When the Heart Falls

Her hands, now flat on my chest, push against me, nails digging into my skin as she deepens the kiss, her breathing coming faster.

My hand tangles in her hair, gripping the back of her head as my other hand strokes her back, moving under her bra strap. “Winter, you’re killing me here. I want you so bad.”

She lets go of me, reaches back and flicks off her bra as only a girl can do. Pulling away from me, she drops the white lace to the side and smiles. "Then take me."

It's too much temptation to resist, and so I explore her body as the sun beats down on us, warming us against the occasional cool breeze.

I take her to the edge of desire, pushing her over that edge into ecstasy, but our pleasure is cut short by the sound of others talking in the maze.

She groans. "I want you."

“I want you too, darling, but I hear other people coming.”

Blushing, she grabs her blouse and adjusts her skirt, giggling. “I can’t believe we just did that!”

I kiss her, lingering on her mouth. “And we'll do it again later.”





CADE SAVAGE





CHAPTER 23





WE SPEND CONSIDERABLE time driving east, then north, crossing through the French countryside and traveling through small villages. We take turns driving until we arrive at Honfleur.

Honfleur is another medieval port town known for attracting artists, writers and poets. Cobbled streets and ivy-covered buildings share space with more modern-looking apartment complexes. We don't have a lot of time, and there are a few other places we want to see before we head back to Mont Saint-Michel, but there's a museum I want to show Winter.

"This is the Eugène Boudin Museum," I tell her when we arrive. "Remember when we talked about art and you told me your favorite painting was by William Turner?"

She nods. "He makes nature into a being with real emotion. Oceans weep and mountains roar in anger. Skies shriek the fury of the gods, or shine peace on the earth."

"Well, they have a special exhibit here of his work, on loan from the Tate Gallery in London. He was one of the founders of this museum."

With a squeal, she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me deeply. "Thank you! This is the best surprise ever!"

We spend as much time as Winter wants examining the paintings, talking about landscape expressionism, and making out in corners.

"This one's my favorite." Winter stands before a painting of a deer in winter. "The first snow makes me think of beginnings, of how pure things can be. The sun reminds me that purity fades."

My jaw clenches. "It doesn't fade. It's ripped away.”

"I suppose that's true," Winter says. "One moment we're innocent, then we witness something, do something, and that innocence is lost."

"Even if it's by accident.”

Her shoulders fall forward a fraction. "Especially then."

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. "Do you think God punishes accidents?"

Winter tilts her head. "Depends on the accident."

"Murder.” The peace of the painting before me is at odds with my own emotions. “Or something worse."

"There's no accidental murder. That's manslaughter."

I shrug. "A technical term."

"What's worse?" Winter asks.

I struggle to find words. "Sometimes people get broken, and nothing can fix them. Sometimes death is better."

She looks at me, her face serious. "I'm not sure that's true, not if you're happy with whatever comes and whatever came before."

"You're happy with all that?"

Winter looks down. "No."

I want to reassure her, but life is too hard for empty platitudes. "No one is."

"I hope you're wrong."

Smiling, I kiss her forehead. "Of course you do. You're an optimist."

Winter shivers. "I hope you're wrong, because if I'm right, if someone out there has faced unbearable evil and they still smile, they still laugh, then maybe I can too." She's shaking.

I hold her close to me. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She pulls away from me, turning back to the painting. "I am an optimist, and I have your answer. God, if there is a God, judges people. If someone committed an accident, or did something wrong they thought was right, then God considers their past. Has this person done good their entire life? Or do they commit accidents often, make mistakes all the time, never caring to learn how to be careful? That's what matters."

I stare back at the painting. "My youngest brother, Stevie, the one you said I took care of, got in an accident. My dad was driving him to piano lessons. They were arguing about a trip Stevie wanted to take with me. He wanted to go to Paris that summer, but Dad said he needed help with the ranch. Stevie insisted. Dad got angry. He stopped paying attention to the road, and he drove them into a streetlight. The pole tore through the passenger side. They weren't going too fast, so Stevie lived. Though his brain got damaged, though he lost his ability to speak, Stevie lived. Sometimes, I feel like he holds on for my sake. Sometimes, I feel like he's already dead."