The haze faded away, slipping into the late afternoon sun. Tears fell down her cheeks. “Rory?” She looked around, waiting for his answer. “Rory, please.” Nothing. Only a wind slipping through the marsh whispered a reply. She tried to swallow, but her throat tightened, burned, refusing to allow it. The air jammed in her lungs. She slid to the cool grass and cried. “God, please give him back . . .”
A few weeks and several cans of paint later, the verandah sparkled white once again. Green, bushy ferns hung down every few feet, and the whirring ceiling fan stirred just enough breezes to keep cool, to keep the fern fronds rustling in the wind.
God, she ached for him.
Closing her eyes, she gave the porch swing a push. She could still see him, smell him, could still hear his voice . . .
Are you awake yet?
Kylie sighed. He sounded so real.
“I said –” two strong hands cupped her face “– are you awake yet?”
She nearly flipped out of the swing. When her vision cleared, she stared into a pair of light grey eyes. She reached out, expecting her hands to pass through, but they didn’t. Instead, his hard chest heated beneath her palms. He pulled her close, and she inhaled his clean scent. “Rory.” Her words choked from her throat. “How—”
“I don’ dare ask questions,mo ghraidh.” He kissed her hair.
Kylie’s eyes drifted shut. “What does that really mean?”
Rory’s mouth edged close to hers. “My love.”
“You are a miracle,” she said on an exhale.
He tilted her face up and claimed her lips. “Love always is, lass.” Marsh and magnolia swept across the verandah as they held each other into the gloaming hour . . . and beyond.
A Wish to Build a Dream On
Michelle Willingham
Garrett was completely wrong,Mary Samson told herself, straightening in her seat.You are not a prude who’s incapable of being impulsive.
Wasn’t this impulsive enough? Taking two weeks’ vacation from her engineering position to travel to Ireland? She hadn’t taken a vacation in three years because . . . well, she’d always been too busy. There were simulations to run, project meetings to attend, and countless emails to answer. She’d prided herself on being dependable; a responsible adult with a good job and a bright future.
It hadn’t been enough for Garrett. They’d dated for almost a year before he’d dumped her last Thursday.
“It’s just not working, Mary. I need someone more impulsive. Someone who likes to live on the edge.”
“I can be more exciting,” she’d promised him. “Spontaneous, even.”
“Mary, the only spontaneous thing you’ve ever done was buy whole milk instead of two per cent.”
And even that had been an accident. Mary’s stomach twisted at the memory of their break-up. Her only consolation was that it had been easy. There wasn’t another woman; he’d simply been bored. They’d never moved in together, so there was no furniture to move, no locks to change. Not even a single dirty sock left behind. Here one minute, gone the next. Why then, did she feel so awful, as though he’d been her last chance for a real relationship?
“Are you all right?” her seatmate Harriet asked. Besides herself, Harriet was the next youngest member of the tour group. She wasseventy-five, widowed and wore her white hair styled in a large pouf. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
The older woman handed her a pack of tissues. “You look as though you’re considering throwing yourself off the bus. Or in front of it.”
Mary glanced at their tour guide Neil, who was trying to lead the passengers in a chorus of “Kum Bah Yah”. Reaching for a bottle of Motrin, she nodded. “Always a possibility.”
Harriet beamed and opened her tote bag, revealing several bottles of alcohol from the last hotel’s minibar. “Here. Choose your poison.” For herself, the older woman selected a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Mary doubted if they were supposed to drink while on the tour, but Neil’s perky singing was enough to drive anyone to overindulge. She reached for a bottle of Disaronno Amaretto.“Sláinte.”
The two tiny bottles clinked together, and Harriet offered a toast. “May the wind at your back always be your own.”
Mary choked, coughing at Harriet’s remark. The alcohol burned her throat, and she took another swig. It was beginning to mellow her out. “Sorry.”
