Last Kiss by Luanne Rice

Author:Luanne Rice
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780553905397
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2008-07-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

THE DAY AFTER THE PARTY, SHERIDAN SAT BACK ON the couch, strumming the strings of the guitar Gavin had handed her. It was a big old Martin, a gift to her from Merle Haggard after a show they’d played together in Nashville.

From where she sat, she could see the Squire Toby at anchor. The boat looked miniature, so far away; she wondered whether Gavin might be on deck, looking her way as he had been last night.

She didn’t have a hangover, but she felt the aftereffects of something. Her wine had tasted funny, but instead of a headache, she felt almost lighthearted. She remembered the taste of his kiss, and the sight of that fire on the beach behind his boat, and the knowledge that he was right there waiting for her.

Picking up the phone, she called Agatha.

“What did you put in my wine?” she asked.

“I thought perhaps you were calling to thank me,” Agatha said.

“That, too,” Sheridan said. “But I want to know.”

“Darling, please. Didn’t you listen to my toast? That’s all I was doing…creating an atmosphere conducive to dreams coming true. Whatever they are. I wasn’t focused solely on you—”

“Maybe you should have been. Poor Nell took a sip from my glass before I realized…”

“She’s fine,” Agatha said. “I called Stevie first thing this morning. Nell slept like a baby, that’s all.”

“Just tell me—what was it?”

“Wild thyme,” Agatha said. “Perfectly harmless…”

Sheridan and Agatha talked a few more minutes, with Sheridan thanking her sister for dinner and the intentions. She hung up, staring down the hill at Gavin’s boat. Wild thyme wasn’t any big deal. It was an herb, grown right here in the garden, and Sheridan knew people used it in cooking all the time. Agatha was right—it was perfectly harmless. But their grandmother had always said “thyme for dreams…” She had told them to look right in their own dooryard garden, to find their own dreams.

Holding her guitar felt so good, a dream in itself. Last night Gavin had told her that some things were necessary; for her, that had always been music. Hearing it, finding the melody, composing lyrics had always been the way she’d made sense of her life. Her fingers picked the strings in old, familiar rhythms and repetitions.

She found herself staring at Gavin’s boat, playing songs from the past. She’d never had to go searching for melodies—they found her. Her fingertips always knew what she most wanted to hear. Today that seemed to be songs for Charlie.

Her son had loved ballads. He’d been the original rough-and-tumble little boy. He’d climb trees all the way to the top, scramble into gullies, collect things that crawled. He’d loved snakes. He’d go to school in clean clothes, come home looking as if he’d been to battle: untucked, unwashed, scuffed, and torn. He’d watch the scariest movies without getting scared. But when it came to music, he loved ballads.

Sheridan had played him the classics, and she’d written plenty for him as well. Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, she’d let him stay up and he’d lie right here on the couch and listen to her play.

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