Dandelion Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page B

pieces of luggage remained when I arrived at the carousel. Celia, with her sleek brown bob and willowy form, waited for me. Had it really been a week since I’d seen my mother’s oldest friend at the funeral? Grief moved differently through time—it wasn’t linear; it was everywhere, relentless and constant.
    “Hello, Sage.”
    “Hello.”
    “Want me to wheel those for you?” Celia didn’t wait for an answer. Reaching out, she began to drag my suitcases behind her, walking in silence to the car park. Though it was only ten in the morning, it was dark, and drizzling winter storm clouds hovered overhead. I hunched in my coat in a meager attempt to keep the rain off my neck.
    “How long is the drive?” I asked, when we were on our way in Celia’s tiny car.
    “About three hours,” Celia replied. “I’m sure you’re sick of sitting.”
    I was sick of many things, but I kept quiet.
    “Are you hungry? We could stop for something.” She maneuvered through the streets of Paris, channeling the energy of a New York City cabbie. I found it amusing as she cursed in French when a bout of road rage overtook her.
    “Sorry, that’s the worst of it, I promise. The roads are a little wider once you get out of the city.”
    “No, I’m not hungry.” I watched the countryside speed by. Everything was dull, and it was hard to imagine what it would look like dressed in the green of spring. I’d lived in gray, long before Mom got sick, trying to convince myself I needed everything on mute. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Thank you, for letting me come here.”
    “You’re welcome,” Celia said. “Sometimes you need to get away.”
    I glanced at her. It was impossible to miss her tired, red-rimmed eyes. She was grieving too; for an old friend, or a future without my mother—I didn’t know which. I turned my head, not wishing to see Celia’s pain.
    Mine was enough.
    We drove in silence; it could’ve been a three hour or a twenty-minute drive for all I knew. In that moment I existed in a state of in-between, a misty nothingness.
    Celia parked the car in a narrow spot across the street from the bed and breakfast. The lobby walls were whitewashed stone. It was quaint and charming in all the ways that weren’t annoying. Guiding me past the spacious dining room, comfortable library, and surprisingly modern kitchen, Celia chattered about nothing. The property was surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall, and we trudged through the courtyard to a small cottage.
    I walked inside and found myself in the living room. There was an unlit fireplace in the corner, and a rustic burnt-orange couch up against a wall. Just past it was a kitchen, small but serviceable.
    “The staircase at the back leads upstairs to the bathroom and bedroom. Take your time, get situated. Come over for some food, if you want.”
    The door clicked shut, and I stood in the center of the room, attempting to adjust to the place I was now supposed to call home.
    Thunder rumbled in the distance, and I went to the window and pulled back the curtain to reveal the dark sky. Threatening clouds curled and lightning flashed.
    I watched the storm unleash Hell. It was strangely comforting.
    There was a knock, and it took me a moment to realize I should answer it. I opened the door to a young man with a charming grin and ruffled sandy blond hair. He looked to be about my age, but his face was unlined, smooth and pristine. No grief had touched him. I felt so much older.
    “I’m Luc,” he said with a Gallic smile, which was a cross between a smirk and a pout. “Celia and Armand’s son. Maman sent me to light a fire.” He peered at me in curiosity.
    I let him inside. Luc squatted by the fireplace, rearranging logs of wood into a pile. Striking a match, he lit the kindling, and soon flames were blazing. It felt homey—almost.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    Luc stood and smiled. “You coming over later?”
    “Don’t think so.” I was tired—I wanted to take a hot bath and then