Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,16
be happy for a while. She scooped the change from the tray into the bag with the bills, then stared at the money. But at what cost? Logically, as time passed, they would pick and tear each other apart until one of them couldn’t take it. The price was just too high.
The unvarnished truth—Con possessed a poet’s heart and a warrior’s spirit. Logically, in the final battle, the poet didn’t stand a chance. The warrior would choose duty over love. Sacrifice his personal feelings for the greater good. He would leave her. Either by desertion or death.
Just like her father.
She zipped the canvas bag closed. Finished. Shoulders slumped in defeat, she stepped into the gloomy, eerily silent mall. River View Mall had been remodeled last year. Rather than a long, corridor-type layout, it spiraled three stories upward, with intricate columns of escalators at its center. During the holiday season, a towering Christmas tree stood on one side of the escalators, reaching almost to the third floor.
A glass-walled sky bridge connected to the food court on the third floor offered panoramic city views. Beautiful fountains, imaginative sculptures and eclectic art drew browsers as well as shoppers. At the moment, some stores were dimly lit by emergency lights, some cloaked in shadow. Christmas displays that had looked cheerful an hour ago now seemed spooky. She shivered. She preferred the mall warmly lit and bustling with interesting people to this eerie emptiness. The cold, deserted space echoed the barren desolation inside her.
As she trudged past Beautiful Brides next door, she looked away from the wedding gown displayed in the window. Every cell of her being recognized Con as her mate, yearned to be with him.
Why did it have to be so complicated? So impossible. So cruel.
Would she ever remember him without the pain, the longing? She touched the hummingbird charm nestled at her throat. She didn’t think so. More scars for her to bear. He was stronger, more resilient. He was hurt now, but in time, he’d be okay. He was better off without her. She had to believe that.
She cut kitty-corner across the mall’s imitation marble floor. Why couldn’t she be the woman he needed? The woman he deserved? Why had she been given the desire, but not the courage? She didn’t want to give him up.
She jerked to a halt in front of Santa’s workshop. Everything in her roiled in hot rebellion at surrendering. She clenched her jaw. She descended from hardy, dauntless pioneer stock. Her past might have left scars, but she wasn’t a coward. If there was any way for her to overcome her fears and not let Con down, she’d grab it in a heartbeat.
Bailey stared morosely at Candy Cane Lane. During the past month, excited kidlets had traipsed past reindeer and elves to sit on Santa’s lap and request their hearts’ desire. But Santa was gone, and Bailey’s childish faith had burned to cinders.
She turned her back on the sight. The wishing-well fountain loomed in front of her. Visitors had thrown coins into the pool, each representing a wish, a dream. Hope for a miracle. The money glittered in the fountain’s soft, rose-colored lights.
Con’s smooth, deep voice floated through her memory. Believe in the realm of mysteries. Believe in us.
She hadn’t believed in miracles for a very long time. Maybe that was the problem. It was the Christmas season. A time of miracles. On impulse, she unzipped the canvas cash bag and fished through the coins inside until she found three pennies. One with Con’s birth year, one with hers, and a new, shiny copper with the current year. She’d repay them from her purse.
She turned away from the fountain and gripped the coins. “I want to be with Con, forever.” She tossed the penny with his birth year over her shoulder. The coin plopped into the water.
“I need courage to be the woman he needs.” She threw the second penny, with her birth year, and waited for the plop.
“I’ll do anything. Pay any price.” Holding her breath, she tossed the third coin. The splash sent hope streaming through her.
Silly, ridiculous and nothing more than superstition. She was the first to admit it. But stating her determination to try had given her resolve. Like a timid wren pushed out of the nest expecting to fall, but discovering she could fly instead, sorrow’s unrelenting weight soared from her shoulders.
She zipped the bag and her footsteps were light as she approached the bank. She’d find an answer. Counseling. Assertiveness