Amber and Blue

by K. R. Rowe

  "I bet she missed him," Grace said.

  "She did," he said, "but, while we were out, he would gather as many wildflowers as he could. He carried them carefully, never losing one and never breaking a stem."

  "How sweet …."

  "That’s where I get it from," he said with a grin, "but, when we got home, among the guns, knives, fishing poles and various game that we drug in, there were always the flowers. When he gave them to her, he would say, 'A rose cannot bloom without the sunshine and a man cannot exist without love'. When I asked what he meant, he said that her love was the light of his soul and without it, he would wither and die."

  "That is so romantic!" she said, "He must have loved her very much."

  "He did," he said. "He gave up his whole world for her and never regretted a second of it." He handed her the violet, "For you."

  "Thank you," she said. "It’s the same color as your eyes." She held it up, touched his nose, and slowly brushed it down over his lips. She leaned close, "Let’s go to the other side and explore." She stood and hiked up her pants a little higher.

  "Wait!" He jumped to his feet and hauled her up in his arms, "A snake!" His grin was full of mischief.

  "Where? I don’t see one," she said and squirmed in his arms.

  "No, no, I swear I saw one!" He sloshed toward deeper water.

  "You’re going the wrong way—"

  She screamed when he tripped, and they plunged into the icy cold water, but when they came up, he still held her tight in his arms.

  "See what you made me do?" he said, grinning.

  Drenched and shivering, she clung to him as he waded into the knee-deep water and put her down.

  "Are you cold?" he asked, as he wrapped his arms around her.

  "I lost my flower."

  "But I haven’t lost mine," he said and laid his cheek on her head.

  She folded her arms across her chest and snuggled closer. She felt like heaven against him.

  But even as she stood here in his arms, his heart still ached, and the anxious, unsettled feeling returned to plague him. He felt like a puzzle with a mislaid piece. Incomplete, nothing fit, and the void was too deep to fill. The certainty of their future was missing, and he tightened his arms around her and trembled.

  "Alex?"

  "Yes?" His voice was unsteady.

  "Are you ok?"

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. "I will be," he said, but he wasn’t so sure.

  "Are you hurt?"

  The question made him chuckle. "Not at all."

  "Are you cold?"

  "Nope," he replied honestly. The sun had broken through the mist and was warming him up nicely.

  "Ok, good." She relaxed in his arms, and rested her cheek on his chest.

  "Grace?"

  "Umm hmm?"

  "I just don't think I can pretend anymore."

  "Pretend?"

  He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and hugged her close. "I can't pretend this is only our third date," he said. "I feel so … lost, and it’s hard to pretend that my whole world wasn't ripped from me, in just one night." He took a heaving lungful of air and went on, "And I can’t pretend … that I'm emotionless, when all I want to do is fall to my knees in front of you, and tell you …." his voice broke and he whispered, "how much desperately I love you."

  With his cloak of pretense torn away, he reached in and ripped his wounded heart open, and poured it out at her feet, but she remained silent in his arms.

  "I’m sorry," he said. "I shouldn’t have—"

  "No," she said, "Don’t be …."

  He wanted to scream, and release all of the pent-up emotion that he had shoved down in his gut but he had to stay strong. He controlled it all—except the tremor that shook him.

  She pulled away, and looked up into endless blue pools of churning emotion. "You don’t have to pretend anymore," she said, "because in my heart—I remember." She laid her hand on his cheek when his eyes rimmed with tears. "And, my heart screams to be heard, it’s trying to shake me awake, to remind me, of how much … I love you too."

  In the rippling pool of water, he fell to his knees. "I’ve missed you so much."

  He wrapped his arms around her waist. Once again, he felt like that lost little boy, desperate and afraid, reaching out for the comfort of her arms. The missing blue violet bobbed to the surface, and floated his way. His gaze skimmed the water, and he watched, as it caught on his shirt and spun slowly in a whirlpool at his side. She reached down, and lifted it out of his sight, and he closed his blue eyes and smiled.

