Fairytale Come Alive

Chapter Eight Aromatherapy

Prentice

The taxi slid to a halt and Prentice paid Harry, the driver, a man he’d known his whole life.

He exited the car and walked up to his house, seeing most of the windows were dark but the outside light was on and he saw soft light shining from the windows in the vestibule.

Elle had lit his way.

Seeing that, the decision he’d made at the pub cemented in his brain.

He and Elle were going to talk.

And they were going to do it now.

Prentice was drunk. Not rat-arsed but he certainly was not sober.

And he didn’t give a fuck.

He opened the door, switched off the outside light, flipped the switch on the light in the vestibule and walked into the great room.

A soft light was burning from a brand new lamp by the couch.

She’d replaced the lamp.

He surveyed the room noting something was different and it wasn’t just the fucking lamp which he told her not to replace and he instantly remembered that Elle could be just as stubborn as Annie when she got something in that head of hers, hell, she could be more stubborn which was fucking saying something.

He narrowed his eyes and saw, to his shock, she’d also swept the wood floors. And there were fresh vacuum marks on the rugs where she’d hoovered. And she’d tidied away the bits and pieces the children had left lying around.

Fucking hell.

Yes, they were fucking well going to talk.

And they were fucking well going to do it now.

He pulled off his coat, threw it on the armchair Elle drunkenly advised him to move and walked directly down the hall and up the stairs to the guest suite.

The door was closed.

Since she’d stayed with them, he’d not come up the stairs to see the door closed. Of course now the kids were out of the house. It was just Prentice and Elle.

Which meant she closed the door.

His jaw grew tighter and his resolve grew firmer.

He didn’t bother to knock, just opened the door to the darkened room.

The door to the bedroom wasn’t closed and he walked straight to it, seeing her clearly in the moonlight lying in bed.

She was on her stomach, her head facing him, her hand on the pillow in front of her face. The covers were down to her waist and the nightgown she was wearing was satin or silk. He couldn’t distinguish the color but he could tell it was one or the other from its sheen.

“Elle,” he called loudly.

She didn’t move.

He sat heavily on the bed by her hip and put a hand to small of her back, repeating her name.

Her body jerked, her head twisted to look at him and she jerked again.

Then she came up on an elbow and whispered sleepily (and disbelievingly), “Prentice?”

“Get up, we need to talk,” he replied, his voice curt.

She didn’t move.

“Up. Now,” he ordered, speaking to her like he spoke to his children when they resisted his commands.

“What?” she breathed.

He stood. “Elle, up.”

Then he walked out of the room.

He meant to turn on a light but before he could he glanced her way and saw she was out of bed, reaching for her dressing gown which was thrown over the armchair in the corner.

He also saw the nightgown was a light color and it was edged in lace at the bottom, the lace a far darker color.

It was also very short and, with Elle bent to reach for her dressing gown, it had ridden up, exposing her thighs all the way up to the very edge of her ass.

Prentice felt his body respond to that very alluring sight.

He gritted his teeth.

She walked in, shrugging on the dressing gown.

When she hit the room, she pulled her hair out of her face, keeping her hand at the top back of her head, her hair bunched in her fist.

Her eyes were on him in the moonlit room.

“Are you drunk?” she asked softly, dropping her hand and the heavy fall of her hair settled around her face, on her brow and even in her eye.

He watched this.

He liked it

And when he responded, he didn’t lie.

“Aye.”

She regarded him silently for a moment.

“Maybe you should go to bed,” she suggested, her voice still soft.

“I don’t want to go to bed. I want to talk and we’re fucking well going to talk.”

“We’ll talk in the morning.”

“No, you’ll make excuses in the morning. You’ll avoid me or ignore me and that’ll piss me off. Then we’ll have words which will piss me off more. So, we’re no’ talking in the fucking morning. We’re talking now.”

“I think –” Elle began as she started to move.

He had no idea where she was going just that it was away from him.

And he was not having that.

