Read Online Resurrected (Resurrected Series Book 1) by S. M. Schmitz - Free Book Online Page B

familiar smell. How many times had she made that for us? It was one of my favorite foods. She made it for me every year on my birthday, no matter what else was going on, no matter what else was happening to her. One year, she had been sick with a bad cold and even though I had admonished her to stay in bed and rest while I went to work, she had gotten up to make it for me anyway. As soon as I got home, she had placed the plate of pasta and meat sauce triumphantly in front of me then gone promptly to bed, exhausted and aching, but she had done it. Because that was Lottie.
    I glanced at the table where two wine glasses stood waiting, a bottle of pinot noir placed in the middle.
    “Oh. Sorry, “ I stumbled. I don’t know if I was or not but it seemed like I should say it.
    Lottie followed my gaze and seemed to catch on. “Lydia,” she said. “She’s had kind of a bad day. Customers can be … oh, we work at this bookstore ….” She looked back over at me, and crossed her arms, maybe fully realizing just what I’d done for the first time. “Well, never mind. I guess you already know that.”
    I just nodded. What else could I do? She stood there like that, waiting for me to explain why I had shown up here after all. Lottie would have known I would have eventually come for her anyway. “What time is she going to be home?” I finally asked. I had a pretty good idea but I was starting to feel self-conscious just standing there awkwardly not saying anything. And my mosquito bites were starting to itch.
    “Around 9:00 probably.”
    About an hour. I couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t kick me out before Lydia showed up. “Do you have something for this?” I asked, showing her the angry red welt on my forearm. It did itch. Badly, actually. But I was just buying myself time, trying to slow my racing heart and swirling stomach that couldn’t decide if it was nauseated or hungry by the smell of Lottie’s Bolognese. She nodded and disappeared down the hallway. A light flipped on, and I heard her rummaging through what I assumed was her bathroom medicine cabinet. I sat down on the couch and finally looked around me.
    Lottie’s apartment. Ok, Lottie’s and Lydia’s. But Lottie was everywhere here. The bookshelves against the wall, filled from end to end and then, when the bookshelf betrayed her by refusing to allow anymore books to fit on that shelf, she had resorted to stacking them on top of each other. My bookshelves at home still looked like that. There was a Nook on the coffee table in front of me, but I suspected it didn’t belong to her. The television in front of me was on one of those channels that streamed music. This one promised to play Today’s Hits. The current hit it was playing was by Maroon V . I know she couldn’t control what music was played, but even the band was one Lottie had loved.
    I heard her close the medicine cabinet and the light in the bathroom flickered off. I looked away from the television and caught a glimpse of the artwork hanging on the wall, a small serigraphic print in thick gold, white and black, with small red lips on this half-face of a woman. I knew this print, this artist. I even knew how much it was worth. I had the exact same print hanging in my bedroom.
    Lottie stood beside me, a tube of hydrocortisone cream in her hand extended out toward me but I couldn’t take my eyes off of “Golden Sorrow,” the woman’s features for the first time finally seeming truly sorrowful to me. I had honestly never gotten the appeal of Martiros Manoukian. I didn’t really get art at all. Lottie had discovered him during an art class she took as an elective during college and was hooked; I thought I could draw better spaceships than he could paint women. But that didn’t stop me from buying a print of “Golden Sorrow” for Lottie for her 22 nd birthday. She was about to graduate from college, and we were moving to Houston soon. I figured it was time for us to have more grown-up,