The Fifth Stage Part 36

"You're not an idiot. No one can blame you for being a little off your game, considering what you've been through."

I clear my throat. "After Sat.u.r.day night, I flipped out a little.

Probably because it meant something to me, something I didn't expect.

234.

You were right. We made love. We didn't f.u.c.k, like I said. That was rude."

"Yes, it was."

"I'm very sorry for saying that. I'm also sorry for the way I've treated you." I take her hand, and she doesn't pull away. "What I'm getting at is this. I'd like to keep seeing you. If you'll have me, that is."

Rebecca gives me a long stare, then looks away. "I've done some serious thinking, and I'm not sure I'm up for it. It's kind of like the time I was a kid, and my parents took me to Carowinds. I begged to ride the roller coaster, but Mom knew that my stomach was as weak as hers, so she didn't want me to. But I kept on till she let me, and sure enough, I threw up all over the place. I haven't even been on a Ferris wheel since."

She smiles, then she sighs and tucks her hair behind her ears. "Claire, I do care, but I can't get on an emotional roller coaster with you. I wish I were strong enough, but I'm not."

My heart sinks. I knew this was a possibility, and I can't blame her for feeling that way. "Fair enough. I understand, and I don't blame you.

But if you ever change your mind..."

"Let me finish." She presses her index finger against my lips and holds it there. "I'm thinking that we need to get a few things straight right now." Rebecca's eyes meet mine with a focus I've never seen before. "I know how much you loved Lora, but I can't compete with a ghost and shouldn't have to.

"I wouldn't ask you to forget her. I don't want you to. But I'm not her, and I never will be. I guess what I'm saying is, if you want me, and not a Lora subst.i.tute, then I'm willing to take a chance."

I kiss her finger before pulling it from my lips. "I don't expect you to be Lora. You're right, I'll never stop loving her, and I'll never forget.

But it's never been a compet.i.tion between the two of you. I don't care for you because you remind me of her, or because I want you to be her. I care for you despite my love for her."

Rebecca wrinkles her brow and frowns. "That makes an odd kind of sense, I think."

I laugh. "So you know what I mean?"

"Kind of." She taps her index finger on the tip of my nose. "I had a feeling you'd come around but not so soon. I didn't really expect to see you for at least two weeks."

"You know me too well already. How long will it take for you to read my mind?"

"I'm reading it right now."

"So what am I thinking?"

As she leans in to kiss my lips, Rebecca whispers, "I love you, too."

235.

About the Author.

Margaret A. Helms is a Virginia native, who lived in Chicago and Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. before making her home in Tennessee. She has a B.A. in marketing from the East Tennessee State University, and spent several years working in the finance industry. Now she runs a wholesale produce business with Amy, her partner of 10 years. Margaret will be graduating from ma.s.sage therapy school in March of 2007, and hopes to open her own practice soon after that.

Blue Feather Books is proud to offer this excerpt from Val Brown and MJ Walker's enchanting love story, Connecting Hearts Available from www.bluefeatherbooks.com Denise could never have imagined just how the events of the past two months would change so rapidly. She had given up writing altogether, a higher purpose taking precedence over even the most cherished aspect of her life. Sara. Her aunt had declined at a rate much swifter then even the doctors had expected. During the first few weeks after Denise had widened the doorframe to Sara's bedroom the old woman had begun to lose all strength in her ability to walk. It wasn't long before the need for a wheelchair became a high priority.

It had been a hard transition to make; neither Denise nor her aunt were prepared for the loss of independence that it entailed. Not only had Sara's lower body strength departed, but her upper body's strength too. There were the occasional good days when Sara did manage to complete the odd task by herself, but for the most part it became impossible, and she declined a little more every day.

To say that Denise hadn't felt the strain would have been a lie.

Even the poet would admit to herself that some nights when she had finally made her way to bedif she hadn't fallen asleep on the sofa firstshe would pa.s.s out as soon as her head hit the pillow. It wasn't just looking after Sara that took it out of Denise. There were many times while she would be dressing Sara or brus.h.i.+ng her teeth that the old woman would just sit and cry. Not that Denise minded in the slightest; she was adamant about taking care of her aunt. She would do whatever she had to and whatever it took.

Denise had made many alterations to the house. She had converted the downstairs bathroom, installing a liftable seat into the shower to make it easier for Sara to still enjoy the luxury of taking a warm shower. She had constructed a higher frame for her bed to make lifting from the wheelchair to the bed and vice versa much more convenient.

Days alternated between good and bad. Between days when Sara would seem stable, to days when her emotions would overwhelm her, or her disease would advance further and she would lose a little more strength and independence. Denise did know that she needed somebody, and had gone through the motions of interviewing several nurses. But deep down inside something was missing. She felt none of these men or women would look after Sara the way she wanted.

