Moments in Time: The Complete Novella Collection

by Dori Lavelle

  END OF BOOK 2

  Bittersweet Moments (Moments in Time #3)

  By Dori Lavelle

  Chapter One

  Melisa wished she could drown herself in a bottle of whiskey tonight. Out of the question. Sparkling water would have to do. She lifted her glass to her lips and sipped.

  She was at her best friend Carlene’s wedding, surrounded by happy people, but her heart was filled with rocks. Not that she wasn’t happy for Carlene. After what her friend had gone through, she deserved every piece of happiness she was getting.

  But when the night was over, while Carlene headed for the airport on her way to honeymoon in Greece, Melisa would return to her life in hiding. She had worked and lived at the Oasis Shelter for five years now.

  When guests started trickling out into the summer’s night, Melisa kissed and hugged her friend, then walked out to the sidewalk and hailed a taxi. Although she had given the address of the shelter to the driver when she got in, she changed her mind and asked him to drop her off in front of The Roll & Dice instead. She hadn’t been there in months.

  Just inside the door, she basked in the sounds of music mixed with the chinking of coins being dropped into machines, cards being shuffled, and the roulette wheel clicking. People talked and laughed, happy for the moment—until they walked out of the red-and-white doors of the casino and life punched them in the face.

  Then the smells of cigarette smoke, sweat, cologne, and beer hit her nostrils, and a wave of nausea rolled over her. She turned to walk out again. This was goodbye. On her way home, she stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of whiskey.

  At Oasis, the lights were out. They were always switched off at nine-thirty. Oasis had been her home for a long time, and she never wanted more. But as she approached the worn front door of the building tonight, she felt as if she were entering a jail cell. This was not her home anymore.

  She had lost her first home six years ago, when her husband of three years was killed while saving lives in a fire. When Scott was alive, she’d always joked that he should get a job that wasn’t bound to kill him. A job that wouldn’t keep her up at night, dreading a middle-of-the-night call. But with her bakery, Mel’s Delights, just getting off the ground and a baby on the way, they needed the money, and she would never ask him to stop doing what he loved.

  Melisa grew to accept that being a firefighter for the Serendipity Fire Department was in Scott’s blood. His grandfather had been one, so had his father and brother, and it was only expected that he follow in their footsteps.

  Melisa had no choice but to learn to sleep without worrying, and take care of their unborn child. As she relaxed, the midnight call came, and from one day to the next, her life went up in smoke. She had dropped the phone as a sharp current of pain zapped through her and she crumpled to the bedroom floor, a pool of blood drenching her lace nightdress. She was rushed to the hospital to try and save the baby and check on her husband, but it was already too late. They were both gone.

  In the months after that terrible day, Melisa pushed away everyone in her life who tried to tell her how she should feel or grieve, and turned to the two things that made her forget the pain—alcohol and gambling. Soon she lost everything, including the small house with a white picket fence and a porch swing, which Scott had bought her as a wedding present. She ended up on the streets until Oasis offered her refuge. That was five years ago, and she still lived at Oasis, but as a staff member now.

  Melisa turned her staff key in the lock and tiptoed inside. Instead of heading for the sleeping hall, she used the light of the new cellphone Carlene had given her on her birthday to lead her to the kitchen.

  The kitchen was spacious and furnished with top-of-the-line industry appliances and equipment. A few months ago, as a wedding present to Carlene, Nick had renovated the shelter that had been Carlene’s home for four years, the place where—like Melisa—Carlene had hidden from the demons of her past.

  Once in the kitchen, Melisa walked to a drawer in the back, slid it open, and fumbled inside until her fingers made contact with a candle and a box of matches. She didn’t want to attract attention by switching on the bright kitchen lights, and she longed for the comforting glow of candlelight. She lit the candle and followed its light to the pantry, her whiskey bottle in hand. She turned the handle and pushed open the metal door, then locked it behind her using one of the keys on her keychain. She wanted to be alone. No surprises.