He caught her upper arm in a firm grip, pulled her in front of him and shuffled her back, his intent to get her attention and negate any attempt at retreat.

He succeeded when her back hit the wall.

He closed in, pinning her.

She made a noise that he couldn’t decipher, fear or anger, he had no idea.

He also didn’t care.

Because it was then he smelled her.

Her scent was extraordinary and it was strong. He’d never smelled anything like it. It wasn’t her perfume which was enticing but it was also delicate.

This was something else.

Something he had to have more of.

Immediately.

His resolve to talk flew from his mind as he dipped his face to her neck, running his nose along its length, breathing in deeply.

God, she smelled good.

Elle went solid.

“Prentice?” Her voice was hesitant.

Nose behind her ear, he asked, “What is that?”

Her body jerked and she enquired, “What’s what?”

“That fucking smell.”

“I… um… what?” she stammered, her hands coming to rest on his waist, putting gentle pressure there to move him away.

He resisted.

She gave up.

His head came up and he stared at her face in the moonlight.

Christ, she was beautiful.

“That smell,” he said. “What is it?”

He watched her blink.

Then she answered, “Aromatherapy.”

He didn’t reply. This word meant nothing to him. He just continued to stare, feeling her hands on him, her touch light.

She went on and now she sounded nervous, “I use it to sleep. The scent relaxes me. I rub it behind my ears, on my temples, at the nape of my –”

She stopped speaking because Prentice felt it necessary to experience this phenomenon and his nose went to her temple, his lips brushing her cheekbone.

He heard her take in a breath.

Then his hands slid along the silk at her waist, curving around her back. Her rigid body hit his as the fingers of one hand curled in at her waist, holding her captive against him. The other hand went up, encountering her soft, thick hair. He gathered it in a fist and used it to push her head down and twist it to the side so he could bend his neck and smell that scent at her nape.

Christ, she felt good.

And she smelled good.

And, he decided, since his mouth was right there, he might as well see if she tasted good.

Which he did, sliding his tongue around her neck where it met her shoulder and pulling her head back at the same time.

She shivered.

Yes, she tasted good.

“Prentice –” she whispered but he realized where his hand was and he also decided to see how that fucking ass of hers felt in his hand.

He released her waist and his hand drifted over the silk and down her ass, cupping it gently and pulling her into his hard thighs.

That didn’t feel good.

That felt fucking great.

“Prentice, step away,” she whispered, her voice not soft but throaty.

Now she sounded good.

Fucking hell.

He didn’t respond verbally.

But his stiffening cock went rock hard.

His lips trailed her jaw.

Her hands came up to his shoulders and she gave a weak push.

“Prentice, step away. We can’t –”

His mouth went to hers but he didn’t kiss her.

He looked her in the eyes and remembered, instantly, what she liked. He remembered how he could make her wild. He remembered that once he’d made her come simply by manipulating her nipples while she rubbed her crotch urgently against his thigh.

They hadn’t even disrobed.

And he remembered her face when she came.

And he wanted that now.

His hand moved away from her ass, trailing up her side, his fingers curving around her breast and his thumb slid across her already tight nipple as he slid his thigh between her legs.

Her lips parted, she audibly sucked in breath and her hips automatically ground down on his thigh.

Holy fucking Christ but she was magnificent.

“That’s it, baby,” he encouraged as he closed a finger and thumb on her nipple and rolled.

She gasped, her eyes drifted closed, her head tilted back, her hips bucked against his thigh and then she moaned, soft and sweet.

Hearing that, feeling her, seeing her, her scent all around them, Prentice lost control.

And he determined that she was going to lose hers too.

And, like he used to do, loving her beautiful, animated face when he got her excited, he was going to watch.

With his fist in her hair, keeping her head positioned so he could see her, he pulled down the lace of her nightgown and his fingers went back to her nipple. Relentlessly, he manipulated it and she didn’t disappoint. She rocked against his thigh, grinding down harder, harder, until her breaths were sharp and her movements were urgent.

Her hands yanked his shirt free of his jeans, fingers roaming his back, nails digging in.