  From a distance, a child's laughter echoed across the canyon. They were not alone anymore.

  The following Sunday afternoon was mild and sunny, but soon, dark, oppressive clouds gathered, and drove in from the southwest. The musty odor of rain swept in with the breeze, and Grace hoped the bad weather would hold off. She expected Lucien soon. He stopped over every Sunday afternoon without fail. Usually, he would ask her to join him for lunch, but this time, she had lunch waiting. The gazebo was lovely for lounging outside and she sat, anxiously waiting, with Czar.

  He sprawled in the sun, the way dogs love to do, in a grassy area, just outside the gazebo. The cat crouched low, snapped his tail, and quietly stalked from a nearby bush. Obviously unfazed by the imminent attack, Czar's tongue flopped sideways from his open mouth as he snored.

  The wind picked up, and hurled a gust through the gazebo, tinkling a melody with the wind chimes, as it swirled in. She looked up from pouring two glasses of tea, when she heard Lucien’s voice from the landing. He discovered sweet tea while here in The South and fell in love with the flavor. He begged her to make it, and each time she did, he drank it until he was sick.

  "Grace, mon amour," Lucien greeted and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "What’s this?" His mouth watered at the mere sight of the sweet tea. Since their picnic, his confidence had soared. He was not shocked when she turned down his proposal, but he was encouraged when she eagerly welcomed his kiss. Her passionate response left him aching for much more.

  She was lovely.

  He was addicted.

  Women had come and gone from his life, but he could never recall feeling this way before. He had never known love … until her.

  He watched as she pulled a seat in front of him, and sat while he took a long cool gulp of sweet tea. She sat so close that her knees touched his, and he noticed her nervousness over the frosty, cold glass at his lips.

  "Is something wrong?" His brow furrowed as he tried to read her expression, and she jumped when a roaring clap of thunder rattled the table. For years, a critical part of his job was interpreting, and copying facial expressions.

  His heart sank—her face said it all.

  How could his instincts have been so wrong? He already knew what she was going to say. Even knowing, it would still feel like torture coming from her lips. He knew it in Montréal when she had no memory of Alex, yet she screamed for him in her nightmares. His whispered name in Lucien’s ear should have served as a blatant warning, but he threw caution to the wind, and it had gone unheeded.

  He already knew.

  "Lucien," Grace began and swallowed. "We need to talk about something … " she said, "kind of important. You've done so much for me." She looked down and took his hand in hers. She studied it awhile and continued without looking up, "And you know, I love you very much and care a great deal for you—"

  "But you love him more," he said.

  She looked up, and a sudden rain shower erupted around them.

  She didn’t deny it.

  His body went cold, and numb like the dead. His stomach rolled, and all he could taste was the return of the tea in his throat. This time, it was not so sweet.

  Struggling to control his emotions, he stood.

  "I have to go now." He turned and hauled himself down the stairs of the gazebo into the wet grass below.

  "Wait!" she pleaded.

  He stopped.

  The driving rain soaked his long
loose hair. It formed large ringlets where it was normally straight, and dripped down each end in small droplets. Suspended in his eyelashes, beads of moisture gathered, then fell, and rolled down his cheeks, to pour in a stream from his chin.

  "I'm sorry …."

  The torment in her voice called out to him, and he slowly turned to face her. Even soaking wet and miserable, he still could not stop himself. In a few quick strides, he stood gazing down at her. He wiped her tears away gently, put his arms around her, and savored the moment, believing this time, would likely be the last.

  "You have nothing to be sorry for, little one," he said softly in her ear. "This has always been beyond your power. You can contain the passion of your heart no more than I can control the breath that I take," he said as he held her tight in his arms. "Just remember," he said, and drew away. "I will always love you."

  The lightning flashed and lit the sky, and he released her. He turned to walk away, and left her choking in tears behind him. Slowly trudging around the house on the little stone path, not minding the rain, his thoughts wandered to what might have been. He could have followed through with his wild idea to take her further north.