  Melisa tipped the candle over the shelf nearest the door and waited as the melted wax dripped to form a dime-sized puddle on the saucer she’d brought in from the kitchen. She then pressed the butt of the candle into the hot wax until it stuck and stood. Next, she twisted open the cap of the whiskey bottle and closed her eyes as the sharp, inviting aroma taunted her and sent adrenaline rushing through her veins. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself together. She’d bought the bottle simply for closure and emotional support. She had no intention of drinking it. No matter how hard it was to let go of, that part of her life was over. This was the last bottle she would ever buy. No more gambling and no more alcohol. She had been sober for a year; relapsing would be a hard fall.

  She almost sold her soul to the devil before she realized she had reached rock bottom. At that moment, she could either stay down there and rot or start climbing her way back up to the land of the living. Carlene had forgiven her for selling her story to the press—which Melisa refused the money for in the end, thank God—but it would still take a long time for Melisa to forgive herself.

  Trying to swallow the lump lingering inside her throat, she placed the bottle of whiskey on the floor, next to the shelf with the candle. She found the bucket of cleaning supplies, removed them, and filled the bucket with soapy water. She had never understood why there was a faucet inside the pantry, but she appreciated it now; she dipped her hands in the warm water, pulled out the dishcloth, and wrung it out. Then she cleaned the wooden shelves, scrubbing and wiping every surface until some of the tension melted away like the candlewax. She was a clean freak, people told her, but it was therapeutic. The more she scrubbed the shelves, the more in control she felt. She scrubbed until the palms of her hands turned wrinkled and raw.

  Fifteen minutes later, everything was clean, and the food on the shelves was organized. Satisfied, she hung the dishcloth on the lip of the sink and closed her eyes, breathing in the lemon-scented all-purpose cleaner.

  Something thumped to the floor, and then there was a crackle. Melisa opened her eyes and whirled around to face the door in time to be nearly blinded by a burst of flames. The candle had somehow come unglued, tipped over, and fell, knocking down the bottle of whiskey; fire and alcohol met in an explosion of flames that now blocked the exit.

  Melisa shielded her eyes with both hands and screamed as a current of fear zapped through her body. Before she could think of what to do, she felt a hot sting on the forearm of her right hand. She screamed again as she yanked the melting, hot plastic container from her skin. Too late. The damage had been done and she was in excruciating pain.

  Flashes of her past flooded her mind. Her dead husband. Burned alive. And she was about to die the same way. No. She had little to live for, but she wasn’t ready to die. She wouldn’t let the fire win. Not again.

  She quickly placed her burned arm under the faucet to cool it, then grabbed the bucket. She filled it with water and dumped it over the flames. In response, they only fought back, grew stronger. They were spreading along the wall now, feeding off wood, paper, cooking oil, plastic. Thank God the pantry was large or she would have been dead already. If only she could get to the door. But if she tried, she’d be toast. She couldn’t even see it through the flames anymore.

  After the seventh bucket of water, Melisa’s arms threatened to fall off her body, but she wasn’t ready to give up. She was prepared to die fighting if she had to, even as she felt her skin being melted from her flesh. After Scott’s death, she’d had nightmares of him being burned alive over and over an
d over again. It was one of the things that had driven her to search for a way to forget. It had started with a sip of whiskey that had singed her tongue—she had not been a drinker before—then it was two or three sips, and then a glass, leading to several more. Until she was drinking whole bottles and feeling less of the fire, and less of the numbing effect. So she upped her doses until she forgot who she was.

  Giving up trying to quench the fire, she dropped the bucket and grabbed the wet dish cloth. She pressed it to her nose while moving to the furthest corner of the pantry and threw any hard objects she could reach at the door. Maybe someone would hear from the other side. But after a minute she couldn’t breathe, and her eyes burned.