She fought his hand in her hair, seeking his mouth with her lips.

He didn’t allow it. No way in hell.

He was enjoying the show.

When her movements became frantic and he knew she was close, his fingers stopped, his hand curled around her warm, soft breast and she gasped in protest.

“Do you want me?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

“Yes,” she whispered immediately, her hips still moving insistently on his thigh.

“Say it,” he demanded.

Again, she didn’t hesitate. “I want you.”

He was ruthless, for some reason needing it, he pushed, “Say it with my name.”

She kept grinding against his thigh, arching her back to press her breast into his hand, seeking his mouth with her lips. “I want you, Prentice.”

“Call me Pren,” he ordered.

She tugged her hair free enough to get her mouth on him but he avoided it and her lips hit is neck, her nails scraped along his back and his cocked jerked in response.

He knew he couldn’t take much more of this. It had been a long fucking time and she was magnificent.

She didn’t make him wait.

“I want you, Pren,” she whispered against his neck then he felt her tongue there.

His finger and thumb closed on her nipple, she moaned with pleasure, the sound rent right through him and her teeth nipped his neck. His hand left her hair and slid down her back, around her waist to her belly and down to cup her over her underwear.

He felt her wetness.

She was drenched.

She couldn’t force that. That wasn’t a game.

That was all Elle.

His Elle.

He made her that wet.

Yes, she fucking wanted him.

The feel of her arousal nearly made him come.

Then she pressed herself into his hand and he was done.

Hooking her underwear with his thumbs, he tore it down her legs. She stepped out of it while he held her to the wall with a hand in her belly and his other hand went to his zip. He freed his swollen, aching cock and then he grasped her hips.

She helped, giving a soft hop, she jumped up, opening her legs for him as he positioned between them, her sweet, soft ass and the weight of her settling into his hands.

Fucking magnificent.

He drove into her.

Wet, slick and tight.

And unbelievably beautiful.

She cried out, her legs wrapping around his hips and her arms holding tight around his shoulders as he thrust into her, hard, deep, violent and not in his control.

She tilted her hips and met his thrusts, her mouth back to seeking his, one of her hands in his hair trying to guide his head to hers.

He resisted, watching her efforts, getting off on her need for that connection, the pleasure he could see, even in the moonlight, making her beautiful face stunning.

He was going to come, he was ready, and they’d barely started.

He was never going to last until she climaxed.

“It’s never… not ever,” she moaned, her voice rough but it still sounded like silk. “Pren, it’s never been this good.”

Then her neck arched and her body bucked uncontrollably in his hands so forcefully he nearly lost hold. Prentice watched her come, her sex clenching and releasing, rippling wildly against his driving cock.

The glorious sight and incredible feel of it sent him over the edge; he slammed into her one last time and joined her.

She was right.

It had never been this good.

Not ever.

Phenomenal.

When he finished, his face buried in her neck, his breath heavy against her skin, he flexed his fingers into the soft flesh of her ass and ground his hips into hers.

In response, her arm around his shoulders tensed, the fingers in his hair drifted and she trembled.

The feel of her body wrapped around him, her ass in his hands, her still gently convulsing wetness tight around his cock, the scent of her, her lips against his neck, Prentice regretted the fact that the kids were only gone for one night. He disliked the fact he was best man to Dougal and she was maid of honor to Annie at a wedding to be held the next day.

Instead, he wanted what they just had, again and again, until he’d had his fill.

Which would take weeks.

Maybe months.

Probably a lifetime.

He felt her body grow tight against his and her mouth came away from his neck.

“Prentice, put me down,” she demanded, her voice suddenly cold.

At the sound, his head came up and he looked at her. Her face was as cold as her voice.

Oh fuck. What could possibly be going through that head of hers now?

“Put me down,” she repeated.

“Elle –” he began.

Her hands shoved at his shoulders angrily.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed. “Put me down. Now.”

He was confused. He was also on guard.

What on earth could make her upset after that?

“Are you angry?” he asked.

