Dear Meredith (9 page)

            When I turn my head to smile at Grant, he is staring intensely at me as though he's seeing me for the first time.

Chapter 10

           
I'm walking along the wooded path. This time, I'm alone and the crackle the leaves make as they are crushed under my feet are the only sounds in the air. I think it is evening. The light falling through the dense canopy looks warm, soft, dreamy. As I walk, I suddenly feel as though I'm searching for something. This sense of urgency within me grows,  but I still don't know what I'm looking for. The trees rustle softly as I pass but I cannot see any secrets hidden within their leaves.

            Suddenly I hear a distant shout, "Meredith!" It is a voice I know as well as my own. Mike is calling for me. But I'm confused, because I feel like there's something else I should be looking for although I want to run towards his voice. "Meredith!" He is calling me again, from another direction, and I realise with a shock that I can see his frame up ahead on the path, almost hidden by the leaves.

            His voice is urgent and I break into a run. He needs me. But as I'm halfway there, I hear him calling out again, this time coming from my right. I falter, spinning around. There! I spy him again, just far enough so I can't make out his features. It is him, though, my heart has no doubt about it.

            Time flows by and the sunlight changes slowly as I try to find my way towards Mike, my heart a confused drum beat in my ears. I am horribly lost. As I trudge towards the place where I last hear him call from, I see something different this time, in the gathering gloom of the forest. When I get closer, I realise it is a gravestone, one that should belong in the neatly manicured and peaceful cemetery and not out here.

            I am about to read the inscription on it when I hear his voice again. "Meredith!" This time, much nearer than before. I spin around, and to my shock, I see Grant standing just in front of a tree to my left. He smiles at me. Where is Mike? I look down at the gravestone again. It reads Meredith Armstrong.

           
I lurch awake, plastered in sweat while Bandit whines anxiously at me. I am shaking. This is one of the worst dreams I've had in months and the bizarreness of it baffles me. Unlike the other dreams, I can recall every detail of this one, right down to the horrid shock that filled me when I turned around and saw Grant standing there.

            Swinging my legs off the bed, I go to the bathroom, where I soak and wring out a cold, wet towel. It feels good against my burning face and helps to fully push the dream away. Bandit looks at me worriedly from where she's sitting in the bathroom doorway.

            I go and sit beside her on the floor, wrapping my arms around her as I bury my face against her coat. When I finally look up, she gives me a few licks on my nose, as though to reassure me of her solid presence.

            Giving her a kiss on
her
nose, I get up and go to the window, Bandit padding silently after me; I look down at the still street below and the swollen moon above. It's been five months since Mike died and the weather has turned crisper, the trees now a mixture of browns, oranges and fading greens.

            I can't help but wonder when his next letter is going to arrive. His final letter. It's hard to believe that I've been on my own for five months, but I know this period has changed me in ways I still don't fully understand.

            Laney has noticed some of it, of course. "You're quite different these days, Mer. Less fragile, somehow, and more sure of yourself." She's now at Jeju Island in South Korea. To my surprise, she is still going strong with John the Bartender, whom I found out is an English literature student by day. He is now one of our most loyal customers after he discovered that Mr. Chin had accumulated volumes and volumes of classical novels.

            I like him tremendously. He has this magical way of stabilising Laney's headstrong impulsivity and I've never seen him drunk yet. "A drunk man does not a good bartender make," he had told us once in his mild drawl, wagging a finger reprovingly at Laney's sixth attempt to make him drink a vodka shot.

            I still visit Mike's grave twice a week with Bandit. His presence is still as strong as ever there and it is where I do my best thinking, talking aloud to myself. I talk about his death less and less with others now, not because the pain of his passing has gone, but because I no longer feel the need to verbalise my grief.

            It has become a very private thing now, something that I have stored in a part of my heart, in a way that perhaps only Janet can understand. I can appreciate my memories of our time together now, able to draw them out and relive them without flinching in pain.

            I suppose I will never find out if I would have come out of the darkest period of my life in the same way without his letters. In my mind, they look like two pillars, made out of words, holding up an immense rock, which would otherwise have crushed me.

            I have read Mike's letters so many times that I see his words clearly now in front of me.

           
I know you can't imagine life without me, the same way I could not without you. But you're so much stronger than you think. I don't promise it will be easy, but this will pass and you'll be able to think of me with a smile.

            As with most other things, Mike had been right.

            I recall my dream, seeing again my name carved on that gravestone. Mike's voice, Grant's face. The sense of urgency within me as I search for something I can't pinpoint. What does it mean?

            This time, when I finally fall asleep again, I dream I am swimming strongly and swiftly through the water, and that when I break through to the surface for air, all I see around me is a sea of blue.

            "Thanks for visiting Dog-Eared Books. Come again!" I hand the sweet old lady her purchase - it's a particularly steamy Mills & Boons romance novel, evidently one she had read before years ago and had rediscovered on our shelves, much to her joy.

