stove. The initial stink the clams created in the kitchen had evaporated into a rich, heady aroma, but she still wasn’t inclined to taste more than what she collected on the tip of her pinky. Still, like the bisque, it was pretty tasty. When it cooled, she ladled it into plastic containers and stashed one in the freezer for when Tom came to visit. The rest she took to Harold.

  “Here you go,” she said when he opened his front door. “Again, thank you.”

  “Is it as good as the lobster bisque?”

  She tried to look stern, not wanting to encourage him in any way, but she smiled anyway. “I guess. I only tried a little. Thank you again for your generosity, but it’s a waste of money. I don’t eat clams either.”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t buy them. I rake my own. Those clams in there come from your own back yard.”

  “Really?” It was a novel concept to her, but it didn’t make eating them any more enticing.

  “Want to come in?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. I have to get back.”

  “Why?”

  She gave him a blank stare. Why? She couldn’t think of a logical thing to say. She just shook her head again. “Thanks, but I have to go.”

  Back at home, she locked and bolted the door behind her. Even though some days, it was difficult to remember exactly why.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Early morning. The forest dressed in shades of brown and gray, dense with scrub oak and mountain laurel. The leaves curled in on themselves against the frost. The cold air burned her lungs. Mist hung from the trees and each branch. Each blade of dead grass was encrusted with crystals, the icy beauty melting at the softest touch.

  Silence, save for the crunch of leaves and branches along the narrow path. Birds kept to their nests, stealing a few precious moments of predawn slumber.

  She was not dressed for hiking. Bony fingers of the dormant forest snagged and tore at her wedding gown. Shivering against the cold, she pulled her cloak tighter and pushed forward, her vision hampered by a fog so thick she could feel it, until she came to a clearing.

  In the gloomy distance lay a field, rough and rugged, yet starkly beautiful. She made her way toward a cluster of boulders, dotted with lichens and surrounded by brush, and sat on the smallest of the great rocks. Her ankles were scratched and bloodied from the narrow path. Her feet were bare and dirty. She smoothed the dress beneath her fingers, gingerly touching the puckers and snags. Dirt stained the frayed and tattered hem.

  The forest began to wake. Squirrels and field mice skittered among the dead leaves. Birds chirped in the wood. Their vocalizations grew louder, and the topmost branches swayed.

  The mist shifted, and a stark, dark mass of crows became visible. Their cacophony swelled. A murder of crows, they swarmed the clearing, picking at the ground, anxious to see what the earth offered up for their morning meal.

  There was a rush of movement on the far side of the clearing. Frightened, she slipped from her perch and hid behind a tall boulder. Two figures approached, shrouded in the swirling mist, and stood at the far edge of the clearing. The crows lifted from the field. Moving as one, they settled in the trees. Branches came alive, swaying and writhing, black as night.

  A fierce roar shook the ground, and she grasped the cold, rough stone to keep from falling. A foul stench filled her nostrils. The roar came again. The tang of burning hair and flesh hung in the air. She covered her nose with her cloak, fighting waves of nausea.

  She crouched behind the rock and peered around it. A monstrous creature moved toward her, breathing great plumes of fire. Its body was blackened and scorched. Blood seeped from open sores. Its face was terrifying, with great, sharp teeth and eyes like burning embers. The dried grasses around the field burst into small fires as it moved, and the clearing, so peaceful moments before, was nearly aflame.

  “Grendel!” a voice boomed. The monster turned.

  Three riders sat on horseback. The one who had called to the creature rode into the clearing on a great black steed. Dressed in medieval armor of chain mail and leather, he wore a breastplate of molded metal and on his head, a helmet of beaten gold. His hair, golden as well, hung long past his shoulders.

  The monster swung its great head and stalked toward the rider, who leaped from his mount, pulling out a great longsword.

  Grendel? She peeked out from behind the boulder. Beowulf?

  The grunts and sounds of mayhem shook her. She winced at the dull thud of metal hitting bone. The monster screamed and lunged. The fighter moved from its path and struck again, driving his sword deep.

  She should run. Back to the woods and away. But she was frozen with fear, powerless. She closed her eyes and prayed, until with a great, loud grunt, the fighting stopped. She drew tighter into herself, her head buried in her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs.

  The beat of hooves grew nearer. The rider dismounted.

  “Come.”

  She lifted her head and opened her eyes. He towered over her, and the sun hanging behind him cast his face in shadow. He reached for her hand. Believing she had no choice but to go, she raised her hand, unsure if she could stand on her own. He clasped his large hand around hers and led her to the horse. Then he lifted her into the saddle with ease and swung up behind her. He slipped off the helmet, handed it to her, and closed his arms around her, holding her in place. He made a clucking nose, and the horse began to move. She tried to see his face but saw nothing but golden strands of hair lifted by the breeze.

  “Billy?”

  “Shh.”

  They rode from the clearing, passing his two companions. They, too, seemed familiar, but when she looked, they had disappeared. On the far edge of the clearing, the two figures were also gone. As was the mons
ter.

  “Is it dead?”

  “No,” he answered. “Not yet.”

  * * *

  Kate stirred, lost in that place between sleep and wakefulness. She fought opening her eyes. Despite what had begun as a nightmare, she felt safe as she slipped from one plane to the next. The feeling of strong arms still surrounded her. If she opened her eyes and pulled back the veil, he would disappear.

  She buried her face in her pillow and let the familiar scent of lemongrass carry her safely back to sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I blame Beowulf.”

  Kate sat in Liz’s office. She’d had the same dream several times, enough that it was clear it was time to dissect it and figure out if there was a message in there somewhere. Beowulf had to be the key.

  “I had to read it in college, and I’d been struggling with it. I think I was just so unhappy at the time that it was difficult to concentrate. It was the weekend I met Billy, and I had a test on the book that Monday. I did okay, I think. I can’t really remember. But I had mentioned the book to him, and he raved about it. My parents were upset that I hadn’t gotten a better grade, so I promised to reread it. I dropped out soon after, so it didn’t matter.”

  Liz appeared to be confused by her ramblings.

  “I came across Beowulf on a shelf a couple of weeks ago and figured I’d give it another try. I had begun reading it the first night I had that dream. When I pictured the characters in my head, I saw Billy as Beowulf.” Might as well fess up. “And if you must know, he’s also been Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, Edward Rochester in Jane Eyre, and a blond Jamie Fraser in “Outlander.” She ticked off the list of book boyfriends on her fingers. “You get the picture.”