S H A D E S

To hell with the paperwork

Mood has a powerful effect on perception. Touch a hot pan--a minute can feel like an hour, put your hands on a hot body, well that same hour can evaporate into a minute. It's all relative. Transient. And right now, as I slid out of the back seat of the chauffeured sedan, the towering stretch of Ronin Estates seemed...less.

The whitewashed walls appeared dull. The once bright, blue denim sky--stark and flat, all of it, worlds away from the vibrancy and colour and texture of only last week. Everything was different. Changed. And I wasn't so foolish as not to know the source of it all stemmed from the dull ache throbbing in my chest.

The brutal, weeping hole Tristan had left behind.

Having explained the whole mess to my father via email, since I was now incapable of uttering even the slightest sound, I was greeted at the door by him and Sheila. Ushered into the main house and up to where I'd once slept. The room had changed since I'd lived here, now one of seven guest bedrooms, but the feel was the same.

The weight of memory, real and tangible as the bedding.

"My girl," Harold sighed, drawing me tight against him. His face severe with disapproval and worry and parental emotion. "Don't worry. I'll have the bastard's balls for this."

I wanted to argue but couldn't find the strength to voice them, thought he must have seen it in my eyes as he answered with, "No one touches my daughter and gets off easy. I've made calls, pulled strings. Long overdue favours and I mean to extract every last one. When it's over, I'll scrape James Verraster off the bottom of these here boots." And clicked his heels for emphasis.

Smiling, I shook my head. Oh Daddy, I love you.

The creases around his eyes deepened, the blue sparkled with mirth. "Love you, too, baby girl. Love you always."

#

The weather blew hot and heavy, the air thick with summer humidity that stretched over the flat, rolling grass; a wall of heat that had a body sweating outside of five minutes. True to his word, George kept Iconic's wheels turning with Teresa and Bobby on hand to manage the slack. With no incoming emails to keep me busy, I turned myself to labouring in the barn, handling horses and tack, mucking out stalls. Back-breaking work that had me exhausted and dropping into sleep like a stone, but I welcomed the oblivion. The more exerted I was by the end of the day the less I was plagued by emotions and dreams and thoughts of Tristan.

The first few days were the hardest with my voice a pale screech at best, but by Thursday the swelling had lessened enough so I could carry on short and easy conversations. Not that I really wanted to engage in any. For the most part people left me alone, offering a wave or a smile, but not much else unless I initiated it, which suited me just fine. I was here to get away, to escape and heal.

There was no point in denying that I missed Tristan with a vicious, primal intensity. Almost as devastating as the loss of a severed limb, learning how to cope and function again without it, but always feeling it's missing weight, the phantom twitch and ache. An odd and uncomfortable sensation.

But I had my pride and had to believe I would find the strength within myself to shed this empty, hollow grief and heal in time. My heart might've been shattered, but my spirit was still intact. I'd rise above this, over it, a phoenix from my own smouldering ashes.

Hauling out a bowl of potato salad, I set it on the picnic tables scattered under the backyard awning. Today my father had decided to treat the household staff and horse wranglers and a few friends with a barbecue lunch. Everyone pitched in with the cooking and set up, my father at the grill, slathering his personal blend of sauce over ribs he'd smoked for twelve hours.