Butterfly Dreams (4 page)

“Does anyone have anything they'd like to share to start with? Any news that you want to talk about?” Candace asked the group, giving us a rather lovely smile. She looked at Beckett who seemed to have zoned out. “Beckett, we haven't seen you in a few weeks. I hope everything is okay,” Candace said kindly. Beckett startled a bit at the sound of his name.

He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter.

“I had a cardioverter defibrillator implanted two weeks ago. Given my high risk for life-threatening arrhythmia, my doctor felt it was my best option for preventing a future cardiac arrest,” Beckett explained, lifting his hand, his fingers slipping underneath his collar for just a moment.

Cardioverwhat?
Beckett so casually used a lot of really big words that I didn't understand.

But one thing was clear. Beckett Kingsley with the megawatt smile was very, very sick.

I stared hard at the seemingly healthy man and knew that there really was no telling what was going on
inside.
Beckett's skin was a good color. His blue eyes were clear and bright. He appeared…
fine.

But if there was one thing I believed with an unshakable certainty, it was that looks could be very deceiving.

“It took me over a week to recover,” he went on, and the little old lady beside him with the adorable blue rinse reached out to squeeze his arm. There were clucks and murmurs of concern for Beckett, who was clearly very well liked within the group.

Candace chuckled. “I'm sure having to take it easy was tough for a guy like you,” she observed with familiarity.

Beckett gave her a lopsided grin. “Well, I had already resigned myself to the fact that I won't be running a marathon ever again, but it still sucked being laid up on my couch watching
Storage Wars
reruns,” he joked. “But hopefully this will do the trick and I can get things as back to normal as I'm able to.”

He sounded so upbeat. So hopeful. How could he be so freaking positive? Was that normal? It didn't seem normal. I didn't know the details of Beckett's health issues, but it was obviously pretty serious. And I knew, without a doubt, I wouldn't be so goddamned perky about it.

I had always hated glass-half-full people. They made those of us incapable of viewing the world through their obnoxious rose-colored glasses seem somehow deficient.

I didn't understand people like Beckett Kingsley. We were cut from a different cloth.

I started to feel light-headed and closed my eyes for a moment, concentrating on my breathing. I'd be damned if I'd have a panic attack here of all places.

My heart tripped over itself and I felt the pain in my breastbone. I really wished I'd hear back from Dr. Harrison. I opened my eyes and stared resolutely down at my hands gripped tightly in my lap, wishing I could block out the sound of that deep and annoyingly soothing voice that had already tattooed itself on my brain, whether I wanted it to or not.

“Then you can finally plan that backpacking trip you were talking about taking with Sierra this summer,” the father figure beside me piped up.

Beckett cleared his throat and I couldn't help but look up. Beckett was still smiling, though now it looked forced. His entire demeanor had done a complete one-eighty. He wasn't so happy-go-lucky anymore. Though I seemed to be the only one who noticed the minute change.

“Yeah, that's the plan,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

After a few minutes a few more people began sharing their recent news. Stella, the blue-rinse lady beside Beckett, had some nasty chest pains last week and had to go to the doctor. It turned out to be only heartburn.

Geoffery spoke up in between munching mints, about a discussion he had with his physician about upgrading his pacemaker.

Tammy, a stay-at-home mom with a congenital heart defect, talked about starting a new diet that was meant to help heart patients after watching a medical show on the Discovery Channel.

And Beckett engaged with them all. He asked them questions. He smiled. He was so ridiculously upbeat.

Normally I'd share my own story. I'd look for validation. Some assurance that there was really something wrong with me. That what I thought was wrong with me was exactly the same thing that was wrong with them.

But this time I didn't say anything. I stayed quiet. And I waited for the heat of Beckett's stare again.

Ugh!

“Hi, I don't think I ever got your name,” Candace said, approaching me after group had concluded for the afternoon.