  As large as the pantry was, the fire was spreading too fast and it would only be a matter of time before it reached her. Since she had run out of objects to throw at the door, she had to think of another way to save herself. Fast. She swept a frantic gaze around the pantry and rested it on the tiny window, which was too high and too tiny to provide an escape. Her only hope was that the flames would somehow be seen from outside. Until then she had to keep herself alive. But how? In answer to her question, an idea came to her. She could hide inside the walk-in fridge. She wasn’t certain it would save her once the flames engulfed the entire pantry, and she might freeze or run out of oxygen if noone found her, but it was her only chance. And she would be able to keep her burned arm cool. Without another thought, she scrambled to the fridge and reached for the metal handle. She cursed under her breath as she released it again. Too hot. Instead of touching it with her bare hands, she managed to open it with the help of the dish cloth, and slipped inside, sighing with instant relief as the cool air assailed her. Before she closed the door, she removed one of her new pumps and placed it outside the door. Maybe part of it would survive the flames and someone would see it and think to look inside the fridge.

  Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, coughing and wheezing, her chest full of smoke. Her eyelids closed, but she mentally willed them to remain open; if they closed, they might never open again.

  Funny, she thought, before she sank into unconsciousness, for someone who was hesitant to start living again, she was really desperate for her next breath.

  Chapter Two

  A loud banging sound jolted Melisa awake. Her head lolled as she struggled to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t obey her. She forced herself to remember where she was. And then she did, and instantly started to shiver. In that moment someone yanked the door of the fridge open and warm air flooded in, along with a thick cloud of smoke. She coughed uncontrollably, unable to breathe, her head pounding and spinning.

  Muted male voices filtered through the smoke and then someone slipped one arm under her legs and another around her back. She was lifted off the floor like a rag doll. Someone had found her. Someone tall and wearing clothing so rough, the friction of her raw skin against it made her groan with pain.

  Melisa kept her eyes closed because she was too weak to open them, even when the air that filled her lungs became lighter and cleaner and she gulped it in hungrily.

  Then she heard frantic voices and gasps. Even though some of her strength had returned, she was too afraid to open her eyes, afraid to see the damage caused by the fire she had caused.

  The person carrying her lowered her down onto a cool surface, probably the tiled floor.

  Melisa opened her eyes then, but her vision was blurry.

  “You okay, ma’am?” The man who had carried her draped a blanket over her. He appeared to be a fireman.

  Melisa blinked and nodded as best she could lying down. She wiped her red, damp hair from her face.

  The man squinted and gazed intently into her face, his brows knitted, as if searching for something. Then his jaw dropped. “Melisa? Melisa Bergfeld?”

  The fireman removed his helmet to reveal tousled, almost shoulder-length caramel hair. A lock fell onto his forehead above his slate-grey eyes.

  Melisa’s eyes slowly adjusted and the man’s face came into focus.

  He was older and wore a five o’clock shadow, but apart from that, he was still the same man she had known for most of her life. Her dead husband’s best friend.

  “Heat?” she uttered between coughs as their eyes met and shock swept over her.

  “I go by my real name, Florian Dane, these days.”

  Melisa would always know him as Heat, a nickname he’d carried from high school, after he’d run into a burning dorm room to save a trapped girl. No one thought he’d make it out alive. But he’d survived, and so had the girl. The next day, his face was all over the school newspaper and everyone called him Heat, until the name stuck. That incident must have been what drove him toward saving lives for a living.

  Ignoring the people milling around them, Melisa stared at him, her heart pounding. A few months ago she’d seen him on the street; he had reminded her of the life she’d left behind, so she’d bolted before he saw her. Spotting him had brought back the pain she’d been trying to run away from. Now, she wasn’t quite sure how to feel. She’d hidden for five years—and now she’d been found. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Rescuing you.” His eyebrows knitted. “What are you doing here? No,” he said, as he glanced at her arm. “Let’s talk later, you’re hurt. You need to have that looked at.” He gestured at her right arm.

  Melisa opened her mouth to speak but coughed instead. As she regarded her burned arm and registered the blisters, physical pain of a kind she’d never known spread across the affected area, and dizziness overwhelmed her.