  He could have taken her out of the country—out of the States. He could have kidnapped her and kept her forever. He could have done many things, but that was not the kind of man he was.

  Or was he?

  No matter how hard he tried to do the right thing, the filthy sins of his past would forever stain his morals.

  "If you want it, take it," Montcalm had told him. Until now, he dismissed the notion and resisted the urge.

  Interrupting his thoughts in the front drive, he ran headlong into Alex, who was running for cover from the rain. Alex stopped and stood motionless in the downpour. Lucien made no effort to hide his raging jealousy, and released a tirade of his fast rising indignation.

  "Always remember, my friend," Lucien stopped and glared up at Alex. "This will never be over. When you screw up—I'll be there waiting." He shoved Alex aside as another quake of thunder vibrated the ground beneath them. "And give it time," Lucien turned back and sneered. "One night soon, when she’s scratching her nails down your back—she’ll be thinking of me."

  "I don’t think so!" he heard Alex bark, but the sharp retort went ignored as he turned, and stomped away.

  ******

  Chapter 31 Escape

  Super Bowl Sunday packed the downtown sports bar the following weekend. In the midst of the crowd, the cheers, and the hoots, Lucien sat quiet and subdued.

  He stared down at the circles of moisture from his drink, and closed his eyes tight and hung his head. He had never felt more alone.

  "Another round," he said to the bartender, and slid his glass across the dark, polished oak.

  A call from Jacques surprised him, as he knocked back, yet another burning shot of tequila.

  "Beware, my friend," Jacques said. "André escaped, and he left a man dead."

  Lucien choked. "What?"

  "He decided to pass on a message before he took leave," Jacques said. "Beneath an orderly, written in blood, were your name and the name of the girl."

  Lucien looked up, when the crowd grew quiet, and the breaking news caught his attention.

  "Neither of you are safe," Jacques continued. "Father and I are preparing, because we know that we are high on his hit list."

  "He’s already here," Lucien said to himself, as he hung up, and stared at the screen.

  Behind the bar, André’s grainy likeness appeared, in the surveillance footage of a gun store robbery.

  He had to warn Alex and Grace.

  "Come on ... come on, answer," Lucien said as he paced through the crowd, and kept trying to call, with no luck. He finally gave up, with a frustrated howl, and he flung the door open, and ran.

  Lucien yelled an obscenity when his bike slid across the driveway, and dropped in Grace’s garden. He slung off his helmet and it bounced across the lawn as he rushed to the door of the main house. It was silent, and the guardhouse was dark. He beat on the door of the back landing and shouted, but there was no response. Frantic, he sprinted around to the front of the house, only to come to a dead stop on the front lawn.

  "André .…" Lucien raised his hands and slowly backed away from the dark round eye of a pistol.

  "Hello Lucien, I've been waiting for you," he said with a cold patient smile, and a sinister stare. "Your betrayal cut deep, and it hurt me, my brother. You see, I'm no fool like my father and Jacques. I saw the deception in your eyes the first time we came for her—here, at this very house. Your decision was clear—even then."

  "No, André," he said. "What I did, was for the good of the family."

  "I have no family!" André bellowed.

  "You have the illness," he said. "Your father only wanted help for you."

  André was wracked with disturbing laughter, and stopped in mid-howl to glare at Lucien. "Your pathetic lies amuse me."

  "You know it’s true," he said. "You’ve changed. Tell me, André, what’s the point of continuing to terrorize an innocent girl?"

  "She’s no innocent!"

  "She’s done nothing to you!" Lucien yelled.

  "She’s one of them!"

  He slowly circled Lucien and continued, "You see, she’s taken you, my brother. She has already tainted your aphotic soul. Tell me—how does it feel to be one of her dark guardians?"

  "You’re delusional, André!" he said. "You make no sense, can you not see that?"

  "Yes, brother, I do see," André said. "I can see everything—and it’s all so clear to me now."

  "I won’t let you do this," Lucien said.

