I tossed another random piece of paper in the garbage pile and looked out the big bay window of Mom’s office. I may have created more of a mess, but I did bring the height of it all down. The gorgeous view the space once offered now re-emerged and the orange-blue sunset cast an eerie and magical glow across the room.
My mind wandered through the library of memories it held as I starred out upon the ocean water, watching the way the twilight waves came to life in the moonlight and played with the colorful reflection of the setting sun. The only time of day the two worlds met. I remembered then, something my mom once told me.
“You see that, sweetie?” she’d asked, pointing out to the water as I stood on the deep window bench in my room. “The moon and the sun playing together. Isn’t it beautiful?”
I nodded, in awe of the gorgeous display but also my mother’s soothing voice. Soft as sugar and milk on bread. She bent down then and spoke quietly in my ear.
“It’s the only time the two can meet. The sun and the moon, touching like that. It’s magic, Dianna. Don’t forget that.”
“What kind of magic?” I asked.
“If you were to sail out there, to the water, and meet the moon and the sun in the waves at just the right time, they’d grant you a wish.”
“Just one?”
“If you knew what you wanted, one is all you’d need, baby.” She caressed my cheek and tucked a knot of dark curls behind my little ear.
I smiled at my mother and looked back out toward the water, so certain, even at that delicate age, of what I wanted. “I’d wish to sail away on an adventure and fall in love with a prince!”
Mom laughed and kissed my cheek. “Always remember that you don’t need a prince to have the adventure of your dreams, Dianna, baby.”
“I know, Mommy.” I grinned up at her. “But it would be more fun with someone to share it with.”
My eyes filled with tears at the memory. God, I loved my mother. She was unlike anyone I’ve ever known. She loved relentlessly, was never angry, and dreamed of things no one could ever fathom. I used to be just like her. It’s funny, really, removed for so long from my father’s realist personality and infinite sadness... I somehow managed to become just like him.
I decided to take a break.
After checking my phone to see if John had replied yet and frowning when I saw he still hadn’t, I wandered out to the kitchen, hoping there was something in the fridge and lucked out with a bottle of water and an apple fruit cup. I wondered what he was doing. I’d been gone for nearly a day and he never replied or called me yet. The three-and-a-half-hour time change was a pain, yes, but still. I quickly punched in a short text to say hi and remind him to call me.
I wandered the house, slurping back the pureed apples and taking note of all the things I still had to go through. Approaching the base of the large, dark staircase, I ascended upstairs to see what awaited me. My parent’s room was surprisingly decent. It seemed that Dad kept things the way I remembered, only a couple of small boxes sat next to his side of the bed. The image made me frown as the thought of him still sleeping on his side, after all these years, popped in my head.
I moved on to my childhood bedroom and peeked my head inside. My heart sank when I found nothing but a glorified storage locker. Boxes, trunks, totes, and bags filled the space. I stepped inside and opened the flaps of one of the cardboard cartons marked with my name and smiled.
To anyone else, it would have appeared to be a collection of random things tossed inside, but I knew the items. My parents took me to St. John’s one year, I was no more than eight or nine years old. We always took a trip each Summer, after tourist season died down and right before school started. That year, we went to Signal Hill. It rained so hard. I was so bummed that we couldn’t do any of the hiking trails, so Mom and Dad took me to a gift shop and bought just about everything in it.
I smiled at the memory as I pulled out a key chain; a tiny snow globe hung from it with a model of Signal Hill inside. I fished the house key from my pocket and attached it to the trinket before stuffing it back in my jeans.
I finished my fruit cup and tossed the empty container in the bathroom trashcan before heading back downstairs. As I descended, I could feel a chill in the air, as prominent as the silence which filled the rooms, so I made my way over to the woodstove and stoked the near-dead fire. The coals were still piping hot, and the glowy red came back to life as I poked it with the metal rod. I grabbed another log and tossed it in. While I waited for the flame to take it, something caught my eye. A lone box, sitting on the dining room table just a few feet away.