She opened her mouth, closed it then opened it again to speak. “Are you serious?”

“Elle –”

“I said, don’t call me that!” She shoved again.

His guard came down and his temper started rising. “What the fuck’s the matter?”

“What the… what… what’s the matter?” she stuttered, giving him another shove.

“Aye, what’s the matter?” he repeated, pressing her into the wall and not letting go.

Her eyes leveled on his and she said in a voice that dripped icicles, “You just fucked me against the wall like a common whore.”

No, his temper wasn’t rising.

It had exploded.

Even so, his voice was low, even and rumbling when he asked, “How in the fuck do you figure that?”

Her body jerked, she glared at him then he watched something dawn on her, her face going slack before she winced.

“This is punishment,” she whispered.

He was back to confused.

But he was also still furious.

“Punishment?”

“I don’t deserve this,” she said softly.

He was losing patience, not that there was much to lose.

“Elle,” he clipped, “explain.”

She went back to her earlier theme. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“Put me down!” she cried.

“No!” he shouted.

“I can’t believe this of you. Not you,” she snapped then her voice dipped quiet, even hoarse, as if she was fighting tears. “Not you.”

Something was happening and the situation, out of his control and degenerating quickly (as… fucking… usual with Elle), was hitting the danger zone.

“Explain Elle.”

She shook her head and pressed against his shoulders.

He pressed her deeper into the wall, so much deeper, he heard the breath escape her lungs.

“Now, Elle. Explain how the fuck you can twist what just happened into something bad.”

She stared at him and he could swear he saw wetness trembling at the bottoms of her eyes.

“You treated me like a whore, to punish me for what I did. I can’t believe you’d do that,” she whispered.

Christ, what was the matter with her? Was she mad?

“I didn’t do it,” he bit out.

“Yes you did.”

“How could you think that?” he clipped.

He could barely hear her when she finally explained, “You didn’t kiss me.”

But he heard her.

And his body went solid.

For a second.

Then he relaxed, buried his face in her neck and burst out laughing.

He felt her stiffen again in his arms.

“This isn’t funny,” she whispered.

He lifted his head then he pulled her away from the wall. Then he walked with her in his arms to the bed.

“Prentice –”

His mouth came to hers. “Baby, I didn’t kiss you because I wanted to watch you come and I can’t do that when I’m kissing you.”

He heard her sharp inhalation of breath and her fingers curled into his shoulders.

They reached the bed and without hesitation he took them down, him on top.

His hand went to the side of her head, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone as he looked into her eyes in the moonlight.

“This time, you can come while I’m kissing you.”

“Prentice –”

“But you’ll be naked,” he went on.

“Prentice –”

“And so will I.”

“Pren –”

She didn’t finish his name because he kissed her quiet. And he remembered he used to do that all the time too. And he remembered how much she liked it when he kissed her.

Because now, immediately, as she had done twenty years ago, the minute his tongue touched hers, her soft body melted into his.

And he kissed her a lot. And he did it everywhere.

And, much, much later, when they were both naked, he was rocking deep inside her tight, wet silkiness, he knew exactly what she looked like with her hair spread across the bed and her body underneath him, Prentice made her come while he was kissing her.

And that, too, was phenomenal.

Fiona

Fiona was back in the place she went to when she died.

She hadn’t been there in ages.

It was nice enough.

Well, actually, it was lovely. With a gently rolling stream, trees in fragrant bloom, abundant wildflowers, the grass so green it nearly hurt her eyes and it was so thick, you could sleep on it.

There was a big tent there, made of silk, next to an apple tree, its blossoms carpeting the roof of the tent and all around. The flaps of the tent were opened wide and inside there were soft rugs, a comfy armchair with ottoman next to which there was a ready supply of the grisly crime novels Fiona liked to read. There was also a lovely guitar she could play and a big bed with a downy mattress, stacks of pillows and a fluffy duvet.

Fiona was real there. She walked with her feet on the ground, she didn’t float. Her body was solid, not see-through. She could feel things and move things without concentrating.

