51. Laney
I stride through the woodlands toward home, my arms swinging, inhaling the fresh, clean air.
Bounding along the path ahead of me are two sleek black Labradors.
Their names are Luna and Kyra—two female pups.
I’d decided I could use a little female company, since I was outnumbered, three to one.
Now I’ve evened up the stakes a little. We’re making sure each of the girls is trained separately to avoid the chances of them forming littermate syndrome, but also because they focus better when they’re on their own.
Having a playful sibling beside you when you need to focus on training isn’t a good idea.
They look almost identical, but I can tell the difference, much in the same way I imagine the mother of twins can always tell who is who.
The dogs are still young, and they chase each other as much as they do any unsuspecting wildlife that happens to stray in their path.
I enter the cabin, with its high-beamed ceiling and panoramic windows. I love this place. Right away, I can see that something’s afoot. The men are all sitting around the living area, like they’re waiting for me.
“What’s going on?” I ask, hanging up the dogs’ leashes, though I rarely use them, unless we come across some wildlife.
“It’s time, Laney,” Darius announces.
“Time for what?”
“Time for me to play for you again. Do you remember what I told you when we were in the cabin?”
I do. “That you wouldn’t play again until we were back in civilization.”
“That’s right. The crazy thing is that I always thought civilization meant a city somewhere, with people, and stores, and cars.
But actually, I was wrong. It had nothing to do with places or things, but how we felt in our hearts.
We’ve made it now. This is our home. No one is ever going to touch or hurt you again. ”
He’s beautiful, and my heart swells with love for him. The dogs are for Darius as well, and we’re training them both to give him even more independence when he’s both on and off our property.
Just as he always is on stage, Darius is bare-chested, his hair loose.
He’s utter perfection.
One day, he’ll go back on stage and wow the audience like he used to. We’ve all needed time to heal from our experience, but it’s been almost a year now since the plane crash, and we’re all doing better.
Cade isn’t showing any signs of permanent damage, which is a relief.
The headaches that plagued him after the first head injury have subsided, as has the ringing in his ears.
There’s no way of knowing if it might return, and, of course, he must do everything he can to make sure he doesn’t get hurt again.
It’s unlikely that he will out here, away from the bars and the gambling and the booze.
He’s turning into a regular outdoorsy kinda guy, spending all his time maintaining the acres of woodland around us, chopping firewood for winter, and doing what needs to be done to prevent forest fires. The outdoor life looks good on him.
I’ve sent off the first few pages of my completed book to publishers, too, and a couple of agents.
I don’t know if anyone will pick it up, but we’ll see.
It might be a little too spicy for them.
I think the ‘based on a true story’ part will grab the attention of some of them, though.
Not even having an offer yet still doesn’t stop me dreaming, however.
I’m picturing myself attending book signings and flying off to conferences around the world.
While I wait, I’ve started a new story. This one is about a woman whose boss turns out to be a man who hires himself out to bring women’s fantasies to life—and he just happens to have brought the main character’s fantasy of being taken by a man who breaks into her home to life the week before she starts the job.
It’s a fun, dirty story, and I’m enjoying writing it.
Reed, Darius, and Cade are also enjoying me writing it, as they get the benefits of how it gets me all worked up.
Darius stands, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the woodland that belongs to us as his background. He places the violin beneath his chin and raises the bow to the strings.
I hold my breath, unsure if he’s going to play or not, or if he’ll get stage fright like before. I know we’re not much of an audience, but it’s still possible when he hasn’t played for so long.
The first note he plays vibrates through the air and snatches the breath from my lungs. Then he draws another from the instrument, and another, and another, building on the sound.
Hot tears prick my eyes, and I clutch my hand to my chest.
He plays just like he did that first night I saw him, putting his whole body into it. I can tell his brother and father are equally captivated.
Darius comes alive with the music.