I closed the heavy iron door of the woodstove and latched the handle before making my way over to the table and realized the box was, in fact, a small trunk, one of those of my mother’s that I adored in my childhood. Pure moonlight filled the space, the orange blaze of the sleepy sun now gone, replaced by the cool white glow of the massive August moon blaring in through the picture window next to the table.
The trunk, an old leather-covered box about the size of a small carry-on suitcase, didn’t jog my memory at all. I wondered where Mom had this one poked away. And, why was it there, all alone, on my Dad’s dining room table?
My fingers ran over the rough surface, taking note of the once dark red leather and how it had weathered into a murky brown over who knows how many decades. Along the edges, near the seams, I could see hints of the deep, rust color it once sported. Hand-forged brass tacks decorated the edges and matched the heavy lock at the center.
The trunk was small, but beautiful, and should be easy enough to take back on the plane. I decided, then, that I would fill it with the things I wanted to keep for myself and leave the other piles for my aunt to distribute as I saw fit. But my idea stopped short when I realized the lock was, in fact, locked and there was no key in sight.
“Great,” I said with an exhausted sigh and glanced around the room. All the built-in shelves, nooks and crannies, where the heck would I find something as small as a key? And one specifically for that chest? My mother had hundreds of old keys lying around; some for her many chests and cabinets, some decorative, and others she was too scared to throw away in case they belonged to something she’d need in the future. “Come on, Dad. You had this one out for a reason. Where did you put the key?”
I began to wander, feeling around on high shelves, running my hands along the tops of cabinets. I found a load of dust bunnies, a few crumpled up receipts, and three paper clips. But no key. Then I remembered a tin of them I’d found earlier, in Mom’s office, and ran to grab it. It was heavy for its small size and plunked down on the marble-topped table with a clank that resounded through the dead silent space.
“Okay, first thing’s first,” I pulled out my phone to put on some music and saw that I had a notification. John had finally replied to my text.
Are you coming?
What was he talking about? My flight wasn’t until Sunday night, but my thumbs punched in the letters of a reply.
Miss me already?
A speedy response popped back.
I always miss you, baby.
My heart fluttered. It may have taken a long time, but John was finally settling, and he was doing it with me. My grin stretched from ear to ear as I began typing back a lengthy reply, telling him about my day and how much I missed him, too. But before I could finish, he texted me again.
So, are you coming over or what? Dianna doesn’t get back until Sunday.
My fingers turned to jelly, and the phone fell to the floor. At the same time, that familiar anvil dropped in my stomach with a heavy thump and I nearly puked all over the table in front of me. The silence of the room rang heavy in my ears and heat filled my face as my heart began to race. My hand grabbed the edge of the table, knees suddenly weak.
That bastard.
I took a few deep breaths before retrieving my phone from the floor and began typing a reply, my thumbs flying across the tiny keys. Fury and rage, fueled by betrayal, coursed t
hrough my body but my mind rang through for a brief second to tell me one important thing.
Find out who he’s cheating on me with.
I deleted the message I’d typed so far and punched in a few new letters before hitting send.
I’ll come over if you say my name.
I waited, my body on overdrive as the adrenaline pushed blood through it. Was that dumb? Had he realized he’s been messaging me and not some other woman?
I’ll say it now and I’ll say it again, later, after you scream mine, Emily, baby.
My co-worker? That scum! My fingers trembled as I struggled to type back a final reply.
Better double-check that, asshole. You’re right, I’ll be home on Sunday, and you better be long gone.
I threw my phone down on the table, not caring if the screen broke, and wandered the house once more, stomping as I went about aimlessly. My life got completely turned inside out this week. My father died, I’d inherited a property along with a slew of garbage, and now the man I thought I loved was cheating on me with the nineteen-year-old hostess at work.
I made my way back around to the dining room to let out a fierce, guttural scream as I picked up and heaved the small trunk at the wall. It was the loudest sound I’d heard all day and it fell to the floor where it busted open, its contents spilling out around it.
