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Authors: Melanie Moreland
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Megan.
Except, the thought of doing so made me…miserable.
For a week it continued. Megan would walk over and leave something on the doorstep. I never knew what time of day she would come or even if she’d indeed appear that day, but I found myself sitting, watching for her arrival. The days she didn’t come felt endless, and I was filled with a sense of longing I couldn’t explain. It felt as if I missed her. Although, when I would see her small figure come into view, I would assess how she was walking, then I would step into the kitchen, hiding from her once again.
She always knocked twice.
I always ignored her.
Still, she always returned.
Elliott would sit in front of the door, his tail thumping out a quiet rhythm as he whined low in his throat. If I was feeling somewhat brave, I would allow him access to the back of the house, where his dog door was; he would push his way through to greet Megan and Dixie on the deck. Megan would sit on the top step and watch them run around the beach or stroke their heads as they sat beside her. She looked so small with her back to the door. I wondered if she knew I watched her; absorbing the enticing sight of her there, her brilliant hair swirling in the wind that kicked up from the ocean. I knew how soft that hair was and I longed to bury my fingers into her thick tresses again. My body ached to draw her close and feel her flush against me. I wanted to inhale her lovely scent deep into my lungs and taste her mouth with mine. I craved her, yet even as I yearned, as soon as she shifted, I disappeared from sight, for fear she might see me. She always commanded Elliott home and waited until he was back inside, before she and Dixie slowly made their way back across the beach, out of my vision. They were the best and worst moments of my day—I longed for them.
Once she was gone, I would open the door and see what little treasure she had left behind.
A small plate of cookies for me and dog biscuits for Elliott.
A pair of warm socks for after my next “wade” into the water.
A slice of pie to share with Elliott.
Even a bag of my favorite peppermints, although how she knew they were my favorite, I wasn’t sure.
They were small, thoughtful gestures, accompanied by a tiny card with sweet words of friendship and thanks or a short humorous message; always signed M .
As if some other passing angel was leaving gifts and she wanted to be sure I knew which ones were hers.
Today, I opened the door and looked down, fighting a smile. I picked up the small canvas, studying it. It was a very badly done watercolor of the beach with Dixie and Elliott on it—or more like stick figures of them. She even painted the bluff and what I guessed was my house at the top. Turning it over, I let out a chuckle.
Maybe you’d consider a trade? I’d be willing to give this up for Tempest…
One time offer.~M
I smiled even as I shook my head sadly.
All of this had to stop.
The next day I was waiting. When Elliott’s ears perked up, I opened the back door and let him out, following him, remaining silent. I listened as Megan greeted him, then the gentle raps sounding on my door. I stepped out and watched her as she stood waiting, ever hopeful I would open the door. Only this time she didn’t repeat her knocks and there was nothing in her hands. Instead, I watched her head bow. I could feel the resigned sadness rolling off her, as she turned and sat down at the top of the steps, her shoulders slumped. Taking in a deep breath, I quietly walked over, and lowered myself down beside her, grateful my scarred half was facing away from her side view. Her startled gasp was filled with surprise at my appearance, but she didn’t say anything. I inhaled deep lungfuls of her soft scent, letting it wash over me, enjoying how it soothed and calmed me.
I waited for a minute before I spoke. “You’re still limping.”
“It’s getting better.”
“Not much,” I huffed. “You’re overdoing it, walking
Except, the thought of doing so made me…miserable.
For a week it continued. Megan would walk over and leave something on the doorstep. I never knew what time of day she would come or even if she’d indeed appear that day, but I found myself sitting, watching for her arrival. The days she didn’t come felt endless, and I was filled with a sense of longing I couldn’t explain. It felt as if I missed her. Although, when I would see her small figure come into view, I would assess how she was walking, then I would step into the kitchen, hiding from her once again.
She always knocked twice.
I always ignored her.
Still, she always returned.
Elliott would sit in front of the door, his tail thumping out a quiet rhythm as he whined low in his throat. If I was feeling somewhat brave, I would allow him access to the back of the house, where his dog door was; he would push his way through to greet Megan and Dixie on the deck. Megan would sit on the top step and watch them run around the beach or stroke their heads as they sat beside her. She looked so small with her back to the door. I wondered if she knew I watched her; absorbing the enticing sight of her there, her brilliant hair swirling in the wind that kicked up from the ocean. I knew how soft that hair was and I longed to bury my fingers into her thick tresses again. My body ached to draw her close and feel her flush against me. I wanted to inhale her lovely scent deep into my lungs and taste her mouth with mine. I craved her, yet even as I yearned, as soon as she shifted, I disappeared from sight, for fear she might see me. She always commanded Elliott home and waited until he was back inside, before she and Dixie slowly made their way back across the beach, out of my vision. They were the best and worst moments of my day—I longed for them.
Once she was gone, I would open the door and see what little treasure she had left behind.
A small plate of cookies for me and dog biscuits for Elliott.
A pair of warm socks for after my next “wade” into the water.
A slice of pie to share with Elliott.
Even a bag of my favorite peppermints, although how she knew they were my favorite, I wasn’t sure.
They were small, thoughtful gestures, accompanied by a tiny card with sweet words of friendship and thanks or a short humorous message; always signed M .
As if some other passing angel was leaving gifts and she wanted to be sure I knew which ones were hers.
Today, I opened the door and looked down, fighting a smile. I picked up the small canvas, studying it. It was a very badly done watercolor of the beach with Dixie and Elliott on it—or more like stick figures of them. She even painted the bluff and what I guessed was my house at the top. Turning it over, I let out a chuckle.
Maybe you’d consider a trade? I’d be willing to give this up for Tempest…
One time offer.~M
I smiled even as I shook my head sadly.
All of this had to stop.
The next day I was waiting. When Elliott’s ears perked up, I opened the back door and let him out, following him, remaining silent. I listened as Megan greeted him, then the gentle raps sounding on my door. I stepped out and watched her as she stood waiting, ever hopeful I would open the door. Only this time she didn’t repeat her knocks and there was nothing in her hands. Instead, I watched her head bow. I could feel the resigned sadness rolling off her, as she turned and sat down at the top of the steps, her shoulders slumped. Taking in a deep breath, I quietly walked over, and lowered myself down beside her, grateful my scarred half was facing away from her side view. Her startled gasp was filled with surprise at my appearance, but she didn’t say anything. I inhaled deep lungfuls of her soft scent, letting it wash over me, enjoying how it soothed and calmed me.
I waited for a minute before I spoke. “You’re still limping.”
“It’s getting better.”
“Not much,” I huffed. “You’re overdoing it, walking
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