After the news-sharing portion of the session, Candace had rolled in an ancient television set with an actual VCR. I hadn't seen one of those since elementary school. She popped in a dated video entitled “Overcoming Obstacles,” which was apparently meant to motivate the sick and downtrodden to keep on chugging.

Personally, I just found the whole thing depressing.

“Uh, I'm Corin Thompson.” I held out my hand and Candace shook it with her giant man hands. I made sure not to stare too long at the very obvious mustache above her lip.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

“I've been experiencing some heart issues. I just wanted to come for the support,” I answered vaguely.

Candace's eyes were kind and she nodded knowingly. “This is a wonderful group, full of amazing, compassionate people. A lot of times some of the members will get together for a meal afterward. Many have been in this group on and off for years so they've developed an incredible bond. They're very receptive of new people. I think you'll be comfortable here,” she said genuinely.

“Thanks,” I replied with a weak smile.

Candace patted me on the shoulder. “Well, I'll see you next week.”

I gathered my purse and headed out of the church.

“Corin! Hey! Wait up!”

Before I could contemplate whether I should ignore him, Beckett was by my side, grinning with his all-American aw-shucks grin. My eyes flitted down to the spot just below his collarbone that I had noticed him touching frequently during the group session. His shirt covered whatever was there.

“So, what did you think?” he asked, zipping up his black windbreaker. It had started to rain while we were inside and it was coming down steadily. I pulled my hood up over my hair and hunched down in my coat.

“It was okay,” I replied noncommittally. Beckett was watching me again and I fidgeted under his gaze. Did he look at everyone like he was trying to dissect them? Or was I just a lucky gal?

“I make you uncomfortable,” he observed, and I instantly went on the defensive. Did this guy have no filter? Seriously!

“Why in the world would you say that?” I huffed, shivering slightly. It was cold. Too cold to be standing outside engaging in painfully awkward chitchat with a man who had already seen me at my worst.

“It's because of my helping you before. I noticed that the instant I mentioned it, you clammed up. You're embarrassed,” he surmised, and I wanted to roll my eyes.

So I did.

“Don't be ridiculous,” I responded breezily, proud of how almost normal I sounded.
Almost
.

“I'm sorry if I made you feel weird. I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I just couldn't believe it was you. I've been thinking about you since that day. Wondering if you were all right. I was worried about you but had no idea how to find you.”

Beckett looked down at me with eyes that had gone suddenly serious.

“You were?” I asked, my voice high-pitched. Why did I feel all fluttery inside at his admission? Why did my heartbeat pick up and my palms start to sweat?

I took a tentative step forward, my feet moving of their own volition.

Beckett nodded and then gave me a shy grin that had me feeling a strange sort of buzzing all the way down to my toes. What in the world was wrong with me?

“I thought briefly about getting a police sketch artist to draw up a composite, but I figured that might be taking it a bit too far.” He chuckled. I chuckled. My stomach did a strange little flip-flop.

Our gazes met and clung briefly and for the first time ever I didn't want to look away. I licked my suddenly dry lips, and I didn't miss the way Beckett's eyes dropped to my mouth and stayed there. One second. Two seconds.

Blue eyes turned molten and I was having a hard time breathing.

Get it together, Corin!

Three seconds. Four.

Then he looked away.

The belly flops turned into a full-blown stomach heaving that resembled nausea.

“Yeah, that would have been a little stalkery,” I joked, trying to dispel the tension that seemed to envelop us both.

“That's what I thought too. Glad we're on the same page with that one,” Beckett said and all was normal again. Whatever that meant.

“I used to get them sometimes too. The panic attacks. After my cardiac arrest. They sucked,” he admitted.

Why were we still talking about this?

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I responded, not knowing what else to say.

Beckett absentmindedly rubbed at the spot below his collar.

“So, I'll see you next week?” He posed the statement more as a question.

I looked at him for a moment and nodded.

Beckett smiled, his eyes lighting up. “Cool. See you then.”

“See you,” I said with the wings of a thousand butterflies beating against my rib cage.