I needed a drink.
Chapter Three
After rummaging around in Dad’s liquor cabinet of near-empty flasks, I finally found a half-full bottle of Newfoundland Screech and hastily put the mouth to my lips. I chugged down a huge gulp and then let out a gargle as it scorched my throat.
“Who needs a freakin’ glass?” I tipped back another swig of the rum, glancing down at the mess I’d made, waiting for the liquor to drown my anger.
I sauntered over to the heap of contents that had spilled from the small trunk and sat down, crisscrossing my legs and nestling the bottle of rum in the nook they created. First, I picked up the overturned trunk, noting that the lock hadn’t been broken, just popped open, and I set it aside.
A pile of dirty red fabric caught my eye next. I pulled it toward me, stretching it out and assessing just what it was. A jacket. A really old jacket. But, unlike other ancient garments I recall my mother archived, this one didn’t feel so delicate. I remembered once, she’d been preparing an old white blouse for display at the museum, I reached up to touch it and it felt like tissue in between my fingers.
This peacoat style jacket was thick, like leather but not. Heavy gold buttons and clasps lined the center from top to bottom, a wide collar crowned the top, and the blood-red color of the fabric was still prominent aside from the visible wear and tear. It brought to mind a captain’s jacket, part of the old uniforms characters wore in movies and on TV, with the funny white trousers and shoes with big buckles on the front.
I loved it. The jacket was definitely coming back to Alberta with me. I gently folded it and set it aside with the trunk and moved on to the other items sprawled on the floor in front of me. A massive compass made of brass, it covered my entire palm and appeared to still work, despite the cracked glass face. A thick, brown leather scabbard that held a large dagger. I unsheathed the old knife, surprised at its sharpness. The handle was made of light-colored wood, clearly hand carved or something, with the initials M.L.C. etched into the hilt.
“Cool,” I spoke to myself as I sheathed it and set it aside in the growing pile next to me.
Next, a journal. Thick and well-loved, the book was bound in black leather with the spine held together in a stiff sort of twine. The initials H.W. was burned on the cover and I wondered why the initials would be different than that of the ones I’d found on the dagger’s handle. I stopped for a moment and looked at the contents as a whole, noting the few silver coins that also sat on the floor, and realized just what this trunk was.
“This is a pirate’s chest.” A grin smeared across my face. “A real freakin’ pirate’s chest.”
As a child, I always imagined that the cool things my mother brought home once belonged to pirates and other shady individuals. But, as an adult, I looked back on those memories and told myself I was being silly. Now, though… this was proof that I was right. John would flip if he saw this. I told him all about my childhood obsession and…
“Damn it.” The sting of his betrayal poured over my wounds again, I’d forgotten about him for a brief moment, distracted by my awesome discovery. I grabbed the bottle of rum from between my legs and downed a few more mouthfuls. How could I have so easily forgotten the jerk? I still couldn’t believe he had cheated on me. Was probably cheating on me at that very moment, in fact.
But a part of me, a very small part, wasn’t really that surprised. I should have known, and I felt like a complete idiot then, as I replayed our relationship in my mind. I was always the one to initiate things. A second date, the first kiss, meeting his parents, moving in together. They were all my ideas, and I remembered some of them taking more convincing than they should have. John was a flirter, a schmoozer, a lady’s man. I was a fool to think I could tame him, make him settle. I just wanted it so bad. To share my life with someone, to share my adventure.
I drank some more.
The abrupt sound of knocking at the door pulled me down from my mountain of sorrow for a moment. The nearly empty bottle tucked neatly under my arm as I made my way toward the front door, with a slight wobble in my step. The old brass deadbolt gave me grief as I fiddled with it, but the door finally opened to reveal my aunt.
“Oh, so you are alive,” she said, eyeballing the bottle of rum under my arm as I leaned my entire weight against the door frame. In her hands was a large glass dish covered in tin foil and the warm smell of home-cooked food wafted up across my nose. “Looks like you need this more than I thought.”