  Before either one of them could say anything more, two paramedics interrupted to whisk Melisa off to an ambulance.

  As she was being led away, she twisted her body to catch a glimpse of Heat, who stood in the middle of the cafeteria, looking as shocked and shaken as Melisa.

  In his work uniform, he resembled Scott when he was on duty. Her heart ached even more than the burns on her arm.

  What she had been running away from had finally caught up with her, and she had a feeling that she had reached a dead end.

  ***

  “Thanks for the visit,” Melisa said to Lynnette Magill, the founder of the Oasis shelter, who had brought her a change of clothes. “I’m really sorry about what happened. I was cleaning the pantry. Next thing I knew—”

  Lynnette patted Melisa’s hand and shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. You suffered more harm than Oasis did. The fire didn’t leave the pantry. I’m just happy they found you in time. Concentrate on taking care of yourself. If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thank you. I will,” Melisa lied. Asking for help had never come easy to her.

  Lynnette left, and Melisa gazed at her now-bandaged arm. She had suffered second-degree burns on her forearm and had inhaled a lot of smoke, and despite her protests, she was asked to spend the night in the hospital for observation.

  When the nurse came to check up on her, she argued again for her release, to no avail.

  “I’d prefer to leave today,” she said, her voice firm. “Shouldn’t I be the one to judge whether I’m all right or not?” As she said the words, pain sliced through her arm and she gritted her teeth. But she wouldn’t let on that she was suffering. It would only delay her plan to get the hell out.

  She hated hospitals. The terrible smells and sounds. Although the rooms at Serendipity Memorial Hospital were clean, Melisa still smelled the faint cocktail of blood, vomit, bleach, and flowers. They could scrub the visible surfaces as much as they liked, but they couldn’t clean the air.

  As she sank back against the pillow, she shut her eyes tight. If only she could seal her ears shut. The screams and groans of people in pain, the beeping machines, and the squeaking of wheelchairs were driving her nuts. She’d lose it if she stayed here another hour. A whole night would be torture.

  Plus, even if she wanted to stay, how the hell would she pay for it?

  The nurse looked down at the clipboard in her hands.
“Miss Bergfeld, I’m afraid you have to stay at least one night. Try to rest, now.” The nurse walked out, leaving Melisa gripping the cool metal bedrail, fuming and hedging a plan of escape.

  A knock on the door disrupted her scheming and she gazed up to see a bouquet of yellow roses. Her chest swelled to what felt like the verge of bursting.

  “Scott once mentioned that you love yellow roses. I hope you still do,” Heat said in his deep and velvety smooth voice as he strode into the room. He was out of uniform and now clad in black jeans and a tan shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His shoulder muscles strained against the thin fabric.

  Melisa’s gaze flickered to the bare part of his tanned arm, to the silky dusting of hairs, and her pulse skittered.

  She had always been drawn to Heat. He was tall and athletic with broad shoulders and rugged good looks. Unless she was mistaken, he looked even better now than when she’d had a crush on him in high school—a crush that had led to a broken heart, which Scott later pieced together.

  She refrained from telling Heat that yellow roses only meant something when they had come from Scott. But it would be rude to reject Heat’s kind gesture. “Thanks,” she said, trying to ignore the sweet scent.

  Heat placed the flowers on an empty table next to the bed and lowered himself into the only chair in the room. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Just a few burns.” The pain was more bearable now that it was muted by the bandages.

  He shook his head and the same stubborn lock of his hair brushed across his forehead. “That’s not what the nurse told me. You got some serious burns on your arm.”

  “You talked to the nurse about me?” Should she be offended or touched?

  “I was concerned.”

  “How can you be concerned about someone you haven’t seen in years?”

  Heat narrowed his eyes. “Whose fault is that? You were not only my best friend’s wife—we were friends… then you disappeared without a trace. What were you thinking, living in a shelter, when you could have come to me for help?” A vein throbbed in his jaw.