Suffocating. Consuming.

Exciting.

Oh crap.

“So not a good group then?” Adam asked, handing me a basket of fries, which I politely declined. I picked at my salad and shrugged.

“I don't know. It just might not be exactly what I'm looking for.”

We sat perched on our designated stools behind the counter in Razzle Dazzle while a group of preschoolers and their helicopter mothers painted ceramic bunnies and chicks for Easter. They were a rowdy bunch, and my normal love of kids was being sorely tested with this group.

Adam gave the kids a disinterested look before turning back to me. “Just find another group then,” he suggested, and I agreed that would be the easiest thing to do.

Part of me thought I was overreacting. So what if the guy that had helped me during a mortifying panic attack happened to be a member? It wasn't the first time I had endured horrifying and very public humiliation. What did it matter that he had seen me lose it? He wasn't the only one, unfortunately.

I had lived through embarrassments much worse than that.

So what was my problem then?

“Yeah, well, I'm going to give it one more week and if it still sucks, I'll find a different group.” What I didn't want to admit to Adam was that I wasn't sure that the heart patients' group was going to work out for entirely different reasons.

Because, of course, Dr. Harrison had called yesterday, just after I got home from the group to inform me that my other tests had come back normal.

He told me that he wasn't sure my heart was the problem, but he wasn't ready to rule it out. I was supposed to go back in for another battery of tests on Friday. Deep down, I knew that those tests would come back with the same results as the earlier ones. And then I'd be back right where I started. With no answers and the constant gnaw of unresolved anxiety.

I had gone straight to bed with one of the worst headaches I could ever remember experiencing. I had slept on and off the rest of the evening and had to force myself out of bed the following morning.

I was feeling sluggish and lacking energy. The dull ache in my head threatened to explode once again into full-blown agony.

I was exhausted. Sick and tired of being sick and tired.

“Can I have one of those?” Krista, our cute part-time helper asked, reaching between Adam and me to snatch a fry from his plate. I raised my eyebrows in surprise that she would be so forward. Normally Adam's I'll-murder-you-in-your-sleep personality dissuaded people from talking to or even looking at him.

I was even more surprised when Adam didn't rip her hand off and feed it to the raccoons that ate out of the trash in the alleyway.

“Is it all right if I go take a break? I need to run an errand,” Krista asked. Was she looking at Adam? Did I really just see her brush up against him? Adam didn't respond to her in any way so I was pretty sure I had imagined the whole thing.

“Yeah, go ahead. It's pretty slow today, so you can just call it a day,” I said, poking my salad with my fork.

“I don't mind coming back—”

“Go ahead and head home, Krista. We don't need you today,” Adam barked.

Krista flushed red and lowered her eyes. “Oh, okay then.” She grabbed her purse from behind the counter and scampered off.

I waited until she left and gave Adam a reprimanding look. “A little harsh with the employees, aren't you?”

Adam shrugged but didn't respond. His communication style could best be described as scary with a side of I-don't-give-a-fuck.

“Incoming. It's your turn,” Adam muttered as a woman hurried across the store toward us.

“You suck,” I hissed under my breath as Adam slid off the stool and disappeared into the office.

“I'm so sorry,” a frazzled mother said, handing me a broken teapot that her son, who had clearly been raised by wolves, had knocked off the shelf. Normally I would have let it go as an accident. Kids were kids after all. But I had seen the mini-monster in question purposefully throw it on the floor.

I took it while biting my lip so hard I was pretty sure I drew blood. “You'll have to pay for this though,” I informed her, pointing to the sign Adam had insisted we post by the cash register:
YOU BREAK IT, YOU BUY IT.

I had argued that the notice was rude but now I was extremely glad that he made me hang it up. Because I had a feeling these devil children were going to destroy half of our inventory.

“I understand. I'm just so sorry. You know what they say about the terrible twos,” she laughed, pulling out her wallet and handing me her credit card.

