She remembers the way her body defied her. The way she crumpled, the way she collapsed. The feeling like those dreams where you are plummeting, but unlike the dream, she kept falling and falling. He’d been there then too. Holding her up.
Inside the cottage, Sam helps her get undressed, lays her down. He sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Sam,” she says, her voice catching in her throat like a burr. She reaches for him and when he takes her hand, she pulls it, gently, pleading without speaking for him to come to her. To lie with her. “Please,” she says. “God, please just come to me.”
Sam looks at her, his face full of pity.
She tastes bile in her throat, the wine sour as it rises. And then all that sadness turns to anger, to rage. She sits up and starts to hit him, softly at first and then harder and harder as his body refuses to yield to her hands. She pounds his chest, his back, his legs.
“Goddamn you! You bastard.You goddamned bastard!” she yells.
He glances at their open door. “Shhh,” he says.
And this makes her angrier.
She hits and hits and hits until she is drenched in sweat, until he grabs her wrists and stops her. After a while, he lets her go and she lets her numb arms fall to her sides. Then she lies back down, curling into herself, weeping. But he doesn’t touch her. Not even a soft hand on her shoulder. But he also doesn’t move from the bed.
They stay like this for a long time. Long enough for her ragged breaths to grow slower, more even. For the hiccuping sobs to subside.
Finally, she says softly, “Remember?”
Mena tries to think of the moment she had wanted to share, but suddenly the memories are all fragmented, each recollection a tiny bit of paper, confetti tossed up into the air, falling all around her. Coating her eyelashes, her shoulders, her hair.
She reaches for him then again, still trying to hold on to something, but he is standing. Leaving. And when he closes the door behind him, she starts to fall again, and this time there’s nothing at all left to hold on to.
S am Mason has saved Dale’s life more than once. Thank God, he was there for her after the whole Fitz business. She could always count on him. She has even started to wonder if everything that happened with Fitz wasn’t just a necessary step on the winding path toward Sam.
It was during Thanksgiving break after Fitz went to Eugene that she found out about Sam’s daughter. This was long before she had decided on her thesis, long before the daily Internet searches had become a habit. She actually was just poking around online, looking for a Christmas gift for her mother, when she came across the article on Yahoo! News. She had clicked on the link about Britney Spears and wound up on the Entertainment page where three headlines down was the one about Franny. She could have just as easily missed it entirely. She didn’t give a damn about Britney Spears, had no idea why she’d even bothered with the article.
Novelist Samuel Mason’s Daughter Dies Unexpectedly, it read.
She felt her heart start to pound hard in her chest, like someone banging against a wall with their fists. She quickly scanned the article, but there were no details, no explanations. It simply said that she had died in the family’s home over the weekend. That she was sixteen years old.
In the photo accompanying the article, she was standing next to her father on the beach. She was a good head shorter than Sam, thin and smiling. His arm enclosed her, and he was looking down at her, his profile offering only a half smile.
This was before she found Franny’s personal site, the other pictures.This was the first time she saw her face. Dale saved the photo to her desktop and opened it in Photoshop, zooming in to get a better look. The girl, his daughter, was wearing a sheer yellow sundress. Her long curly blond hair hung in messy ringlets to her waist. She was barefoot, standing on tippy-toes. When Dale zoomed in, she could see white
Inside the cottage, Sam helps her get undressed, lays her down. He sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Sam,” she says, her voice catching in her throat like a burr. She reaches for him and when he takes her hand, she pulls it, gently, pleading without speaking for him to come to her. To lie with her. “Please,” she says. “God, please just come to me.”
Sam looks at her, his face full of pity.
She tastes bile in her throat, the wine sour as it rises. And then all that sadness turns to anger, to rage. She sits up and starts to hit him, softly at first and then harder and harder as his body refuses to yield to her hands. She pounds his chest, his back, his legs.
“Goddamn you! You bastard.You goddamned bastard!” she yells.
He glances at their open door. “Shhh,” he says.
And this makes her angrier.
She hits and hits and hits until she is drenched in sweat, until he grabs her wrists and stops her. After a while, he lets her go and she lets her numb arms fall to her sides. Then she lies back down, curling into herself, weeping. But he doesn’t touch her. Not even a soft hand on her shoulder. But he also doesn’t move from the bed.
They stay like this for a long time. Long enough for her ragged breaths to grow slower, more even. For the hiccuping sobs to subside.
Finally, she says softly, “Remember?”
Mena tries to think of the moment she had wanted to share, but suddenly the memories are all fragmented, each recollection a tiny bit of paper, confetti tossed up into the air, falling all around her. Coating her eyelashes, her shoulders, her hair.
She reaches for him then again, still trying to hold on to something, but he is standing. Leaving. And when he closes the door behind him, she starts to fall again, and this time there’s nothing at all left to hold on to.
S am Mason has saved Dale’s life more than once. Thank God, he was there for her after the whole Fitz business. She could always count on him. She has even started to wonder if everything that happened with Fitz wasn’t just a necessary step on the winding path toward Sam.
It was during Thanksgiving break after Fitz went to Eugene that she found out about Sam’s daughter. This was long before she had decided on her thesis, long before the daily Internet searches had become a habit. She actually was just poking around online, looking for a Christmas gift for her mother, when she came across the article on Yahoo! News. She had clicked on the link about Britney Spears and wound up on the Entertainment page where three headlines down was the one about Franny. She could have just as easily missed it entirely. She didn’t give a damn about Britney Spears, had no idea why she’d even bothered with the article.
Novelist Samuel Mason’s Daughter Dies Unexpectedly, it read.
She felt her heart start to pound hard in her chest, like someone banging against a wall with their fists. She quickly scanned the article, but there were no details, no explanations. It simply said that she had died in the family’s home over the weekend. That she was sixteen years old.
In the photo accompanying the article, she was standing next to her father on the beach. She was a good head shorter than Sam, thin and smiling. His arm enclosed her, and he was looking down at her, his profile offering only a half smile.
This was before she found Franny’s personal site, the other pictures.This was the first time she saw her face. Dale saved the photo to her desktop and opened it in Photoshop, zooming in to get a better look. The girl, his daughter, was wearing a sheer yellow sundress. Her long curly blond hair hung in messy ringlets to her waist. She was barefoot, standing on tippy-toes. When Dale zoomed in, she could see white
Similar Books
