One of the gals gave her an empty bottle. Her friend, Lisa, gave her a pen. Clair saw a small card someone had left on a nearby table and she took it. She didn’t need much writing space. Nothing would come of this stunt anyway, she thought, as she wrote her name on the blank card. In fact, she made sure of it by adding a fake email address. No phone number and no physical address—no crazy stranger could contact her. At the last moment, she realized there was raised lettering on the other side of the card. She flipped it over.
A business card from an attorney. She laughed. She didn’t need a new boyfriend and she didn’t need a lawyer either, thank goodness.
Clair laughed again as they launched their bottles into the ocean and didn’t give it another thought. As much fun as she was having with her friends, she was ready to go home to Virginia. That’s where her fiancé and her future waited. She and Sean Kilmer were building a business and a life together, and that’s where her heart was.
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April (Ten Months Later) at Emerald Isle, NC
Clair dreamed that dream again. It didn’t replay every night but often enough to make her apprehensive each time she surrendered to sleep. In her dream the warm, dry grains of sand shifted beneath her bare feet. The onshore ocean breeze caught in the full skirt of her satin gown and the lace trim teased the soft flesh of her shoulders and neck. The pure white gown reflected the sunlight, as did the water a few yards distant. Together, they nearly blinded her, so she kept her eyes down, focused on the red bouquet clasped in her hands, waiting to hear The Words. The red flowers were echoed on her manicured nails against a white base, and all that red and white was repeated in the gowns of the bridesmaids, the bling in their barefoot sandals, and in the scattering of rose petals around them. Finally, she looked up, blinking against the reflected light, only to find herself alone. Alone. There was no one to perform the service, no bridal party, and no groom. Suddenly great drops of water fell from a gray sky and marred the gown. At that point, as always, Clair struggled to wake, gasping when she found herself back in her moonlit childhood bedroom.
She was crying. The wet blotches on the dream satin weren’t rain, but tears. She had reason to cry. Her heart had been broken and she felt it rip again each time she had to deal with the aftermath of the breakup. Everyone had been sympathetic, including the rental hall, the caterer and DJ—though they’d all refused to refund her deposits. The house she and Sean had rented together, the utilities and other expenses…Sean had been busy with the business so she handled the wedding preparations and non-business commitments. Her name had been on those agreements. Plus, she’d loaned Sean money for the business. Not official loans because they were in this endeavor together and in love, so there was no proof. Proof didn’t matter anyway. There was no money left and no Sean.
Her name hadn’t been on the business debt. For that, she was grateful.
Nine months after the breakup she needed healing, not more sympathy or empty words, and she’d never wanted pity. She believed her dream wasn’t really about the canceled wedding, but rather an expression of grief for the loss of everything she had worked for, including what should have been the celebration of the business and the future she and Sean had built together.
Every hope had turned into lies and betrayal.
The loss of her real-life dream had been a shock. But continuing to dream of it or to regret it was foolish. Yet it kept coming back, bleak and unresolved, like the current state of her life.
Clair dragged herself out of bed, peeked in on Darcy—still asleep—and headed to the kitchen, following the promising aroma of caffeine.
Her sister Mallory was already dressed for work in a suit and low heels. She was pouring coffee into her travel cup when Clair walked in.
“Morning,” Mallory said.
Clair admired her older sister. Mallory always looked so together. Clair didn’t have that gift. Mallory’s dark hair was close-cropped and sleek. Her clothing never wrinkled or got food-spotted. Clair ran her fingers through her own long, curly brown mop of bedhead hair to get it out of her eyes.
“You’re up early,” Clair said.
“Early start for an early showing.” Mallory secured the lid on the cup. “These clients may tie up my whole day. I don’t know what time I’ll be home. Hopefully, for supper.”
