Old Flames, Burned Hands
Page 29
No other wraith had appeared after that. The coven, it seemed, was destroyed in the fire.
Detective Crippen had visited once, asking the same questions. A fishing expedition but he left empty-handed. Officer Whittaker had dropped in too. The first visit was official, asking Tilda how she had been injured, how she had ended up on that rooftop. Tilda told her that she couldn’t remember, lying that she was suffering memory loss from the attack on the house that night. Whittaker let it go at that. The police officer had visited twice after that but these had been social calls, popping in with Starbucks or a pint of blueberries from the market. Whittaker, bless her heart, was concerned about her recovery and Tilda found herself enjoying the officer’s company more and more. A new friend.
“How’s Shane?” Whittaker had asked during her last visit. “He seemed kinda tense last time I saw him.”
“He’s okay,” Tilda had said. “At least he says he is.”
“Is everything back to normal with you two?”
Tilda took a moment before answering. “No. But it’s slowly moving that way.”
“You guys have been through a lot. Give it time.”
That was the plan. There had been no grand gestures. No reaffirming their commitment nor renewal of vows or any of that schmaltzy stuff. There was still tension and a wariness around one another but they slipped back into the old routine with alarming ease. The ice was slowly melting and things seemed to get a little better every day. Shane was making an effort to share some of her burden, even making dinner a few nights since she came home. Small gestures but there seemed to be genuine tenderness behind them. For that she was grateful and he in turn seemed grateful for any kind word or thoughtful gesture.
Neither she nor Shane were big on showy displays so it was enough for now, this slow waltz around each other in a gradual decay of orbits.
They had gone out to dinner twice. It had been pleasant but awkward as well. Once the safe topics of conversation (Molly, work, the house) had been exhausted, there was a silence when the topic of their marriage or the recent past had drifted to the surface. In a strange way, it was almost like they were dating with all this shy clumsiness. They hadn’t had sex in almost a month, the idea seemed too precarious to float for now. Tilda hoped they could get over that hump soon. It had simply been too long.
The keyboard buzzed as it came out of the monitor and she tuned the levels until it evened out. It was odd playing one-handed but it felt right when it hit her heart before it resonated in her brain the way music should. Like she had explained to Gil that night.
Did she miss Gil? Without a doubt. With an ache so acute it left her feeling cored out on the inside. But it wasn’t debilitating; she’d had seventeen years of practice dealing with it. Old hat, the scar tissue on her heart growing back with breathtaking speed. She mourned him now, she would always mourn him. In her darker moments, she would project ahead to old age and a doddering mind. Whose face would flicker in her senile mind, Shane’s or Gil’s?
Tweaking the levels on the keyboard, a thought occurred to her and she tested it with a few notes. Expecting it to sound terrible, she was surprised at how the notes flowed on keys. She had only ever played Gil’s song on guitar but the piano brought a whole different feel to it. The tempo needed adjusting to the new instrument but that was simple. Banging out the first notes again, she calibrated the new tempo and started from the beginning, her voice jutting the lyrics between the keys with an eerie precision. It worked. When it was over and the last note hung in the rafters of the garage, Tilda let up a tiny laugh. She had played this song three times in ’96 and then buried it for almost twenty years. In the last two months, she had played it more than half a dozen times. It still held power.
A voice hollered in through the door of the garage. Shane, announcing that dinner was almost ready. She hit the power switch, shutting down the keyboard and walked out of the cool garage to the bright light of a July sun.
Shane stood before the barbecue, a retro dome on tripod legs. Old school charcoal glowing hot and sizzling three slabs of angus cut. He set the tongs aside, smiled at Tilda as she emerged from her studio and snapped the caps from two bottles of Tankhouse.
She smiled back. “How are the steaks coming?”
“Ten seconds from perfect,” he said, clinking the neck of his bottle against hers.
“What can I do?”
“Sit your butt down and get hungry.” Anticipating her protest, he cut her short and shooed her on. “Hush. Go sit.”
The picnic table was set with plates and cutlery and a pitcher of ice water over a gingham throw. Molly stepped out of the backdoor with a bowl of salad she had made. Tilda watched her daughter fuss the plates and weight the paper napkins under the cutlery.
Tilda peered into the salad bowl and smiled up at her daughter. “That looks yummy.”
“It’s tart. I overdid it on the garlic.” Molly looked up at her dad. “You said two minutes. Are we eating or not?”
Shane brandished the tongs like a magic wand. “Patience, kiddo.”
Molly doled the salad onto the plates. “I liked what you were playing out there.”
“Thanks.”
“Me too.” Shane brought the steaks to the table and they all sat down. “Is that a new song?”
“No. That’s an old one.” Tilda smiled at her daughter. “Older than you actually.”
“You should play it more,” Shane said. “It sounds really good.”
Tilda watched her family tuck into their plates. The picnic table sat in the shade of the big willow tree but the sun filtered through its tendril boughs and dappled them with drops of sunlight. Tilda’s heart clenched a tiny bit as she gazed at the two of them, remembering how lucky she was.
“Nah,” she said. “I think I’m done with that song.”
Gratis
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The story begins...
BAD WOLF
Portland. Two homicide detectives thrown together on a gruesome case. A victim mutilated by a pack of feral dogs. A suspect who believes himself to be a werewolf.
The story continues...
PALE WOLF
A cop on a mission. A woman running from her fate. A daughter watching her father become unhinged. All of them on a collision course with evil.
Available on Amazon
and Amazon UK
Inspired by true events...
KILLING DOWN THE ROMAN LINE
You go back far enough, every family has blood on its hands.
The house was old, the crimes committed within forgotten about, until a stranger rolls into town and takes possession of the ruined house. Inviting the locals to tour the property, he explains how his family was murdered in this very house. And the perpetrators were the upstanding townsfolk themselves.
About the author
Tim McGregor is a novelist and screenwriter. His first two novels, Bad Wolf and Killing Down the Roman Line, are available as ebooks. His produced films can usually be found in the bargain DVD bin. Tim lives in Toronto with his wife and two children.
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