On Sunset Beach

Prologue

Diary ~

My baby boy is on his way home! Finally! Yes, at this very moment, Ford is making his way to Virginia, where he’s to meet with someone … his explanation of this was somewhat murky but perhaps it was the poor connection that left me confused. In any event, he’s back on our soil and on his way home, and isn’t that what matters?

Certainly that matters more than the unrest that has been eating away at me since, well, since the day he left. I’ve always been able to “read” my children—though there were times, I must admit, I was unsure how to interpret that which I was picking up, times when their emotions somehow served to block the signal, so to speak. I’ve never really understood how that worked, frankly, especially when I tried so hard to see through that fog when I knew something was not right. I suppose some might say that type of prying is akin to reading one’s child’s diary, but since at those times I was unable to break through—well, no harm, no foul.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that ever since Ford left, I’ve been unable to see through the fog. Right now the mist surrounding him is so deep I could barely breathe when I spoke to him. What I’m picking up are undefined emotions—a melancholy, a sadness, as if he’s in mourning—but no clues as to their source. And I sense a deep conflict—wanting to come home yet wanting to stay to … what? There’s a sense of unfinished business. Of course there could be a simple and logical explanation for his mixed feelings. After all, he has worked with the same group of people for several years, and I’m sure that leaving—leaving them behind, as it were—could well be the source of his conflict.

I try to convince myself this is all very benign, but then I sense something more. Something that is shrouded in darkness, something vengeful and frightening. Something I have never sensed in that boy before. When I try to decipher it, the fog turns to black smoke and drifts skyward as if it were smoke from a chimney. I have no idea what this means, but it fills me with an unholy dread.

I dreamed of a bleeding heart last night. Yes, the flower, but I know what this symbol means in that other world into which I so often glimpse. This is all I know for certain: my boy has a heartache, and that heartache is what has sent him home—and the closer he gets to St. Dennis, the farther away he seems to be.

As for the rest of it—the darkness, the fear—I have no clue.

Of course I’ve gone to my board seeking some clarity—but you know, it’s useful only if someone on the other side is listening. So far Alice—who’s always so dependable in situations like this, don’t you know—has been silent. My attempts to contact other friends who have gone before have been equally unsuccessful—but let’s face it, Alice is my ace in the hole, so to speak. If she isn’t talking … well, I can’t begin to fathom what that might mean.

And that in itself is the most disconcerting of all.

~ Grace ~