“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I mean, as fine as I could be after running into the woods and seeing Gavin covered in blood . . .”
“Hang on, slow down,” Jo soothed. “One thing at a time. Take a breath. Where were you when this all happened?”
“On the road to Speybridge.”
“The A95?”
“No, I missed my turn. I was on the, what is it, the B970?”
“How long had you been driving?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “About thirty minutes, maybe.”
“And you’ve been up all night?”
“Pretty much,” I said. I was beginning to see where she was going.
“Are you sure you didn’t fall asleep at the wheel?” Jo asked.
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Most people don’t think they did. They just close their eyes for a second, and bam!”
“But I didn’t crash,” I protested. “There was a tree in the road.”
“I’m sure there was,” Jo said. “It happens all the time when the wind gets going. But as for the other stuff . . . I don’t know . . . It sounds like you had a rough night.”
“You think I just imagined it all?”
“Honestly? Yeah,” she answered, yawning.
I sunk back into the bed. She was right. It didn’t make any sense. I must have imagined it. As the tension started to drain out of me, my body got heavy with sleepiness.
“Maren? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I said. My eyelids weighed a hundred pounds each. I struggled to keep them open. “I’m here.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No, I’m good. I think I’m going to go back to sleep.”
I glanced out the window. The brightness burned my eyes. They wanted to be closed. “Now that it’s light out, I shouldn’t have any more bad dreams, right?”
“Right,” Jo cooed. “You won’t have any more. Get some rest, and call me later.”
As I drifted off to sleep I tried not to think about the strange road-trip dream: the giant tree almost crushing me in the car, the bum and his scraggly beard, the blood shimmering as it pooled under his body. As soon as the images popped into my head, I shoved them out. But the one thing I couldn’t get out of my mind, the picture that hovered behind my eyelids as I drifted off to sleep, was the same as the first day I’d met him: Gavin.
Whether he was smiling or scowling, flirting with me or angry, innocent or guilty, it didn’t matter. I was completely and utterly smitten.
CHAPTER 9
After a three-hour nap blissfully free of nightmares, I found myself back in the car again, running an errand for my grandmother. It was well after lunch, and the sky had cleared. Everything—the trees, the grass, the pavement—was still wet and sparkled in the sunshine. The rain had washed a layer of gray off the world and left behind extra-bright, super-saturated colors.
The happy, almost cartoony feel of the landscape convinced me I’d dreamed most of my morning excursion—at least the scary forest bits. I had taken the car out and returned it safely. My grandfather reported there was a fallen tree blocking the road to Speybridge. I was glad I wasn’t completely crazy. And that I couldn’t attempt another trip to the library even if I’d wanted to. But delivering muffins to a church down the street for their bake sale—that, I could handle.
I swung left onto the unmarked road just past the barn with the red, rusted roof my grandfather had described. A small stone church that looked at least five hundred years old emerged from the shore of a glistening blue lake ringed by heather-covered mountains. Sunlight illuminated the steeple and the large, stained glass rose window beneath it, making it seem like I’d just driven into a postcard. A cracked, green wooden sign on the gravel driveway spelled out “St. Mary & St. Finnan” in gold lettering. I wondered which Mary the church was named for, although I’d never heard of St. Finnan.
A statue was perched in an alcove high up on the smooth front face of the church. I thought it might be Finnan, but as I got closer, I saw the sculpture had angel wings and a sword, and a serpent coiled around his feet. Much more dramatic and creepy than churches back home, I decided. I liked it, though. I found it hard to get inspired in rooms that looked like a modern-day coffee shop with plush theater seats. This building—with its textured turrets and gables, ornamented cornices, and a different stone cross atop every peak—stirred me up inside and made me feel like anything was possible.
I walked around the church, wondering if the doors would be unlocked. I’d learned in history class—or maybe it was a Disney movie—that churches in Europe didn’t even have locks on their doors. They were always open to provide a safe place where the oppressed could find shelter—from bad weather, bad people, bad governments. Anyone could run in, say the word “sanctuary,” and be given refuge in the church for as long as they needed. I couldn’t think of a single building in America that didn’t have locks.
I yanked on the heavy, arched wooden door. As it gave way, I noted that the doorframe was smooth and completely without a lock, or even a latch. So it was true. Just for good measure, I whispered “sanctuary” under my breath as I crossed the threshold.
A middle-aged man wearing brown monks’ robes was just leaving the rectangular foyer.
“Hello?” I called out to his back.
He spun around. “I’ll be right with you. Please have a seat in the church. I’m just wrapping up my previous appointment.” Before I could say I didn’t need an appointment, that I was only dropping off muffins, he was gone. I stood in the empty room for a minute, contemplating just dropping the basket and taking off. But then how would my grandmother get credit for her baking? I could leave a note, I thought, but decided that would only leave written evidence that my grandmother had a rude delivery girl. I sighed and headed for the double doors.
Inside, the nave was as still as a graveyard—empty, dark, and a little cold. I shivered, and shrank deeper into my jacket. The walls were lined with the same natural stones inside as out. The floor was covered in unstained wooden planks. I couldn’t help but count the dark, circular knots as I stepped on them.
About three rows from the front, I slid sideways into a buffed wooden pew and sat down.
“Hey!” a voice under my butt shouted. I jumped up a split second after I felt someone’s shoe in my bottom.
A girl my age sat up next to me. “Watch it!” she said, a little late.
“Sorry,” I answered. “Were you . . . lying down?”
“Yes, I was,” she replied, pulling tiny speakers from her ears. “I guess you couldn’t have seen me when you entered then, eh?” She gave me a half smile.