Am I bitter? Of course not.
Laying on one of two leather couches in his great room, I try to focus on the large glass panes overlooking the lake in the distance. The trees are brown and barren this time of year. The world outside seems Medieval-ancient, and I’m starting to feel the same way even though I’m only thirty-six. I’m so grateful Valentine’s smalentines is over because I hate the reminder that I’m still alone at my age—lonely and in love with a man I can’t have.
The doorbell rings and I push myself upright, the pounding in my head accelerating as I try to stand. I kick the leg of the square coffee table with my sock covered toes, but it still hurts like hell, and hobble to the door, bent over with a throbbing toe and a pulse against my brain. I feel as ancient as those trees behind the house.
“Miss Pam, you no look so good,” Mrs. Kewadin says in broken English. The Native American woman enters along with a rush of cold Midwestern winter air and I shiver enough my teeth start to chatter.
“I’m not feeling so great,” I tell her, slowly returning to my perch on the uncomfortable leather couch.
Why can’t he have normal furniture like my mother’s old sofa? Something where you can sink into the cushions and feel the warmth in the worn fabric.
“I’m going to just lay here a bit,” I say over my shoulder, limping because of my toe and holding onto my head so my brain doesn’t move too much.
Stop thinking about stupid stuff and it might not ache.
Collapsing on the couch, I bring my knees up to my chest and try to get comfortable, allowing Mrs. Kewadin to help herself to her duties now that’s she’s in the house.
I don’t know how much time passes as I drift into that weight pressing sleep where you can’t move a muscle but your cognizant of your surroundings. The vacuum drones. The glass squeaks from cleaning. The furniture is sprayed with polish. My body melts into the cool, crackling couch while I shiver, drawing my knees tighter to my chest.
My thoughts drift to when I first met Jacob. A memory of my deceased dad. My sweet niece Katie.
It’s all a jumble and then I sense a presence before me.
Daddy? I’m hallucinating if I think my father’s come to visit me from beyond the grave. It’s the kind of fictional story I’d like to read—fantasy, thriller, sci-fi, horror—that’s my jam. However, in real life, I don’t need a ghost haunting me.
Lilac? The masculine tenor drifts to me as if I’m underwater. Definitely not my father as there is only one man who calls me that name.
“Are you an angel?” he asked me when we first me. The next day, he decided I was more of woodland nymph with a distinct fragrance—syringa vulgaris, the lilac.
Lilac. The manly voice grows louder, sensual even with a raspy, low tenor. Again, not my father. It almost sounds like Jacob but he’s not due home until tomorrow morning, thus the housecleaning necessity today. I wonder if Mrs. Kewadin is almost done. I really want to go home but I’m not certain I can move from this spot. I’m not comfortable but the thought of getting in my Jeep and driving to my apartment in town does not sound like a wise idea despite the temptation of my bed.
“Lilac, what’s the matter?” The depth of the concerned tone surprises me.
I moan Jacob’s name as if he’s standing before me. I can’t seem to open my eyes. They burn behind my heavy lids as does my throat which doesn’t seem to work other than to groan with the aches in my body. Fever has taken over and I shake.
Something wraps around my body, shifting me, and I cry out at the movement.
No, don’t move me. I’d just found a warm spot on that damn cold couch.
“Hang on, Lilac.”
“Jacob,” I drone, hearing his name leave my lips. Still, I’m unable to open my eyes as my body rests against the firmness of a warm chest. My nose presses into skin and I inhale the scent. Cloves. He smells like tobacco in a good sense and I can’t help myself when I mutter, “You smell delicious.”
A deep chuckle rumbles the chest at my side as I feel us ascend. Where are we going?
Within minutes, I’m lying on something more comfortable than a leather couch, sinking into the depths of what’s under me and covered in layers of fresh-scented clouds of softness that press down over my sore body. Heat slowly seeps into my skin and I melt into a sweet abyss without ever opening my eyes to know where I am.
Continue reading: Fight From The Heart
2014 Playlist
“Barton Hollow” - The Civil Wars
“Beautiful Stranger” - Jon Auer
“A Lonely September” - Plain White Ts
“Needles and Pins” - The Searchers
“Red Hands” - Walk Off the Earth
“Bring Me to Life” - Evanescence
“Demons” - Imagine Dragons
“Everything Has Changed” - Taylor Swift
“Sweater Weather” - the Neighbourhood
“Be Still” - Kelly Clarkson
“Dust to Dust” - The Civil Wars
“Taste” - Josh Abbott Band
“Royals” - Lorde
“Breath Me” - Sia
“All of Me” - John Legend
“Storm” - Lifehouse
“I Want to Hold Your Hand” –
(The Beatles) performed by T.V. Carpio
“Roar” - Katy Perry
(L)ittle (B)its of explanation and gratitude
The original details behind this story:
Some ladies (and men) love their recipes, and this collection of cards is only an example of the type of recipe card my husband received from his grandmother. It simply read “rolls” with the words flour and butter. No mixing instructions. No baking directions. Just hints to help her remember what to put in her famous baked goods.
As I credit in the original work of Sound Advice, now titled and rewritten as Speak From The Heart, I owe another thank you to a fluke sighting in Elk Rapids, Michigan, the real place of Elk Lake City. I’d been toying with writing a story with a Beauty and the Beast theme, but I wanted to flip the story, making the woman the tyrant. I decided to make a male character work within the cold, dark home, but I didn’t know how until I saw a man fitting the image of Ethan in my head coming out of the local grocery store. I had my answer: a chef.
This story is based on a real home that looks cold and gray on the shores of Lake Michigan, and I imagined it houses either a reclusive author or a deep, dark secret. Or possibly both. I have no proof that it holds either. It’s just a house. This is fiction and my imagination, not the real inhabitants of said home.
In 2013, when I finished my first novel, Sound Advice, I immediately knew I had another story to tell. Taste Test was the original title of this piece which was second in the collection at the time and for six years that story worked. This one works better.
Numerous people celebrated the original story, supported it, promoted it, and shared my love for it. But sometimes change needs to happen, and thus this version was born. I hope readers love it for what it is now. Better. Sexier. Richer.
I’m keeping my final dedication from 2014 the same:
Finally, to my children, who I more than occasionally ignore to write and rewrite scenes, and my husband, who didn’t laugh when I said there were five in the collection: I love you all more than anything.