I forced a smile and pretended to understand what she was talking about. Wishing I could tell her that I didn't think the terrible twos was the source of her child's problems.

But I liked having customers. Verbally berating their parenting skills wouldn't endear me to the clientele.

I processed her credit card and dumped the remains of the teapot in the garbage.

Twenty minutes later—and after Adam deemed it safe to leave the office—we were cleaning up the mess left behind by the band of misfit children. After I disposed of the pile of broken ceramics, my phone began to ring from the front of the store. Thinking it could be Dr. Harrison's office, I hurried to answer it.

“Hello?”

“We need to have a conversation.”

“Hello to you too, Tam,” I mumbled, wishing I could jump into a time machine and go back to thirty seconds ago and
not
answer this particular phone call.

“I'm on my lunch break and I don't have a lot of time. I have a meeting I have to prepare for so excuse me for not exchanging pleasantries first.” That was my sister, total asshole.

“Well, I'm busy too—”

“Please, Cor, I don't think you can compare your little pottery shop to what I do on a daily basis,” she huffed.

“Did you decide to take up brain surgery in your spare time?” I asked with just enough sarcasm to piss her off. I couldn't help it. I had to get my digs in while I could. I knew that telling her to shove her condescending attitude and holier-than-thou bullshit would only result in all-out warfare that I was so
not
in the mood for.

I'd have to settle on strategically placed barbs. It gave me just the smallest bit of joy. Though it never lasted long.

“Your lack of maturity is draining, Corin. You can't for one minute compare your
hobby
with my career. I'd love to spend my days playing with paint, but some of us have actual responsibilities,” Tamsin shot back, going in for the proverbial kill.

Tamsin was a criminal defense attorney. I knew she had worked hard to get herself through law school and blah, blah, blah. What it boiled down to was that it was her job to defend drunk drivers and pedophiles. She made certain that Bob, who had been arrested for beating his wife to within an inch of her life, only served two years of a ten-year sentence. And while I knew she worked hard, I didn't think she would be presented with the Nobel Peace Prize anytime soon.

“What do you want, Tamsin?” I asked, already emotionally exhausted from our conversation.

“I just got the property tax bill for Mom and Dad's house. I need you to send your half as soon as possible.”

After our parents died, the house we had grown up in was left jointly to the two of us. I had an understandable attachment to the place, though Tamsin didn't seem to share my sentiments.

Tam just didn't get it. She never had.

She had already been living away from home when our mother was diagnosed with melanoma shortly after I had turned fourteen. Less than a year later, Mom had died and our father was diagnosed with lymphoma.

While Mom had gone relatively quickly, Dad had lingered for almost two years, finally passing just before I graduated from high school. And Tamsin hadn't been there to watch him die.

I was the one who had had to deal with all of it.

Even though I still felt strongly linked to the house, I had moved out as soon as I was able. I hadn't been emotionally capable of living in the house by myself. Tamsin worked in Northern Virginia and had no desire to return to Southborough, thus leaving the place empty.

However, when Tamsin had suggested selling the property, I had fought her tooth and nail. There were very few times in my life that I fought Tamsin on anything, but that was one of them. While I couldn't deal with the ghosts left behind in the house I grew up in, neither could I stomach the thought of it not being in our family anymore.

So we compromised and had rented it out. I had hired a property manager to handle finding tenants. Tamsin and I split the taxes and maintenance costs as well as the monthly rent checks.

But the house was aging and I had noticed in the last six months that the cost of maintaining the property was starting to exceed the money we earned from the rent. At the beginning of the winter we had to replace the roof. Just last month the boiler had given out. Between the two of us, Tamsin and I had spent close to ten thousand dollars on repairs.

On top of that, the property tax had increased and I had known that the day was coming when Tamsin would again insist on selling.

The easiest thing would be for me to live there, if I felt so strongly about it. But I wasn't sure, even after all this time, whether I could deal with living in the place I had watched my mother die and my father fade away.

“Have you seen how much the property tax has risen?” Tamsin demanded.

