Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 107118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I rasped.
“I want to know you, Valan. Everything about you. Your life . . . the good and the bad.” I nodded again. I wondered why I found this so hard when I barely knew her. But as I looked into her face and saw my mamma staring back, I knew. I wasn’t sure I could say goodbye again.
Grandmother’s lips trembled, and her hand shook. “I cannot stay here anymore, Valan . . .” She sniffed and looked away to pull herself together. “I have some family left in Sweden . . . but it’s mostly because . . .” She inhaled deeply. “Because I cannot live in the place that so cruelly robbed me of my daughter . . . of my son-in-law . . . of years spent loving you.”
And I understood that; I too could never return to Louisiana to live. I too needed to leave it behind.
“Promise me you will come and see me,” she said and kissed my cheek.
My eyes closed. “I will,” I said, then corrected myself. “We will.”
She gave me a watery smile and kissed me again. “I must go, Valan. But expect a phone call soon. She laughed, the sound warming my chest. “I will call so much you will get sick of me.”
“I look forward to it,” I whispered and watched her get into the car. Her hand stayed on the half open window as she drove past me, tears running down her face. The cab stopped, and my grandmother fully wound down the window. “Aubin and Elysia are expecting you at the north field.” She smiled. “Go meet them now.”
I frowned, wondering what she meant, and the car pulled out of our ranch and away to the airport. I turned to get my bike, but I stopped dead. The blood drained from my face. My mamma. My mamma’s grave was on her land . . . and she’d left.
My cell vibrated in my pocket. A text from Cowboy:
Meet us. North Field. Now.
I ran for my bike. I’d see what Cowboy wanted, then I would go after my grandmother, to find out about my mamma’s grave . . . about where my papa was buried. I needed to see them. I needed to see them just one more time.
I needed to see them at rest, in peace.
I cut over the fields, following the newly built white fencing. I followed the road around until I saw Sia and Cowboy in a small cornered-off section of the north field. They were standing at the small cluster of trees. Cowboy had his arms around Sia’s waist from behind.
I pulled my bike to a stop. I opened my mouth to tell them about my grandmother, but Cowboy asked, “Is she okay?”
I closed my mouth in confusion. “Yeah . . .” I said slowly. “She wants us to go to Sweden to see her.”
Sia smiled. “I’ve never been to Europe.” Then her smile fell, and a nervous expression clouded her beautiful face. She held out her hand. Cowboy let go of her.
I took her hand. “What’s going on?”
Sia pulled me closer to her and got on her tiptoes to give me a kiss. Her lips were trembling. I cupped her cheeks in my hands.
“Sia?” I asked, and looked to Cowboy.
“Been talking to your grandmother for a while now,” he said.
“You have?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice breaking.
“Aubin . . . what is it?”
“Come with us.” Sia led me forward. The sun was shining and the weather was warm. I followed them around the small cluster of trees. Then . . . I stopped in my tracks, seeing what was looking at me from underneath the shade of a sycamore tree.
My hands shook, and I knew tears were falling from my eyes as I stared down at the ground . . . at two white marble headstones. One reading, “Aia Durand, loving wife and mother.” The other reading, “Dominic Durand, loving father and husband.” A choked, pained sound came from my throat when I edged closer and saw the picture . . . my picture of them, the one I had kept in my side drawer for so many years; it was engraved into each of the stones.
“Love doesn’t see color. Only pure hearts” was etched on the bottom of each headstone, below the dates of their births and deaths.
My legs couldn’t take it. I fell to my knees. I held out my hand and ran my fingers over the headstones. One at a time, seeing their faces in my head as I did so. But seeing them smiling. Not that night. Seeing them so fucking perfectly. Seeing them when they danced in the kitchen like no one was looking. Sitting on the porch, on the swing, hand in hand . . . and seeing Mamma watching from the doorway as my papa played his trumpet to me as I fell to sleep.