Monday, January 2
Garrett lovingly beheld the little pixie in his arms, kissed her forehead, and, as the sun rose, gently eased her off his chest.
Angelica wrapped an arm around his neck as he lifted her from the sofa, letting out a soft purr.
She might have sounded adorable, but his heart didn’t smile.
Garrett carried her down the hall, where a quiet, haunting presence lingered, and the floorboards wailed a sad song.
He stepped over the threshold into the bedroom, which had been yesterday’s dream, but with a different outcome.
As he laid her on the bed, his sleeping beauty’s hair fanned across the pillow in the sunrise’s first muted rays. He brushed a stray strand from her cheek.
“Garrett?” Angelica mumbled.
“Go back to sleep, honey, and have sweet dreams,” he murmured, running his hand down her wild, sexy hair.
“Hmmm?”
If a million emotions could pass through him as he gazed at her, they did.
Angelica appeared so innocent, so serene, so beautiful.
A face that, for the moment, hid all her sorrow, yet the scar told a different story.
Despite the stillness, the scar was an unspoken voice, resonating, blasting into the breaking dawn, echoing off the walls, proclaiming the truth. The scar knew the truth all along.
Garrett couldn’t help Angelica anymore. Even with all his promises, she wasn’t his. She had never been.
He pulled the comforter up to her chin and kissed Angelica on the lips. With a lump in his throat, Garrett whispered the words he’d wished he’d spoken face-to-face, “I love you, Angelica. I will love you even after tomorrow becomes today.”
Walking out, he closed the door. As his heart tore in two, Garrett didn’t look back.
Angelica was a dream, an illusion, a mirage. She embodied all those things, but now she’s gone. Angelica was only a figment of his imagination, never truly existing. A phantom, treading softly yet crushingly loud upon his soul.
* * *
Nicholas got up before sunlight streamed through the wall of windows in his bedroom. Sleep was becoming a thing of the past. How the hell could he sleep after leaving his wife in Arbortown?
The ride up to her cabin was long and empty. Yes, Angelica sat beside him, but not in spirit. Her passion and essence had vanished. She lost them when the past collided with the present. Lost them when Ms. Whitely met Mrs. Ponte. All lost because of a damn truck.
Nicholas’s plans came to a crashing halt when the photo hit the carpet, and Angelica slid down the wall. The best plans are only as good as the moment they are made.
If there had been fierce passion in his bedroom a weekend ago, there was fierce passion there yesterday, too.
Pain and anguish fueled that fierceness.
Good and bad became one. The intensity of Angelica’s emotions matched the violent storm on Saturday night.
Was that a premonition? A warning? A sign from God?
A sign from the devil? It was inevitable.
When she returned, which would be sooner rather than later, Nicholas would give his wife space.
Angelica could have her wing of the condo back if she wanted.
And he’ll take her to a damn psychiatrist. But hell, he’ll get her back.
She’ll reflect and realize that when she married him, she got what she always dreamed of and much more—out of Blankville, the man she loved, and a life of endless luxury. No one else could offer her that.
Afterward, they’d fly off to Tahiti. His wife—both of them—desperately needed a rest. Damn!
He would ask Angelica where she wanted to go.
For once, he’d ask, not tell. No more “telling.” He’d learn to ask.
He would listen. He was a lousy listener.
He always called the shots. This would be her “time.” What she wanted.
What she needed. It wouldn’t be about him ever again—it would be about her. This would be Angelica’s “do-over.”
He already screwed things up enough. Hell, he’s screwed up much.