“Okay.” Clair wasn’t a morning person. She struggled to shake off her fuzzy brain state. It had been a rough night. The back door was already open. Through the screen the promise of a beautiful spring morning sailed in on a fresh breeze. One couldn’t see the ocean from here, but the salt air riding the onshore wind mixed with the usual coastal smells, and made its proximity unmistakable. She loved this place. All of it. The Outer Banks, the Crystal Coast, Bogue Banks, including this small bit of heaven that had been their parents’ home. It was only a few blocks from the beach, and was nestled in its own small haven of Live Oaks and shade.
Mom and dad had been gone for more than three years.
Clair went to stand at the open door. The lavender-colored azaleas, the early bloomers, produced abundant blossoms. They were sheltered by an ancient, twisted, Live Oak. The yard was a mix of shrubby green stuff and lean, fine sand—a challenge for gardeners. Their parents had put years of effort into the landscaping and now nature was deconstructing it, reclaiming it. Neither she or Mallory made any pretense of being gardeners. They hadn’t tried to keep it up, not even her dad’s roses. He’d made growing roses an art, always talking about the importance of protection from the ocean winds and the salt air while still getting good sun, and keeping the soil amended, moist, and mulched. The straggly, thorny branches framing dad’s wrought iron bench were barely recognizable as rose bushes now. Last year, they’d produced hardly any blooms.
Standing at the door, remembering, she could almost hear his voice again, an echo from the past, humming or whistling as he tended the garden, or calling out to his daughters or their mom to come see the latest bloom.
The scent of her mother’s rose sachets seemed to surround her. As far back as Clair could remember, her mother had collected the petals from the rose bushes and arranged them on cookie sheets and pizza pans to dry. Those pans occupied every flat surface in the kitchen for several days. After the petals had dried, mom added in spices like cinnamon, ginger and allspice, and then stuffed the mixture into small packets made of netting and ribbon. She hung them in closets and tucked them into drawers. The scent of roses that permeated their home had been a fact of life. Clair missed it. She suspected the same was true for Mallory and for their youngest sister, Darcy.
When their parents died, Clair was living in Virginia, working and falling in love with her boss, Sean. She was eighteen years older than Darcy. Mallory, two years older than Clair, was working in the Raleigh area and dealing with a divorce. Darcy was only six at the time, a late arrival to the family. She had always been a shy child, and, in many ways, an only child since her sisters were so much older. Just a cute, quiet kid, who became quieter after losing mom and dad, until she stopped speaking altogether. There were days when Clair wondered whether their little sister would ever be able to grow up and leave home, have her own life and be her own person. Mallory always got angry when Clair tried to discuss that possibility.
“You okay?” Mallory asked.
Clair turned away from the door to face the room and her sister. Mallory held a mug of coffee toward her and she accepted it gratefully.
“How’d you sleep?” Mallory asked.
“Fine. It’s just early. You’re the morning person. Not me.” She tried to end the sentence with a smile.
Mallory said, “I have to run. These clients could mean a big payday for us. Darcy is still sleeping.” She stopped, a large leather business tote hanging from her arm, and fixed her gaze on Clair’s face. “She had a restless night, too.”
It wasn’t an expression of complaint, but of sadness.
After Mallory left for work, Clair closed the kitchen door despite the view and th
e tempting ocean smells, and locked it.
Poor Mal, having to deal with two restless dreamers—Clair was sorry to have disturbed Mallory’s sleep because of her own inability to put the past behind her and move forward.
She checked on her little sister. Darcy was still in bed, rolled up in her covers like a cocoon. Clair eased the door closed and took the opportunity to grab a quick shower and to dress. As she stood at the sink brushing her teeth, she avoided seeing her reflection. A year ago, this wasn’t where she thought she’d be now. She should’ve been in her own home, still a newlywed, enjoying life with Sean. Somehow, she’d screwed that up. Or Sean had.
She wanted to assign blame, to understand what had happened. But had never been given that opportunity.
Sean. Sean. She tested the sound of it, and yes, it hurt to think his name. After all these months, she should be past the pain. His name and memory should be no more than a tender spot she could sidestep with ease.
But it wasn’t.
***End of Excerpt***
Will Clair’s message in a bottle bring her the antidote to heartache, or the bad fortune that allows the man who broke her heart to hurt her yet again?
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