The Watchmaker's Gift

II

Anaya quickened her pace, the layers of red oak leaves on the sidewalk crunching under her leather boots. Her black chemise and skinny pants were hardly suitable attire for the cutting winds of fall, and the cloud-veiled sun did nothing to dispel the mid-morning chill. Cursing, she removed her bag from her shoulder to massage her left arm. Any time the temperature dropped, that damn ache echoed through her bones, an ongoing reminder of the compound fracture she'd suffered in her early twenties.

Late, again.

Anaya shook her head. She hadn't been able to get more than a few hours' sleep last night. Unwilling to take a cab after what had happened, she'd walked the rest of the way home. Nothing had helped her relax, not a warm bath, hot herbal tea, or even her white noise machine. She'd been experimenting with light doses of mood stabilizers, antipsychotics, and antidepressants, but she was no expert by any stretch of the medical term.

Hurrying through the well-tended grounds and landscaped courtyards of St. Jude's Retirement Home, she headed up the cobbled pathway to the main entrance. It was a sprawling estate, spread over three acres in a relatively uncommercialized corner of Emberswick. Once the summer residence of a wealthy steel magnate, it had been donated to the state in memory of his mother. She'd spent her last years comfortably in residence there, as she lost first her memories and then her life to the complications of Alzheimer's. St. Jude had been the saint she had prayed to save her soul at the end.

It now boasted a chapel, a games and entertainment room, an exercise and yoga area, and even a small cinema. Amenities such as these were a significant part of her decision to join the St. Jude's team as their physical therapist. Anaya's own time as a patient in a different kind of institution hadn't included such niceties.

But those doctors saved my life.

A sudden glint caught her eye as she was about to go inside. Anaya's scattered senses pulled together in an instant, her vision sharpened and honed in like a sniper's.

She let out a long, shuddering breath when she recognized who it was.

Gregory.

He was sitting by the pond, the focal point of the front lawn. Decked out in his signature navy turtleneck and dark wash jeans, he tossed bread crumbs from that morning's uneaten toast to feed the fish as he did every day. Today, a wide-brimmed fishing hat covered his wild, black hair which miraculously had only a smattering of silver, and he sported a beard to match. He waved again, the metal band of his watch reflecting yet another stray glimmer of sunlight.

He's waiting for me and I forgot him.

She lowered her head and trudged over to him, frustrated with herself all over again.

Leaves rustled as two skylarks flew off a branch nearby. Anaya watched as they dove towards the gurgling fountain set in the center of the pond, perched on the birdbath, and filled the air with a familiar duet. She settled onto the lemon-yellow bench beside Gregory. Although made of cedar, which was resistant to weather damage and decay, the bench still looked faded and worn.