  He realized that André was in the grip of a psychotic meltdown and he had no choice when he dove for the gun. In the midst of their struggle, it exploded. The burning hot bullet seared fire through Lucien’s chest. The fading sound of his heartbeat rang, like a death toll, through his ears. He collapsed to his knees and clutched, in desperation, at the hemorrhaging wound in his chest. In shock, he watched the blood seep through his fingers, and spread across his shirt. He crumpled to the ground in agony. He could not breathe, he could not speak, and all he could do is watch in horror when André picked up his phone.

  No! He could only pray Grace was in a safe place.

  "The cost of your stupidity will be her life." André smiled when the tracer engaged. "Ah, how nice, she's refined. She's visiting the museum." André knelt over him, and studied him closely. His face was beset with a rapid twitch, and his eyes bulged wide, as he stared down at Lucien.

  "Hmm …." André pondered in a mundane tone. "Your wound is probably fatal." He looked down and sneered, when Lucien gasped for air. "Since I know now where she is, I'll let you die slowly, knowing, it's your fault that she'll die with you." He looked toward the sky and laughed coldly. "How sweet," he said, "maybe you two will meet in heaven—or in your case, more likely hell." He stood and callously walked away, leaving Lucien half conscious and bleeding dry into the grass beneath him.

  A cool mist seeped from between the jagged rocks of the river, and cloaked the two men, as the sun began to rise. Flies tied, a smooth whisk of their arms swept their lines, in floating loops, out over the cold, clear water. A light touch to the surface, a ripple and a slosh, and a rainbow trout danced into the sunlight.

  A sharp whistle carried across the cold mountain water, and Alex looked up. Atticus gestured toward the bank.

  "I hear the water rising!" he yelled. "The turbines are on!"

  Alex glanced at his watch and listened. The distant roar was faint. He looked down in his creel and grinned. It was a good day.

  It had been years since Atticus fished the Hiwassee. Alex pestered him without mercy to go, until finally, he gave in. It was a relaxing day and they had caught their limit. It was time for a fish fry. Anne was in Knoxville for a visit with her mother, and Grace spent the day with Lydia.

  Worn out and glad to be home, they pulled into the drive, and were startled to find a man
lying motionless on the front lawn.

  "What the hell?" Alex said as his eyes slowly scanned the property. "Stay here," he said to Atticus. He jumped from the truck, with his gun at his side, and cautiously made his way over to attend to the injured man.

  "It’s Lucien!" he yelled as he knelt down. "He’s been shot! Call an ambulance!"

  Alex struggled to fight off his own growing panic, as he checked for a pulse, and tried to rouse Lucien.

  "Lucien," Alex said, when his eyes finally opened. "Who did this?"

  Terrified, and gasping for air, he reached up, and gripped Alex's wrist. The blood was thick and sticky on his hand, and its metallic stench settled around him. His heaving chest fought for each gurgled breath, and Alex had heard it before. It was not a good sign.

  He leaned close when Lucien tried to speak.

  "André," he whispered. He took a shallow rasping breath. "He’s gone after Grace—she’s at the museum," he muttered, and coughed. Blood stained his teeth, as it spilled from his mouth, and rolled, in a crimson path down his chin. "Please … don't let him hurt her again," he begged.

  "I won’t," Alex said.

  With a ragged exhale, he released his grip, and his eyes drifted back in his head, and closed.

  "Send the police to the museum!" Alex said, as he ran past Atticus to his truck.

  Backed up against the bluff, overlooking the river, the museum was the focal point of the art district. A decade earlier, a line of violent tornadoes ripped through the city, and wiped out a large section of the museum. Almost all was lost, but the centuries old mansion survived. The museum permanently housed many rare works of art, and often played host, to a variety of traveling exhibits. Grace was a member and visited often, and the wildflower exhibit was being showcased this month.

  "I’m surprised that the curator’s lecture was so interesting," Grace whispered, as they made their way through the museum. She turned on her phone and stopped. "Lucien called."

  "He’s not giving up, is he?" Lydia said.