Chapter 40
Chapter forty
Paisley
I’d never considered myself a snoop or even the nosy kind. So I had no excuse for why I felt the need to examine Greyson’s room while he was away on Saturday afternoon.
Or I guess it was our room now. After Greyson’s nightmare last week, I’d been sleeping in here. Not on purpose at first. We’d get to talking and then I’d fall asleep. But also . . . my mind was quieter with Greyson around. His nightmares were still present, but I knew what to do now.
The room was bright and cheery. Buttery yellow walls littered with frames—photos, art work, and hand-lettered Lord of the Rings quotes.
French blue accents in the quilt covering the bed and velvet suede armchair in the corner.
Matching white nightstands framed the queen bed, each with a matching cream lamp with a blown-glass base.
It was welcoming and calming.
I tumbled through the stack of books on the left nightstand—Greyson’s.
A biography on a World War Two survivor, a well-worn Bible, and a Sherlock Holmes novel.
I reached deep in my mind, trying to recall the plot but came up empty.
Must be outside my current memory parameters.
Might be the perfect time for a reread then.
Think of the opportunities I had to read books again for the first time.
A framed photograph of the two of us perched beside the books. Warmth pooled in my eyes, and I traced a finger over our faces. It was a simple selfie. Greyson was hugging me from behind as we grinned at the camera. We looked so happy.
A wardrobe sat in the corner, and I inched it open.
My fingers brushed the back’s smooth wood, and my heart twinged.
I’d been looking for Narnia in closets and dressers for nearly twenty years.
Like a magical land could ferry me away from my present horrors.
But this time . . . I was glad to stay where I was. Closing the door firmly, I moved on.
One door led to a surprisingly large ensuite with both a shower and a freestanding tub.
Honestly, a bubble bath didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world right now.
But this wasn’t my bathroom, so . . . no.
And I wasn’t going to fold myself into the tiny tub down the hall. I was petite, but not that petite.
I dug through the drawers of the vanity. Everything felt so . . . normal. Ordered. The deodorant—sandalwood and orange—smelled like Greyson. But the bottom drawer made me pause. I tugged out an unopened pregnancy test.
From what Juliet and Greyson had said, seeing this should hurt me.
But with those memories gone, I couldn’t feel that ache.
And yet . . . There were other aches in its place.
Maybe one day I’d feel my own child kick.
Maybe one day all these hazy wisps of memory would cement themselves into my reality. Maybe . . .
Maybe.
The Lord’s not finished with your story yet, honey.
Mama D’s words rolled over me, and I sighed, shutting the drawer with firm decision before leaving the bathroom.
I trusted the Lord’s plan, but I wouldn’t mind a few spoilers for how it all worked out.
The only other door in the room opened into a small walk-in closet. I inhaled deeply. The mixed fragrance of wildflower and leather filled my nose. Two halves of a closet. Two distinct smells married into one. Was that what marriage was?
Two intertwined lives, two hearts, one journey.
I ran my fingers over the army of flannel shirts and, leaning in, I sniffed.
Yeah, definitely woodsy and leather. I ignored the urge to steal a shirt and wrap myself up in it.
A girl had her standards when it came to snooping.
No touching the merchandise. Fingerprints and all that.
Wait, never mind, that was crime scene behaviour.
I tugged the box labeled Journals off the shelf and rummaged through the collection of notebooks.
They ranged from every colour and size—coil bound to imitation leather.
Grabbing a faux-leather burgundy edition, I sat down crossed-legged on the closet floor and flipped open to the first page.
According to the date, it was from six years ago. This would be interesting.
I read the first entry. Then the second. Most of it was mundane. Anecdotes about daily life. Comedic library patrons and Flo’s sarcastic one-liners. Jerry the feline terror. Books I was reading. Satterfield family barbecues. Hanging out with the girls.
Moving on to a thick strawberry-patterned hardcover journal dated five and a half years ago, there was a decided tone shift.
Greyson became a star player in nearly every entry.
Snippets of love letters, transcripts of video calls, a collection of dried petals from flowers he’d had delivered despite being across the country.
A thousand I love yous spilling out on ink and paper from the girl who’d never really known what love meant.
I flipped to the last entry dated four years ago.
September 30
Was there ever such a fine specimen of a man as Greyson Satterfield? I think not.
Poets spend all the time in the world rhapsodizing about gorgeous women draped in moss and bedsheets, but how have they missed an attractive man in flannel chopping wood?
Well, I’m no poet, but I’ll have to do my best. Talk about a sight to behold out the laundry-room window.
The way Grey’s arm muscles rippled while he swung that axe? Very impressive.
I love the man for his personality and the way he makes me safe and how he’s so thoughtful. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit he is also incredibly hot.
Like, so ridiculously handsome it should be illegal.
