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Back Black Ambrosia
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

“It was funny. My whole life emptied out right there onto her driveway when she got out of the truck. On the way home, I somehow knew that not only had we known each other in the past, but that our paths would cross many times in the future. I was already impatient. I wanted to get her and sit down with her and talk for years, and maybe uncover that . . . what is it? An attraction? I don’t think so. And yet when we had the chance, when we were together that night, there were no words for us. We didn’t have anything to say. We were beyond words, somehow.

“Yet the passion remained. A passion to know her, because somehow I felt that she had a lot to teach me about myself. Almost as if she were my other half.”

11

11

I slept all the next day, until sundown, when the ringing of the phone awoke me. Again, it was Lewis. Again, he professed his love for me, but this time, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond. In light of the new love that had touched me—a deep love, an eternal love—I couldn’t respond to Lewis’s shallow words. My silence worried him and he threatened to return immediately. I had to think quickly, to assure him that I had been distracted for the moment, and that he should stay as long as he was needed. I was fine and would be fine, and anxiously awaited his return.

It troubled me to lie like that to him. To Lewis.

I wandered into the living room and sat on the plastic sofa, grateful to Lewis for waking me up in time to watch the darkness surround the house and fill the sky. The music played a mantra of calm, and time slipped away as I began to meditate, realigning myself, coming into balance with the eternal, and the next thing I knew, it was seven-­thirty and I had to be quick to make ready for Boyd.

He arrived promptly at eight, dressed much as he was the night before, in jeans, plaid-­flannel shirt, and corduroy jacket with tan Stetson. He stood uncom­fortably inside the door of Lewis’s house, and the sight of him there horrified me. Boyd did not belong in a house like this. He belonged in a barn, in a rustic ranch, in a little cozy den of some kind, next to a campfire maybe, but never in a quasi-­modern, up-­and-­coming, awaiting-­appreciation tract home.

I hurried to the hall, opened the coat closet, then paused. Feeling a little bit strange, I opened the linen closet and took from it a blue-­flowered towel and draped it over my shoulders before putting on the sheepskin jacket that I had worn the night before.

In two steps, Boyd was helping me with the jacket, and he asked, “Why the towel?”