And there was night and day and she slept there.

She went there directly after she died and she thought, at first, it was heaven.

It was heavenly enough but she was alone and she didn’t think heaven would be eternal solitude. That would stink, and heaven, in her mind, didn’t stink.

But she’d been tired back then, tired from fighting the pain and tired from knowing what her body’s weakness was doing to her family.

So, when she first arrived, she slept a lot. And she slept well. And she got used to no pain and tiredness (but not to being dead).

Then one day she was walking along the stream and trying to figure out the different scents of the trees (because what the bloody else was there to do?) and zip, all of a sudden she was a ghost in her great room watching Prentice and Jason, both looking handsome but haggard, in dark suits, and Sally, looking confused and exhausted, in a pretty little black dress, coming through the front door.

At first, she didn’t know she was a ghost and thought she’d been granted a reprieve.

She was back, she was in her home, she had no pain and there was her family.

It didn’t take long to realize they couldn’t see her because, looking down, she could barely see herself and that she was dead, dead, dead because they’d just arrived back from her funeral.

It did take awhile for her to get used to this cruel twist of fate but she did and she’d been with them ever since. She spent her time haunting them (of course), being pissed off (of course) and learning how to materialize and dematerialize, not only in her house, but anywhere in the village.

She tried to go somewhere else, like Los Angeles where she’d always wanted to go but she couldn’t leave the village even in the company of, say, Prentice or her sister Morag when they left town. Any time she’d try, she’d automatically dematerialize and end up back at the house (which also pissed her off).

She hadn’t been able to be seen or heard, not that she tried too hard because she’d involuntarily damaged her family psychologically enough without them hearing her ghostly voice or seeing her ghostly body.

Now, with Bella around, she’d been so excited about her new abilities, she’d spent the last two days testing them.

And she’d spent that time watching Prentice and Bella play their crazy game.

The abilities part was good. She was getting stronger, understanding the focus she needed to manipulate things, happy that her anger, frustration and grief at being dead had some use. She got so good at it, she couldn’t only move things; she could even pick things up and hold them.

She was also able to talk to Bella. Bella definitely heard her. That was why the laundry got done, the ironing got done, the vacuuming and sweeping got done (her house was going to be taken over by dust mites if Bella didn’t do something about it, and she did, without hesitation, after Fiona screamed at her that it had to get done) and Sally got a chocolate cake (her favorite) but only after she ate her broccoli.

Of course, Bella did these things for other reasons too. Fiona knew that. After all she saw and heard these last days; she knew Bella wasn’t what she’d thought Bella was for all those years.

Instead, Fiona knew Bella’s soft heart and unique understanding meant Bella would have taken care with Fiona’s children, even if, perhaps, she wouldn’t have ironed Prentice’s shirts while she was doing it.

And Fiona had to admit, she was grimly fascinated by Prentice and Bella’s game.

They bickered a lot.

And Prentice obviously enjoyed it.

In the time Fiona and Prentice were courting before they married and a few years after, Fiona had worried she’d never live up to all that was Bella.

Prentice and Bella had an obviously passionate relationship. Everyone knew it because they saw it and they were amused by it because, even all that fighting and bickering was somehow sweet especially considering, when they weren’t fighting and bickering, they were clearly deeply in love.

It was something he and Fiona didn’t have.

Prentice and Fiona had a comfortable, easy life filled with laughter.

They had great sex, a lot of closeness and Prentice was affectionate but Fiona wasn’t nearly as passionate as he was so that part stayed only in the bedroom.

It didn’t spill out to life.

It spilled out everywhere with Prentice and Bella.

Bella and Prentice, when they were together, fought and they bickered.

And Bella challenged Prentice in a way Fiona knew she never could. Bella was well-educated, read a great deal and she’d travelled. Prentice, too, got top marks, got into a top university, read any book he could get his hands on and had spent three summers abroad, backpacking on the cheap and with a relentless schedule to see as much of the architecture in Europe as he could.

