intrigued by the story. “With his agent and closest friends unable to contact him, it's looking like this won't conclude with a happy ending,” the reporter said. “His accountant is keeping an eye on his finances, hoping that activity might clue someone in as to where Devlin Stone could be. And we are certainly hoping for the best. More on this fascinating story as it develops.”
Rolling my eyes, I shut off the TV. Probably a publicity stunt, I thought. Of course, I wasn’t being fair to Devlin Stone. I was holding him to the standards of other military men I had known: my grandfather, my father, and my brother.
My brother had died in combat. It was one of the reasons my divorce has been so brutal. I lot my brother and my husband within eleven months of one another. Granted, I often wished it had been my ex-husband that would have caught the bullet in the chest instead of my brother, but they were just as equally gone to me.
Angry, I toyed with the idea of getting another glass of wine before I went to bed. I decided against it, though. I sat in bed for a while, reading a book about the history of Iceland (it was research for my novel) until my eyes started to burn.
I shut off my lamp and lay in bed listening to the lack of sound in my empty house. I thought of my brother, as I usually did whenever I was sad or upset about anything. He’d been four years younger than me and the last time I had seen him before he died, we’d had an argument.
I thought of him, all smiles and that one little dimple in his left cheek. I missed him terribly. That, coupled with the empty side of the bed next to me, made me feel miserable. It made me want to just sink down into the sheets and drown. You’d think four years would be enough to get used to an empty bed and that nearly five years would be enough to get over a dead brother, but it wasn't. I don't think there was enough time to get over my brother… ever.
Somethings were beyond getting used to. More than anything, I think I needed a friend – someone I could confide in, even a shoulder to cry on. Living in one of the most remote corners of the country didn't help matters, but I would never leave Sitka. Alaska had defined me, as had the horrid events of the last five years.
I reflected on my life and the turns it had taken. The only thing that kept me from submitting to total misery and depression was the idea that I was not yet finished being defined.
That thought clicked in my head as I drifted off to sleep and, for some reason, pulled up an image of Mr. Tanner’s blue float plane. I’m pretty sure I fell asleep with a smile on my face.
6—Devlin
Six-thirty in the morning. Cool, crisp air filled my lungs as I crested the top of a long, straight stretch of trail and came to the top of a hill in the forest. The sunrise looked like something out of one of the romantic films I’d been in two years ago, bathing everything in yellow and gold tones, from the snowy tops of the fjords to the gentle crests on the ocean. I stopped, taking a moment to appreciate the sheer magnitude of the morning. I stood motionless, soaking in the light and the fact that although there might be other hikers on this particular trail, I felt like I was the only person around within miles. It was one of those breath-taking moments that make you truly feel lucky to be alive.
Reality was that my cabin and all of the other cabins on Moose Hill were less than two miles behind me. I had set out at five o’clock with a large backpack and the map of hiking trails I had gotten from The Pine Way the day before. I had spent the previous night pouring over the maps and thought I had a decent route selected. My plan was to reach a place called Catchman’s Overlook by six o’ clock and set up a small tent. I would sleep there tonight and then walk back to Moose Hill.
It would be a nice little two day excursion. My cabin offered solitude, sure,
Rolling my eyes, I shut off the TV. Probably a publicity stunt, I thought. Of course, I wasn’t being fair to Devlin Stone. I was holding him to the standards of other military men I had known: my grandfather, my father, and my brother.
My brother had died in combat. It was one of the reasons my divorce has been so brutal. I lot my brother and my husband within eleven months of one another. Granted, I often wished it had been my ex-husband that would have caught the bullet in the chest instead of my brother, but they were just as equally gone to me.
Angry, I toyed with the idea of getting another glass of wine before I went to bed. I decided against it, though. I sat in bed for a while, reading a book about the history of Iceland (it was research for my novel) until my eyes started to burn.
I shut off my lamp and lay in bed listening to the lack of sound in my empty house. I thought of my brother, as I usually did whenever I was sad or upset about anything. He’d been four years younger than me and the last time I had seen him before he died, we’d had an argument.
I thought of him, all smiles and that one little dimple in his left cheek. I missed him terribly. That, coupled with the empty side of the bed next to me, made me feel miserable. It made me want to just sink down into the sheets and drown. You’d think four years would be enough to get used to an empty bed and that nearly five years would be enough to get over a dead brother, but it wasn't. I don't think there was enough time to get over my brother… ever.
Somethings were beyond getting used to. More than anything, I think I needed a friend – someone I could confide in, even a shoulder to cry on. Living in one of the most remote corners of the country didn't help matters, but I would never leave Sitka. Alaska had defined me, as had the horrid events of the last five years.
I reflected on my life and the turns it had taken. The only thing that kept me from submitting to total misery and depression was the idea that I was not yet finished being defined.
That thought clicked in my head as I drifted off to sleep and, for some reason, pulled up an image of Mr. Tanner’s blue float plane. I’m pretty sure I fell asleep with a smile on my face.
6—Devlin
Six-thirty in the morning. Cool, crisp air filled my lungs as I crested the top of a long, straight stretch of trail and came to the top of a hill in the forest. The sunrise looked like something out of one of the romantic films I’d been in two years ago, bathing everything in yellow and gold tones, from the snowy tops of the fjords to the gentle crests on the ocean. I stopped, taking a moment to appreciate the sheer magnitude of the morning. I stood motionless, soaking in the light and the fact that although there might be other hikers on this particular trail, I felt like I was the only person around within miles. It was one of those breath-taking moments that make you truly feel lucky to be alive.
Reality was that my cabin and all of the other cabins on Moose Hill were less than two miles behind me. I had set out at five o’clock with a large backpack and the map of hiking trails I had gotten from The Pine Way the day before. I had spent the previous night pouring over the maps and thought I had a decent route selected. My plan was to reach a place called Catchman’s Overlook by six o’ clock and set up a small tent. I would sleep there tonight and then walk back to Moose Hill.
It would be a nice little two day excursion. My cabin offered solitude, sure,
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