Fiona put the glasses out of her mind and followed them.
She had bigger fish to fry.
Read her journals, read her journals, READ HER JOURNALS! Fiona shouted to Prentice.
They stepped over the threshold.
Fiona followed them.
When she did, she hit black.
Not her tent by the apple tree and the stream.
Black.
Pitch.
She floated to a stop, suddenly terrified out of her mind.
Where was she?
She wasn’t real here, she was floating.
She looked down at herself.
See-through.
Oh no.
Was this hell?
Did she do something wrong?
In a panic, she floated forward, banged into an invisible barrier and was thrown back.
No! she shouted.
She didn’t want to be alone for eternity with a silk tent, a guitar and some books, no matter how pretty the place was.
And she didn’t want to be with her family for eternity, haunting them, watching them live their lives but never being a part of it.
But she really didn’t want to be here (wherever here was). It was dark. It was frightening. And if she stayed there, she’d never know if Prentice breathed life back into Bella, just like the prince in a fairytale.
She flew forward again, faster, more determined.
She floated into the bedroom.
It was dark, Bella and Prentice in bed.
She looked behind her.
Nothing but windows, balcony and sea.
She was safe.
Fiona let out a ghostly sigh of relief.
She looked to the ceiling and said thanks. Then she asked never to be sent there again.
There was no answer.
Fiona shook off the residual fear and cautiously drifted to the bed.
Bella was asleep, dead to the world (as it were).
Prentice was wide awake.
Even though she was frightened that trying to communicate with the living was getting her into trouble (and sent to the pitch black), this was important, she had to risk it so Fiona still reached out and touched her husband’s hair.
Read her journals, she whispered.
She pulled her hand back instantly when his head turned at her ghostly touch. Then she braced, afraid she’d be sent to the pitch black.
She wasn’t.
She watched as Prentice carefully extricated himself from Bella who, Fiona noticed, was wearing one of Prentice’s t-shirts which was good since Sally would undoubtedly be in in the morning.
Prentice pulled the covers around Bella and she saw he was in sweats.
Then she had to hurry and float after him as he exited the room.
Navigating the house in the dark, he went straight to the guest suite.
He turned on the light beside Bella’s bed, looked over his shoulder and out the two doors he left opened.
Then Fiona stared as he picked up and opened the journal that sat on the top of the stack and he read.
He’d heard her.
Hallelujah! He’d heard her!
Fiona saw that he was reading the latest journal, the one Bella just started.
She got close to him and advised, That’s not a good one to read, try one of the other ones.
He obviously wasn’t hearing her now because she saw his lips curve into a smile as he read what she wrote about the children.
Seriously, Prentice, try one of the other –
Fiona stopped when she saw the smile fade from his face when he read what Bella wrote that day.
Then he flipped the book shut and grabbed the next one.
He started at the back.
Fiona looked over his shoulder.
Then her ghostly body braced.
He’d flipped right to the page where Bella wrote about disposing of the pictures and his ring after carrying them with her for twenty years. Disposing of them because she thought he hated her. Disposing of them because he’d been cruel.
Disposing of them because she needed, for her own sake, to let him go, no matter how much it hurt her.
Fiona watched his face grow pale and his body get tight.
Then she watched him flip the book shut in his hand and he stared unseeing at the bed for long moments. Then he turned and sat on its side, putting his elbows to his knees, he bent forward and placed his hands to the back of his head, even the one with the book.
He looked between his knees and clipped, “Fuck!”
Fiona got close and soothed, You didn’t know, even I didn’t know. How could you know?
He sat back and opened the journal again.
Randomly selecting pages, he read. Sometimes, just the page. Sometimes, he’d read for pages and pages.
He did this through all four journals.
Finally, he stood, his face set, jaw tight, a muscle jerking in his cheek.
Fiona knew how he felt.
She wished she could hug him but, unfortunately, she couldn’t.
He set the journal aside, turned out the light and started to walk away.
Fiona held back, worrying her ghostly lip, waiting for him to leave so she could rearrange Bella’s journals like she liked them (Prentice had totally messed them up).
But he turned back, switched on the light and carefully arranged the journals, chronologically and stacked precisely.
Then he turned out the light again and retraced his steps to Bella.
As she crossed the threshold to her old bedroom, Fiona went back to the stream.
* * * * *
Prentice
Prentice wasn’t thinking.
Couldn’t think.
Wouldn’t allow himself to.
He put a knee to the bed and pulled the covers down Elle’s body.
Then he joined her in bed and turned her to him.
Then he put his mouth to her neck and his hands went to her panties.
“Pren?” she whispered drowsily, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest.
He pulled down her panties.
His mouth left her neck so he could yank them down her legs, over her feet and toss them away.
“Pren.” Her voice was less sleepy, her hands more firm on him when he rolled into her.
He kissed her as he forced his h*ps between her legs.
At his kiss, she opened her legs and her arms wrapped around his back.
His mouth trailed down her cheek to her ear and he tasted the sweetness of her.
She sifted her fingers in his hair, lifted her head, now whispering in his ear, she repeated, “Pren.”
His hands went up her shirt and he found her br**sts.
His mouth found hers.
“I’ll no’ let you go,” he vowed, his voice so rough, it was hoarse.
His thumbs slid over her ni**les.
“Okay,” she breathed.
“Never. I’ll never let you go.”
Her hand cupped the back of his head, the other trailing down his side, between their bodies, down his stomach.
“Okay,” she repeated.
She pushed into his sweats and found him.