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| #1 International |
| Bestseller |
| Muses by the Lake |
| Author of: |
| Cathy Earnshaw Live. |
| Gregory Hathaway |
| One |
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| Author: Gregory Hathaway |
| I could have sworn that her hands absorbed lightning. All the elements in the universe wanted to be a part of her, but she did not know. I had been traveling from California, detoured in Sin City, landed somewhere between there and Canada and collapsed. I awoke half-heartedly and half sober in a garden where the color of the flowers seemed foreign and there was a strange house behind me that pushed me further into the garden. There were clouds that obscured the sun but it kept running triumphantly away from them as I walked. A shadow. I kept walking and saw a grave in the distance and at second glance I saw the woman who I did not yet know could destroy me with a smile and never realize it. I hid behind a bush and observed her keenly as she circled the grave and then kneeled before it. Her hair, whose color was somewhere between a sad gold and a shallow brown danced rhythmically in the breeze and though I would never would have mistook the muted gleam in her eyes and single painted line that made up her mouth for happiness she seemed strangely content wandering away from the grave but never too far from it or my vision which kept her dress in focus. Thin was the fabric; ancient was the style with flowers, foreign-colored like the ones that populated the garden. The tail of the dress traced the grass as she floated in the late-morning breeze. I wanted her to see me because I had never seen such a flawless, mysterious being and to watch her reaction to my intrusive presence could have been the subject of a thousand books. As she kneeled once again however-the dress flowing elegantly over the grass and she brushed the gravestone with the velvet of her hand I knew that it would be wrong to disturb her and the sacred moment she was having with whoever or whatever lay in the grave. A myriad of feelings ran through me and as the wind guided me away from the being and the strange house pulled me closer to her causing me to fall forward onto the bush and make a rustle. Instantly, I peered up and there was Rachel as if she had been anticipating my arrival and my fall and had flown to where I was during the brief moment that I lay in confusion. "You shouldn't be here." Rachel had the kind of tone I would not have disagreed with but her voice, or maybe it was the way that I heard it, was barely audible and rather hesitantly, as if she had been rehearsing all along what she was going to say but was still unsure of what would come out of her mouth as she said it. " I don't even know where here is," I said confidently. "My sister saw you in yesterday. I'm surprised you're conscious." "I was drunk." "Yes you were." She smiled as if somehow she were amused by my presence. "You were drunk about three Jack Daniels before you came to the hotel." "This is a hotel?" None of this registered and frankly I was still in a state of disbelief. "Behind you is the hotel. This is my garden and my daughter is buried here. You should go." The woman seemed to be purposely trying to remain cordial but grave also. "I didn't mean to interrupt," I said too rapidly. "I'm Greg." For the first time my eyes looked into hers. They seemed faded in the dim light as if they were gray only because they had been blue once. We stayed staring as if in competition and soon we both glanced down simultaneously. "I'm Rachel," she half-smiled beauteously as she turned around and began to walk away. "You should get inside Greg, lunch is included in your stay and I'd hate for you to miss it." "Bye, Rachel," I stammered, but Rachel was already nearing the grave where I assumed her daughter was buried; her flowered dress trailing over the pallid grass. |