And he’s all mine. My husband. Wow, I like that word. We belong together, to each other. It’s the nicest feeling in the world having a place for my heart to call home.
As for those muscles—
I slammed the diary closed, face flaming. We were newlyweds then. But this . . . Why am I jealous of the version of myself that had the privilege of witnessing that? Nope, nope, nope.
It’s the nicest feeling in the world having a place for my heart to call home.
That’s all I’d ever wanted in life. And I’d found it.
Jumping up, I fanned my face and studied the rest of the closet.
What I was assuming was my side was now mostly empty. (As opposed to the guest room closet, which was bursting at the seams.) But a white garment bag hung in the back corner. Curious, I tugged the zipper. And gasped.
I quickly moved the bag from the closet to the bed and slipped the most stunning wedding dress I’d ever seen from beneath the protective cover.
It was classy. Elegant. With a wide, high square neckline and sheer long sleeves cuffing at the wrist. A pearl-beaded belt at the waist and satin buttons running down the back. It was . . . my dream.
Too late I noticed the tears dripping down my nose. I had worn this? When I married Jared, his mother’s wedding dress, an ’80s satin monstrosity with beading and puffed sleeves, had dwarfed my small frame. It never felt like me.
But this dress spoke to me, and I was powerless to ignore the call.
So I ducked into the bathroom and stepped into the silky fabric.
It settled over my skin and my curves—few that I had—like a glove.
The bedroom had a full mirror so I stood in front, staring at my reflection, scarcely recognizing the woman blinking back at me.
She wasn’t twenty-one anymore. She had a few more grey hairs and lines around her eyes.
She had glasses that fit her personality instead of the cheapest pair she could find at the department store. She had a few more years of living.
She . . . was me.
And I looked like a bride. Loved. Cherished. Honoured.
I stared at my feet, twisting the wedding ring on my finger, trying to quell the stemming tears. Trying to remember.
Cool air brushed at the open back an instant before careful, calloused fingers grazed my spine.
I jumped, gaze yanking from the floor to the mirror. “Sorry, I—”
“Shh,” Greyson murmured softly, his fingers again at my back.
“I . . . I couldn’t reach the buttons,” I confessed. Like my playing dress up on a Saturday afternoon while snooping made perfect sense. How long had I been standing here anyway? “Could . . . could you help me?”
He glanced over my shoulder into the reflection, eyes meeting mine, his smirk a little devious. “I’d rather help you out of the dress, but—”
“Grey!” I choked in shock, blood rushing to my cheeks.
He ducked his head and chuckled, his fingers teasing my skin. Ever so slowly, he fastened the satin-covered buttons. He was in no hurry.
I held my breath, my lungs burning and my heart racing. Would it even fit? I was a string bean now, but I’d been tinier in college.
His breath tickled my neck. This was new for us. It was intimate and tender. Familiar and yet wholly new.
“What was your favourite part about that day?” I whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he brushed my neck with the final fastener.
Greyson paused, still hovering behind me. His presence was large and comfortable, though his hands had fallen away. I waited for a teasing comment about a wedding night or a honeymoon and tried not to blush. But his serious tone surprised me.
“The moment you walked down the aisle. Seeing you for the first time . . . knowing you were choosing me. Saying our vows.” He smiled softly, lost in thought. “Dancing in the kitchen when we came home from my parents’ place at midnight.”
I filtered through the words, trying to wake up my memories and thread them back into my timeline. My history. Trying to make the story mine again. But like all good authors knew, some things couldn’t be forced.
Greyson pressed a sweet kiss to the nape of my neck. “You’re beautiful, Paisley. You always have been to me. But that’s nothing compared to your mind and your heart.”
And when I peeked in the mirror, my knees nearly buckled at the fervent heat and dead earnestness in his ocean-blue eyes. Eyes that could draw me out to sea and bring me home again. “You make it sound like I’m the most alluring woman on earth,” I scoffed.
Greyson’s smile was warm, like melted butter and syrup over pancakes. “Oh, love, you have no idea.”
The compliment short-circuited all rational thought.
He thinks I’m pretty. The very idea made me giddy.
I turned side to side, getting the full effect of the dress.
Taking time to fully appreciate the whoosh-iness of the skirt.
Very twirl-able. Not quite éowyn heading in battle-ready, but it did have pockets .
. . so ten points for Rivendell. Loved that.
“When is our anniversary?” I asked.
“September fifteenth.”
My favourite month. Always had been. Even though I was an October child.
“Want me to get dinner started?” he asked.
“I made Reuben sandwiches and potato salad earlier.”
He nodded appreciatively, then lightly tugged on my skirt. “Want help with this?”
“Just trying to get me out of the dress?” I shot back, laughter threatening to spill.
Amusement curved his lips; this felt like us. Felt normal. Right. Healing, even.
But unbuttoning . . . His fingers fumbled. And I knew I wasn’t the only one affected.