“Yes, I saw that—”

“Because it's too much, Corin. I can't afford to keep spending money on a house I'm not even living in. Unless you've finally gotten over your
issues
,” she spat. “We need to have a serious conversation about what we're going to do with the place,” Tamsin said firmly.

“We could increase the rent,” I suggested weakly. A group of elderly ladies came into the shop and I slipped into the storeroom, knowing that this conversation could very well get heated.

“Who in their right mind would pay more than eight hundred dollars a month for that house? It's a shit hole!”

I started to see red. Tamsin had never shown an ounce of regard for the house our parents had purchased shortly after they had gotten married. Sometimes I wondered if my older sister was missing that vital ingredient that made us all human.
Emotions.

On the flip side, I guessed that's what made her such a great lawyer.

“Look, it's too much. Jared and I really want to sell.”

“What does Jared have to do with it? His name isn't on the deed!” I exclaimed, my voice rising. In some ways, Jared, Tamsin's husband, was worse than she was. Shallow and vain, he seemed to only care about making money and being a prick.

“Jared is my husband, Corin, so of course he has a say in my affairs. Don't be an idiot!” she seethed, and I clenched the phone so tightly in my hand that I thought it might break.

“I can't deal with this right now. I have a lot going on—”

“Is this about your stupid health stuff?”

I couldn't help the tears that welled up and started to drip ever so slowly down my cheeks. I hated crying but it seemed an instinctual response when talking to my sister. Tamsin could be hateful and cruel. Sometimes there had been glimpses over the years of a person who could be kind and loving. But it was usually overshadowed by her irritation with me.

I spent most of my life desperately hoping that my parents had simply never gotten around to telling me that Tamsin was actually adopted.

“Stop it,” I whispered hoarsely into the phone, knowing I was only moments away from breaking down. And my sister was the last person I wanted to detonate in front of. Even if it was only over the phone. She'd hold it against me forever.

Tamsin sighed. “Okay, I don't mean to give you hard time. I just think you really need to get over this block you have about selling the house. Financially it doesn't make sense for us to hold onto it just because it belonged to Mom and Dad.”

I couldn't justify myself to her again. It wouldn't matter anyway. The best thing to do was to shut the conversation down.

“We'll talk about this another time. I have to go.” I didn't give my sister a chance to speak and disconnected the call.

I stood there for a few minutes after Tamsin hung up. Talking to my sister was akin to jumping in front of an oncoming train. Probably avoidable, but totally devastating all the same. She could squeeze my heart and stomp on it like no one else.

Adam came into the storeroom and grabbed a box off the shelf, pausing a moment to look at me as I stared blankly into space.

“You okay?” he asked.

I grabbed my purse and slung it over my shoulder. “Not really. I need to get out of here for a few minutes. Are you good to watch things until I get back?”

“Uh, sure,” he said, giving me a strange look, but true to form didn't ask any questions.

I wiped at the tears drying on my face and hurried out to my car.

I thought about going to my parents' house but I hadn't been back since moving out years before. The house was all mixed up with hard-to-place emotions in my mind. There were so many good memories there. But the bad ones seemed to trump them every time.

Instead I somehow ended up at the park. Which was strange, given that even as a child, I wasn't exactly a “park” kind of person. I didn't like swings. I didn't do jungle gyms. And don't get me started on sandboxes. The thought made me shudder.

I parked my car and got out, walking across the crunchy grass, my shoes soaked after stepping in a pile of melting snow.

I would probably end up with hypothermia. I should get back in the car and take off my shoes and socks. I could feel my toes going numb and started to experience the telltale signs of unreasonable hysteria as I thought about all the possibilities of letting my toes stay in my freezing, wet shoes. Amputated toes. Irreparable nerve damage.

I was out of breath by the time I had reached the far side of the park. I noticed that a soccer game was going on. What sort of maniacs played in this weather? And wearing only shorts and T-shirts? Were they nuts?