Fiona liked it in her village and rarely left though she wanted to see Los Angeles, not enough actually to go when Prentice offered it as a family holiday. Fiona said they’d go when Sally was older so Sally could go to Disneyland (what a fool she was). She read her crime novels but she didn’t read anything high-brow and she didn’t read many of her crime novels either.

She was happy with the simple life and, after awhile, Prentice convinced her he was happy with it too.

But the longer Bella remained in the house, the more alive he seemed.

And if she wasn’t already dead, watching that would have killed her.

She was back to hating Bella when, the night of the stag party, even though she knew it wasn’t right, she started to read Bella’s journals.

She floated, cross-legged above the floor by Bella’s bed while Bella slept and Fiona read.

And she couldn’t believe what she read.

One day, years ago, Fiona was in the fruit and veg shop when Hattie had made some vicious comment about some famous pop star who’d gone off the rails and Old Lady Kilbride, who was also there, heard her.

“You don’t know the demons she carries, Hattie Fennick,” Mrs. Kilbride said sharply. “You don’t know. Her life may seem charmed and glamorous to you but everyone has demons. Everyone.”

Old Lady Kilbride was right.

And Isabella Austin Evangahlala had demons and her demons were doozies.

She seemed like she had it all. She was beautiful, rich, well-educated, jet-set, stylish, classy.

But she had an abusive father who used to berate verbally and alternately beat her mentally unstable mother.

This, Bella had witnessed.

He also verbally berated and sometimes slapped Bella.

She had a best friend who’d lost her joy for life and Bella worked for years trying to help her find it again and luckily succeeded, Fiona learned through the journals, that while she and Prentice were encouraging Dougal from close by, from a distance, Bella was also encouraging Annie.

Bella also had a husband who played around on her constantly, even once she’d walked in on him and another woman.

He’d also taunted her with her inability to give him children, something Bella yearned for to the point of despair.

And he’d not allowed them to settle down even though she wanted a home. They owned several properties but they never stayed in one long. They travelled around like nomads from party to party, yacht to yacht, ski resort to ski resort, event to event, incessantly.

Bella missed her mother who she adored and she had vivid, excruciating dreams, even after all these years, of finding her dead in the tub.

And last, but not least, Bella loved Prentice in a fierce, beautiful way that Fiona had to admit that even she hadn’t loved him.

And that love never, never died.

Ghostly tears were falling from her ghostly eyes at all Bella had endured (and it was never-ending, no wonder the woman clenched her fists, all that pain had to be unleashed somewhere) when Fiona sensed Prentice’s presence nearing the house.

She flipped shut the third journal (her ghostly abilities extended to super-fast reading which had been a boon) and carefully arranged them in the tidy pile in which Bella liked them.

Then Fiona dematerialized and materialized in the living room.

Prentice was standing stock-still staring at the rug.

He looked angry.

Oh for goodness sakes. What was he pissed off about now?

Then he took off his coat, flung it on the chair and stalked to the hallway.

Fiona followed him, worrying so much she was wringing her hands and shouting at him to leave Bella be. She needed her sleep. She had to get some rest for the wedding tomorrow. She didn’t sleep well and she was sleeping soundly now.

But, of course, he didn’t hear her. In fact, when he encountered Bella’s closed door, instead of knocking or, better yet, turning away, he walked right in.

Fiona followed and as she would have floated over the threshold, she disappeared and reappeared in her whatever-it-was place.

And there she remained, all night.

She’d tried to dematerialize and go back but she couldn’t. Her efforts exhausted her and, finally, she slept.

Opening her eyes, she saw the light coming through the silk tent.

She threw off the covers wondering again why she was bloody well there, hoping she wouldn’t be there long and terrified she’d be there for eternity.

She had to warn Bella that Prentice was angry.

She walked out of the flaps of the tent and instantly vaporized, returning to her home.

Returning to the guest suite in her home.

To be precise, the bedroom of the guest suite in her home.

She floated back, reeling at what she saw and nearly floated through the wall of the room (she tried not to float through walls, it gave her a spooked feeling, seeing insulation and floating through supports, it was creepy).

