Page 38 of Memories of the Lost

A figure appeared at the doorway. Sage, holding one hand over her belly as if to keep her baby safe, said breathlessly, “I had nightmares about the bones. The ones they found at the new estate.”

Clare straightened. “I heard they think it was a teenager.”

“I dreamed it was an angel.”

An old, old pain rustled, and Clare knew enough to tamp it down before it got up and started stomping through her life. With more calm than she felt, she crossed the space between them and slid an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “They’re doing all the tests to find out who it is. It might be a Roman or a Viking or some medieval milkmaid. Let’s just wait and see, shall we?”

Sage sank hard into her mother’s embrace, clinging as if a storm had blown up and the winds would take her with it, tear her away.

Clare held her tight. “It’s all right. It’s going to be okay.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Although she wanted to lie around and moon about Liam, Tillie had a show to finish. To get herself into the right mindset, she set a primed canvas on one of the big worktables under the north skylight and layered it with a glaze of darkest ultramarine mixed with just a tinge of phthalo green, then left it to rest while she showered. Starting the day as she meant to continue had been her practice for a decade.

After the shower, she made herself a smoothie of slightly wilted spinach and frozen strawberries, along with a cup of coffee, and carried them to the easel. Her sketch of the cat with a girl on his back was there, and she suddenly remembered the girl in her dream, in the woods. Letting it surface, she used a soft focus on the painting, allowing trees into the background, a shaft of sunlight. The girl was not quite right, and she tilted her head, took a sip of smoothie, and picked up a black oil stick. Over the flying brown hair, she drew tendrils of black. Better. She smiled.

It suddenly occurred to her that the girl was Tillie’s imaginary friend, Sunny. Of course.

Her phone buzzed. Jon. “Hey, what’s up?”

“You need to call your boy. He’s blowing up my phone.”

“My boy?”

“Jared.”

“Oh, shit. I forgot I told him I’d call him. Sorry, I’ll do it right now.”

“Why did you open that door, baby? You’re just stringing him along.”

“That issonot fair!” she snapped. “He has been texting me constantly, and when I blocked him, he showed uptwiceon my stoop. I’m trying to be kind, but he’s making it pretty hard.”

“I’m sorry. I take it back. Just call him so I can get some sleep.”

Something in his voice was a little ... off. “You okay, dude?”

“I’m good. Just want to sleep some more.”

“All right. I’ll call you later.”

For a moment, she stood in the midst of her paintings, thinking. Dropping the oil stick in the cart where it lived, she held her phone next to her chest and paced through the room, end to end, thinking about what to say, how to ... ease his acceptance. Nothing came. But to honor her promises, to both Jon and to Jared, she unblocked him and dialed.

He picked up on the first ring. “Tillie?”

“Yes. Are you in your right mind this morning?”

“Hungover,” he said with a hint of ruefulness. “Which is to be expected. Look, I’m sorry I keep playing the same record over and over.”

This was a surprise. “Yeah, it’s not that much fun for me.”

Silence. “I just don’t know how to let you go.”

Tillie started pacing, anxiety rising at the pain in his voice. “I know,” she said, and sighed. “And I don’t know how to help you. But we are not together anymore, and we aren’t getting back together. I would like it if we could be friends someday, but that’s not right now.”

“I hear you.”

She stopped. “Do you?”