            "Thank you, m'dear. Fancy finding
The Captive Sheikh
, it's really made my day," she beams, tucking it into her bag before giving Bandit a pat on the head. "Wonderful place you've got here, it's so hard to find a decent bookstore these days. I'll be sure to bring the grandkids next time - although it'll be for Enid Blyton then or maybe some Harry Potter," she winks.

            "We have quite a good range of children's books as well," I assure her as I usher her out. The bookstore is doing better than we ever hoped for, with a semi-constant stream of people coming in and out. Most of them stay for hours to browse and more than a few end up ensconced in the armchairs for hours, refilling their coffee cups.

            More importantly, our visitor numbers are translating into sales figures as well. Nothing mind-boggling, since we specialise in used books, but they
are
keeping us in the green.

            The doorbell tinkles again as I am walking back to the cash register and before I can turn around,  a small, warm body crashes into me, eliciting an "oof". 

            "Meredith! We saw you from outside the window!" Ginny says exuberantly. Automatically my eyes go to the door, and Grant comes in a beat later, her purple Barney backpack in his hand.

            "Hi, guys, what a surprise! Welcome to Dog-Eared Books," I say with an exaggerated bow, making Ginny giggle. Suddenly she catches sight of Bandit, who is wagging her tail, and squeals in delight.

            Grant looks around appreciatively, while I covertly check him out. To my disquiet, he has been popping in and out of my mind since appearing in that disturbing dream a few nights back. We've struck up quite a friendship, since that day at the restaurant, although we've been pretty careful about keeping our conversations well away from personal matters. This basically means that I still know nothing about him, nor him about me.

            What I
do
know, is that there's just something about him that draws my eye. I don't know if it's because of his eloquent green eyes, which turn into an opaque shield at times, or his rare slow smile, which makes my heart skip a beat.

            "Hey, Meredith. So
you're
the owner of this new place? I knew Mr. Chin, great guy, a really well-read gentleman. He told me he was moving back to Shanghai to live with his youngest son after selling the shop. I can't believe it - what a small world. And I have to say, you have one hell of a better decorating taste than he did," he says, going over to peruse some titles at the bookshelf nearest to the counter, while Ginny goes off to investigate the kitchenette, Bandit close at her heels.

            "Can I offer you a cup of coffee?"

            He looks up distractedly from reading the blurb on a book he had selected. "That would be great."

            As I place the steaming cups of coffee on one of the little tables, he sinks into an armchair, surprise blooming on his face as he realises how comfortable it is.

            "Now I know how you guys keep your customers," he teases me. "I could sit here all day."

            "You should, we have a WiFi connection too, so you can work on your column here. I'd love to babysit Ginny."

            He gives me an odd look, one I can't read. "You would?"

            "Of course. I may be twenty-eight but I'm pretty sure I still remember how to show a six-year-old a good time," I laugh. "So how is your column coming along? Have you written the bit where you saved me from a watery grave?"

            It is his turn to laugh, a mischievous glint in his eyes. It's a good laugh, a hearty, rich sound which washes over the bookstore. "Oh yes, right down to the part where you realised we were three feet deep in the water."

            I groan in mock outrage. "Did you
have
to put that part in?"

            He holds a hand to his heart. "Hey, I have to stick to the truth for historical accuracy."

            We've just finished the coffee when Ginny, now sweaty and pink from playing with Bandit, skips over to us. "
Daddy, can we have a dog
?" she yells beseechingly, somehow managing to look adorable even though her voice is loud enough to rattle glass.

            While Grant gives her a look of parental apprehension, I suddenly remember I have set aside a book for her -
The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark
, by Jill Tomlinson - in the counter drawer.

            "Ginny, I've got a present for you," I distract her, walking over to the counter. Grant hears me and walks over as well, his face alight with curiousity.

            Her eyes widen excitedly as she receives the book, her little fingers tracing the vivid illustration of the baby owl on the cover. She looks up at her father.

            "
The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark
," he reads out to her as she repeats after him.

            She looks up at me with shining eyes as the meaning sinks into her. "Oh, thank you, Meredith!"

            She leans forward confidingly, as she whispers, "I am trying to be brave like you. Sully and Mike are helping me." Then she runs off to one of the armchairs so she can check it out. I suppose she's temporarily forgotten about getting a dog for now.

            Suddenly, I notice Grant is looking at me in that intense, peculiar way again, as though he can't quite figure me out. I feel a bit awkward. Had I overstepped my boundaries?

            "I'm sorry I didn't ask you first," I blurt, the easy mood of the last fifteen minutes broken. "I was just sorting through some of the books the other day, and it reminded me of Ginny. I thought it could help her feel less afraid of the dark."

            He shakes his head impatiently, dismissively. "No, no, thank you. She's thrilled with it. But
why
did you do it? She's not your kid and not your problem," he says bluntly, with an edge to his normally cool voice.