I let her in and began to walk back toward the dining room, swigging back more rum. The liquid sat heavy in my stomach and warmed my veins. I glanced at the clock and saw that I’d been there at the house for nearly eight hours. My aunt’s sudden arrival reminded me that, aside from the fruit cup, I’d been drinking on an empty stomach.
“I brought some leftover lasagna I made for supper, thinking you’d be back to the house. I bet you’re starving.” She cleared some space on the table and grabbed a couple of plates from the kitchen. “How're things going here, anyway? Makin’ a dent?”
I laughed and took another mouthful from the bottle. “I have no clue what I’m doing. There’s so much crap in that room. I should just throw it all in the trash and go back home.” Another swig. “Oh, wait. I can’t go back home. My boyfriend is cheating on me and if I see him, I may very well beat him to death.” I scooped up my fork and lobbed off a huge chunk of lasagna straight from the dish and shoved it in my mouth. “Better off staying here in my mountain of garbage,” I added, motioning around the house with my fork, pieces of food falling out of my mouth.
Aunt Mary just nodded, letting me vent, I didn’t even argue when she carefully slipped the bottle out of my hand. “I didn’t know you had a man,” she said, sitting down to eat her piece of pasta. She eyeballed the side of the dish I’d been digging into. “Keep eatin’.”
I shoveled in a few more bites and chewed with one side of my mouth. “Correction. I did have a man. I told him to vamoose before I get home on Sunday.” My stomach protested at the sudden influx of food I’d been heaping into it, so I put the fork down. “Although, at the rate I’m going, I may never leave this house.”
Mary reached across the table, placed her hand over mine and gave it a little squeeze. “Dianna, I can help, you know? With everything. I didn’t want to dig too far, I didn’t…” she let go and leaned back in her chair, “I just didn’t know what you wanted to keep. What was special to you. It’s been so long.”
I couldn’t look her in the face. Staying away for so long was just as much my fault as it was Dad’s. He pushed me away, but I never pushed back. I wanted to go. Living in the pit of despair my father dug fo
r himself after my mother’s passing was torture for me. He shut me out, became depressed, completely ignored my needs as a child. Yeah, I was a teen, but I still needed my daddy. The only person I had that showed me love and compassion and cared enough to check-in was… Mary.
I tore my gaze away from the dark patio window then and looked at my great aunt. This wonderful woman who loved my mother dearly, kept my dad alive when he was sick, helped run my family’s business when no one could… who nurtured my broken heart so many years ago. Staying away from Dad was understandable. Staying away from Mary was wrong. I hadn’t even realized until then.
“I’m so sorry, Aunt Mary. You’re right. It’s been way too long. I’m freaking horrible.” My eyes began to pool with tears and I wiped one away as it tried to escape. “I promise to come back and visit more, okay?” I let out a bubbly sigh and crossed my arms, leaning back in my chair. My stomach was doing strange things and I fought back a belch. “Especially now that I have the house.”
She perked up, a smile spreading far a wide. “You mean, you’re not going to sell it?”
I shrugged. “Why would I sell it?” Another vomity belch attempted to make its way up my throat. “Maybe the bakery. I mean, I can’t run it from Alberta.”
“You could always move back home. Fix up the house. Run the bakery.” Mary made it seem as if this were a new idea, but something told me she’d been mulling it over for a long time. She spoke with such confidence and practice. She looked at me then, eyes glistening with hope.
“Mary…” I heaved a sigh. I hated letting her down. “I can’t–I have a life in Alberta. A job I’ve worked hard to get. You have no idea.”
“So, what?”
Her curt reply caught me off guard, I hardly knew how to respond.
“You said yourself, your man is no good. If you’ve done nothing but focus on your career, then I ‘magine you don’t got many friends up there.” She wasn’t wrong about that. “Think about it. You could go from working for someone else to owning your own business. You can use your God-given talent every day.”
The Devil's Heart Page 3