She drifted and stared at the bed.

Prentice and Bella were in it sleeping, the sunlight shining through windows on their bodies.

They were naked, the covers down to their waists though Fiona couldn’t see much of anything considering Prentice had Bella tucked tight to him, his arm around her, his bicep shielding Bella’s breast from view. His arm was cocked, as was hers under his, their fingers laced, hands resting on the mattress in front of her face which was tilted forward on the pillow. Prentice’s head was tilted too, his face in the hair at the back of her head.

Fiona felt her ghostly chest tighten at the sight of them.

Prentice cuddled Fiona only after they’d made love and sometimes when they went to bed together (he usually worked late or read and came to bed after her).

And he usually did this only for awhile, eventually rolling away from her.

Never sleeping with her cradled in his arms. Never holding her all night like she was a precious possession he was keeping safe.

Fiona knew why whatever powers that be sent her from her home last night.

And she was thankful for that.

But she was in agony over what she was witnessing right now.

She wanted to scream, she wanted to rail, she wanted to tear her hair out or, better yet, Isabella Austin Evangahlala’s long, thick, golden tresses.

But before she could do any of this, Bella’s eyes opened.

For a second she looked sated, satisfied…

Happy.

Nearly instantly, that look disappeared and utter fear filled her expression.

Fiona forgot her wrath and stared.

What on earth?

Taking great care, Bella uncurled her fingers from Prentice’s and, gently, with agonizing slowness, she exited the bed.

Prentice didn’t move.

Once he was in a deep sleep, Prentice could sleep through almost anything. Fiona had been lucky he didn’t snore, he would never wake if she had to shove him or kick him, that’s how deeply he slept (which meant, when they were babies, Jason and Sally never woke Prentice with their middle of the night cries and Fiona practically had to push him out of bed when it was his turn to feed them which drove Fiona up the blooming wall).

Therefore, Prentice slept through Bella leaving him in bed.

And he slept through Bella, on silent feet with silent but trembling hands and completely silent tears, packing every single possession that was hers in the guest suite.

She did this quickly but tidily, leaving behind only the scented candles she bought.

Then she dressed in jeans, a sweater and high-heeled boots that she’d set aside. Then she carried her cosmetics case and her heaviest suitcase out to her rental car.

Fiona floated in the bedroom while all this happened, not sure what to do.

Fiona Cameron, Prentice Cameron’s wife, wanted the woman gone.

But Fiona Cameron, the dead woman who loved her husband and children, had conflicting thoughts.

She looked at Prentice, unaware and asleep.

He was a handsome, fit, forty-five year old widower who deserved more out of life than grief, a heavy workload, an anguished son and a constant mountain of laundry he hated to do.

He deserved to bicker.

He deserved to be challenged.

He deserved to laugh.

He deserved to have a beautiful, rich, well-educated, jet-set, stylish, classy woman in his life (and, also, one who was corporeal and breathing).

A woman who had loved him for twenty years.

A woman who had carried around his photo in a silver frame and wore his ring on a chain around her neck for twenty fucking years.

As much as Fiona hated it, she knew he deserved it.

And her son deserved to live with a woman who understood the depths of his pain.

And his daughter deserved chocolate cake and she needed someone to teach her how to make them and, Lord knew, Prentice couldn’t do that.

And Bella…

Well, Bella wasn’t the only one with a soft heart and Fiona knew that Bella deserved all of them.

When Bella came back to get the last two cases, Fiona’s decision made, she dashed to her and started shouting.

What are you doing? Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave!

Bella shook her head as if clearing her thoughts and Fiona knew she could hear her.

Don’t do it, Bella. Don’t. He needs you and you need him! You need all of them!

Fiona heard Bella’s breath hitch as she held back a sob but she exited the front door and threw her cases in the boot of her car.

Think of Annie! Fiona cried.

“I’ll not let Annie down,” Bella murmured and Fiona would have gasped (but, obviously she didn’t as she couldn’t) when Bella spoke directly to her.

