Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📕

the overhead chain. The tomatoes were staring me in the face. Grabbing the can, I flicked off the light and walked back into the kitchen, catching Paul and Richard in an embrace.

“Cut it out, you lovebirds. This is all about me.”

Richard ran his hand down Paul’s cheek and gave him another kiss. “Open the tomatoes and quit your whining,” Richard said.

I handed the opened can to Richard, who dumped it into the pot over the onions, mushrooms and chicken. He poured in some wine, stirred it once, and popped on the lid. With some pâté, a basket of crackers and our drinks, we trailed into the living room, where Paul used a long match to light the fire.

Richard eased into his maroon recliner with a slowness I found worrisome. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “I think I need to slow down a little. My joints are stiff and painful. Sometimes I feel a bit weak.”

“Weak? What kind of weak?”

“Like my legs won’t hold me up, and sort of like the flu, but without the chest and head part.”

A thought flashed, a brief bit of lightning. “How long?”

“A week, ten days. Not long. I keep thinking it’ll go away.”

I rested my hand on his arm to double-check, got the same answer. “Dad had Lyme Disease once,” I said. “Those sound like his symptoms.” My ­knowledge felt as sure and real as Richard’s chair.

He looked surprised. “It’s the middle of winter.”

“Lots of deer around here, and you have a woodpile.” I nodded at the crackling logs.

Paul expelled a breath and Richard’s shoulders dropped about an inch. He said, “Here I am thinking the worst. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow. Thanks, Clara.”

“Will it make things worse for you?”

“Probably. Anything that compromises my immune system makes it worse.”

Paul said, “I’ll do some research, see what I can find.”

Richard just nodded. I realized they had this conversation often and dwelling on it wouldn’t help. I smeared pâté on a cracker and settled into the overstuffed couch. It was a big, dark piece for the room, but somehow Paul made it work. A small Christmas tree glimmered in the front window, surrounded by small, gaily wrapped boxes.

“Am I invited for Christmas? That is, assuming Mother’s still in jail.”

“You’re always invited for Christmas, and she can come too, if she gets out. We’re having a Christmas Eve party, champagne, lots of hors d’oeuvres, and roast beef. Christmas Day we’ll roast a turkey. Come whenever you want—Sondra and Joellen, and Alcott and Morrie are joining us. You could even bring a date.”

“Uh, no date.” I recounted my dinner with Pete Samuels, including the painful arm.

Paul looked into the fire, silent.

Richard said, “That yummy Kyle DuPont is our pick for you.”

“That feels—complicated.”

Richard shook his head and looked at Paul, but neither said anything more.

I changed the subject. “Are you going to midnight service?”

“We might. It depends on how Richard feels.” Paul stretched out in his chair, finally relaxing. We chatted about the little details of our days and workmates, the same old gripes we had rehashed a hundred times. It felt reassuring, somehow, as if we could put aside, at least for the moment, our difficulties, and as if, here if nowhere else, I was loved for myself.

After some negotiation about the festivities, we agreed I would bring wine to both events, and that I would ask Bailey to join us, and, if I got my courage up, I might ask the chief—as a friend. I had to submit to some intensive teasing, which, I pointed out, did plenty for my courage.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, its cheering flames reflecting off the hearth’s open glass doors and the faces of my two dear friends. The play of light and shadow smoothed the lines that were starting to form on their faces from worry, exhaustion, the stresses of living. I kicked off my shoes and tucked my feet up underneath me.

“I love you guys. You know that, right?”

They looked at each other first, then at me. Richard reached for my hand. “We love you, too, Clara.”

Chapter 13

Later that night, the dreams were different. The field still opened in front of me, and Mother and I were still running, the bloody cloud hovering over us. But this time a group of ghostly sentinel wolves materialized out of the clouds. One by one, they appeared, and as they appeared, the cloud receded, until it was only Mother and I, in the middle of the field, in the middle of a pack of wolves, their yellow eyes glimmering in the dusky light.

I woke, my heart pounding. Sun streamed through the curtains of my mother’s bedroom. My meditation and my dreams had merged. What did that mean? I threw off the covers, and sat up, and then had to brace myself, my hands planted on the mattress, against a sudden wave of dizziness. I felt as though I might topple, but not from exhaustion. I shook my head, hoping to bring clarity, but it only made me feel as if a giant slug was sliming a trail inside my skull. I’d had only a couple glasses of wine at Richard and Paul’s. What was making me feel this way?

Since I’d left home, I had noticed when the message the dreams sent was particularly important, I would be affected physically: nausea, headaches, body aches—like the sharp pain in my arm the other night. At first, I hadn’t recognized the warning signs. I thought I’d injured myself accidentally, slept funny, or eaten something that disagreed with me. Slowly, I grasped that the physical pain increased when the danger was greatest. The blinding pain I’d felt around my heart before my father died wasn’t panic or grief from the dream, but a warning of what he would feel if I didn’t act. Of what he did feel because I didn’t act. It was a sense memory I’d never forgotten.

Now I was trying to do the right thing. I was respecting the dreams by listening to