Denise also knew that as much as Sara had insisted that they hire a nurse, the old woman hated the idea of having a complete stranger look after her in ways that she was finding difficult enough allowing her niece to undertake some things.

Through it all Denise had managed to keep her resolve with the help of one person. Randa. Though thousands of miles away, the nurse had provided help and emotional support to Denise when she needed it most. The friends.h.i.+p had grown, and even Denise would acknowledge that. Never did she expect that she would be able to share aspects of her life with anybody the way she had done with this woman.

Sometimes when the day had been especially draining, Denise would retreat to her room and look at the picture of the woman who unknowingly gave Denise the emotional strength she needed to carry on when times were rough. Never had she felt the ability to be so open with another individual, and never had she thought she would come to care for somebody as much as she found herself doing with this woman. She enjoyed their correspondence, their contention on the superiority of British or American chocolate and their easy friends.h.i.+p.

As Christmas approached she had no doubt about the fact that she would send Randa a gift, and Sara had wanted to do so as well.

Denise had told Sara about their constant chocolate debates, and so Sara had asked her niece to send the nurse a selection of her favourite chocolates. Denise, on the other hand, found the prospect of purchasing a gift slightly more difficult. She wanted to give Randa something that echoed her appreciation and sentiment towards the woman, but she found it hard to recognise exactly what that was.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for her unconscious mind to make the decision; she just hoped Randa would remember exactly what this object was.

Denise had ventured into her bedroom and had crouched down under her bed to retrieve a small s...o...b..x. Inside this box she kept the trinkets and memorabilia of her parents. Her father's silver hip flask, cuff links, and a single cigar that was a constant reminder of his aroma. Her mother's earrings, bottle of perfume that had long since spoiled, lace handkerchief embroidered with her initials and an antique bracelet.

It was the bracelet that Denise was looking for, a simple golden charm bracelet with one charm, a golden capsule that unscrewed to reveal a small scroll of paper. Upon this scroll, in very small print, was Shakespeare's "Sonnet Number 116." As a child, the charm and sonnet inside had fascinated Denise. She had explained to Randa that it was this poem that had sparked her desire for lyrical verse.

Hoping Randa would appreciate and comprehend the raison d'etre behind the gift, Denise had placed it into a small red velvet-inlaid wooden box and had wrapped it in silver paper with a light- blue ribbon. She had mailed the package a day later.

Find this and other exciting Blue Feather Books at www.bluefeatherbooks.com or ask for us at your local bookstore.

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P.O. Box 5867 Atlanta, GA 31107-5967 Tel/Fax: (678) 318-1426 Doc.u.ment Outline TFS Front Pages .pdf Copyright 2003 by Margaret A. Helms ISBN: 0-9770318-7-X.

TFS Text.pdf

CHAPTER 3.

CHAPTER 5.

CHAPTER 13.

CHAPTER 14.

CHAPTER 18.

CHAPTER 19.

CHAPTER 20.

CHAPTER 21.

Lora gave me that pouting lip routine she always used to get her way. "Tell me, baby. Are we going to try it?" She didn't have to askshe knew she had me.

CHAPTER 22.

"I don't know, I'm just so moody these days. Sometimes I feel great about things, you know, almost like my old self, but sometimes I'm on the verge of suicide." Tonya purses her lips. "No middle ground?"

"A little."

"How long do your mood swings last?"

I sit up and stare at my friend. Tonya seems concerned, and that bothers me. Fly By Knight doesn't give a horse's patoot about much of anything that doesn't wear fishnet stockings, and if she smells trouble, I might need professional help.

"h.e.l.lo, in there. Anybody home?" she says, tapping my forehead.

"Oh, the mood swings, right? They might last a day or two, but I can be happy as a clam and just start crying."

"Probably a good sign." Tonya falls back on the bed and closes her eyes. Jitterbug hops across me and sniffs her sweats.h.i.+rt.

"A good thing?"

"Think about it. As angry and depressed as you've been, at least you have some up time now. Maybe the depression is easing up. You know, working its way out of your system." She smiles. "I have to admit, you've seemed a little less intense for the past couple of weeks. I think you're getting better."

"Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Knight?" I slap her stomach, and she acts like I've knocked the breath out of her. She rolls onto her side into a fetal position and jabs at my ribs.

I curl up, trying to make a smaller target. "Hey, cut it out!"

Tonya grabs my wrists and wrestles me onto my back. "Don't even try to fight me. I can still take you down." In one deft move, she's straddling my hips and smiling.

"Get off me, you beast!"

"You can't fight destiny, my dear," she croons, doing a horrible Cary Grant impression.