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I’ve never heard anything as perfect as my name on her tongue as she comes. I vow it won’t be the last time I hear it.
CHAPTER 7
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Roman
My conscience wages an all-out holy war with my body as I lie awake in the dark with Bea curled up beside me. All’s quiet in the cabin, with only the soft snuffles of her sleeping soundly. Wind and the worst of the snow have ceased falling, but there’s sure to be a huge mess in the storm’s aftermath.
Nature models my fucking life.
The fire died out hours ago with no more wood to keep it alive. If it weren’t for the heat between us, Bea and I would have frozen to death in the night. She should have prepared for the weather. Forecasters gave plenty of warning ahead of time. If I hadn’t skidded off the road...if Bea hadn’t found me...if there weren’t so many memories in this cabin and between us.
My mind goes round and round with the what-ifs. If I hadn’t been so careless and insisted on taking the bike out for one more spin before the snow. If Bea weren’t so stubborn. If she weren’t my best friend and business partner’s sister. If I were an educated man with a bright future to offer her instead of a broken-down mechanic old enough to know better than to rattle the cage, things might be different.
I shouldn’t have succumbed to the most basic of primal urges. Bea is not a one-night plaything. She deserves much more.
I slip from the covers and carefully tuck the blankets around Bea. She doesn’t stir. Her dark hair splays across the pillow, messy and tangled. Tinted lip gloss stains the delicate skin around her swollen lips. Yet not a single line or crease mars her relaxed expression. She’s the most beautiful woman in the world.
I quickly round up my clothes and trudge down the hall to the bathroom. I slip out the back door, leaving Bea to sleep undisturbed.
The crisp aroma of fresh snow and the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke lingers cold and heavy in the air. I stop short of the tool shed and take in the landscape before plowing ahead with necessary chores. The sun reflects the light in the millions of snowflakes, duplicating the glistening refractions like tiny diamonds. The expanse of pure white stretches in all directions, creating a profound silence that offsets the busy ruminations of my mind. Icy crispness surrounds the property in a bubble of purity and freshness that only a winter storm can bring.
Winter’s a season of rebirth and new beginnings. At least that’s what Grandma Honeywell used to say every winter when the first heavy snow blanketed the earth. She’d throw the kitchen curtains open and marvel at the snow, straightening her spine as she breathed in the crisp, cool air permeating the glass.
“Doesn’t it just cleanse your soul?”she’d say to no one in particular.“There’s no better time to begin life anew than when the elements make us stand still and listen. Nature knows when it’s time for us to slow down and count our blessings.”
I continue to the tool shed, trying to make sense of Grandma’s notions about new beginnings. A little snow isn’t a sign of anything other than low-pressure systems and changes in weather patterns. It’s nonsense to read more into it than that.
Isn’t it? I can’t just wish for something to be true, and it be so.
The canvas log carrier is missing from its designated spot beside the snow shovels. I prowl through the stacked shelves but come up empty-handed. I’ll dig deeper later. The cabin needs heat now. I grab a shovel and pair of work gloves from the shelf and carve out a path to the firewood rack at the tree line. It isn’t as full as I’d like to see it, but enough to get through the next few days. I load as many logs as I can carry in one arm and drag the shovel behind me.
Grandma’s words play on repeat as I continue slogging through the shin-deep snow to the cabin. How can anyone know when the time is right to change directions? Is there still time to plot out a new path for myself? One that’s worthy of Bea?
***