Good, then go back!

“I can’t go back.”

Fiona closed her ghostly eyes and shouted her frustration.

Then she panicked.

For, she knew, Prentice was a two strikes kind of man.

He’d forgive you anything.

Once.

Twice, he’d never forgive.

Wrong him twice and you were dead to him. If Bella left him twice he’d never forgive her.

Ever.

Fiona thought fast as Bella slammed the boot of the car.

Then it came to her.

Go back, write him a note. You don’t have to explain. Just say good-bye.

Bella shook her head again, moving toward the driver’s side door.

Just good-bye. That’s it. Don’t leave without saying good-bye.

Bella opened the door.

Fiona wrapped her hands around Bella’s arm and pleaded, Please, tell him good-bye. He deserves that!

Bella shivered and looked down at her arm.

Please, Bella, just tell Prentice good-bye.

Bella hesitated, shook her arm and Fiona saw with great relief, headed back to the house.

Fiona’s eyes rolled skyward and she said a hearty thank you.

Then she darted after Bella.

Floating horizontally over her head, Fiona watched Bella write the note.

I’m sorry, Prentice. This can’t work. No good will come of it. I’m so sorry.

Good-bye, Isabella

Fiona would have written different words like, I’ve loved you for twenty years, and, You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and, Don’t be a jackass and let me go this time. But she didn’t have a say (well, she did, she shouted her opinion, Bella just didn’t listen to her).

Fiona watched Bella turn to the door but she hesitated, did a stutter step, stopped and turned back.

Then she made coffee, all but switching on the pot, including sprinkling the ground coffee with cinnamon.

She went back to the note and added a PS and then propped it against the coffee machine.

Then she took in a deep breath, looked around the house, a single tear slid down her cheek and she gracefully walked out the door.

Fiona floated to the note and read the postscript.

PS: The coffee’s made, just flip the switch and there’s Danish in the breadbox.

Reading it, Fiona burst into silent, ghostly laughter.

Fiona waited (impatiently) watching while her husband slept the morning away.

Then she watched as he woke, instantly reaching out to an empty bed.

Then he came up on an elbow, his eyes narrowing on the bed. He sat up and looked to the bathroom.

The door was open.

His eyes fell on the nightstand. Bella’s things were gone. Fiona saw that he noted that immediately.

He got out of bed and stalked naked to the wardrobe.

Empty.

He strode angrily to the bathroom, pulling the chord for the light, yanking back the glass door to the tub (even though he could see through the glass, for goodness sake).

Then he went back to the bedroom, tugged on his jeans and stopped, gazing around, jaw tight, fury pounding off of him.

His gaze caught on the scented candle Bella left behind on the nightstand. Fiona watched him pick it up. He studied it for a moment. Then he pulled off the stoppered top and smelled it before he calmly put the top back on.

He stood silent and still as he continued to examine the candle.

Then, with a twist of his torso and a brutal underarm throw, he hurled the candle across the room.

The glass broke and the sheetrock dented as it hit the wall and then fell with a clunk to the floor.

Fiona floated behind him as he grabbed his clothes and stalked angrily out of the room.

He tossed his shirt and socks into the clean, tidy and dirty-clothes-less laundry room, making to move by it but he thought better of it. He stopped, walked back a step and glared into the room, his face a ferocious scowl.

He continued into the great room, Fiona drifting after him. He dumped his boots on the floor and started up the steps. He got halfway up before he pivoted and walked right back down. Still scowling, furious and looking like he was ready to commit murder, he walked right up to the coffee canister.

Wrenching it open, he moved to the pot.

He saw the note and stilled.

He set the canister aside, seized the note and read it, his jaw tightening so much, a muscle ticked there.

Then his jaw went slack and his lips parted.

Fiona watched his eyes scan the note again.

Then she watched as he threw back his head and burst out laughing.

Still chuckling, he flipped the switch to on and, still holding the note, he moved to the stairs and bounded up them, two at a time.