With a towel wrapped around my body and another one around my head, I returned to my bedroom and slipped back into my bed. With the nostalgia still clinging to me like shrink-wrap, I went into the shower and let the hot water and soap pull me into consciousness. “There’s my girl, there’s my girl,” she sang. I slept until noon, and when I woke, my head was cloudy and uncertain for a moment I felt like a child waking from a nap, and for an even briefer moment I remembered my mother lifting me from my bed and holding me against her chest. The I Hate Frank Fletcher Club was holding its inaugural meeting. Now, at this moment, only weeks after his death, I was ready to scream horrible epithets at him. I had never rebelled as a teenager I had never screamed the iconic, adolescent I hate you, Dad! I had never felt a teardrop of ill will toward the man who loved me so well. What was different was the cauldron inside of me, brewing a potion of anger for my father that I had never once felt before, a fury that could singe metal.

I just shook my head, because what was different wasn’t the obvious-that Dad was dead, that he had left me a crappy You could do better! letter, that I had a choice in my future. Lucas reached under the bed for his loafer. “It’s not that simple,” I said, growing irritated. Trust me, don’t spend too much time wallowing.” “You need to defend what’s yours, Melissa. I pulled my face out of the pillow and looked at him. Nothing will make you feel better than adhering to your routine. “Grab a shower, put on your power suit, pour a cup of coffee, and get to work. “Get up, Melissa!” he said with mock cheer. “I need some time to think things through.” Lucas looked at me as though I’d just announced my enlistment in the circus. Then I returned to my bedroom.Īt six o’clock, the alarm on Lucas’s phone trilled. When I hung up the receiver, I felt as light as a meringue. As an afterthought, I told her I was fine, no need to worry, and that I was sorry if I was harsh with her. I told her I needed some time to think things over. When Jenny’s sweet voice asked that I leave a message, I told her I would be out this week. At five in the morning, I called the office and waited for the message machine. Then I washed my face and curled up on the sofa. I still love you.” One character at a time, I backspaced until my message was deleted. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. A message written by a girl who had another man in her bedroom. I started a pretend message to Joe, one written by the girl with red lipstick and heavy eyeliner. She looked like me, back in the day, spending my time with characters in books instead of friends at sleepovers. In the background, I could see the older daughter cozy in a recliner, reading The Hobbit. His younger daughter, Olivia, was hamming it up for the camera. I crept into the kitchen for a sip of juice, then sat down at my computer and logged on to Facebook. Yet through the cake of heavy makeup, I could still see little me. Who the hell are you, Melissa Fletcher? Was it even possible to be someone different? I lifted my chin, puckered my lips, raised a flirty eyebrow. I pulled black eyeliner across the rim of my lashes. I lined my lips red and filled them in with a scarlet matte lipstick. I opened the drawer of the vanity and fluttered on three coats of black mascara. Who the hell are you, Melissa Fletcher? I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, studied my makeup-less face, my plain-Jane features and childish peaches-and-cream complexion. I stared into the mirror, gawking at my reflection as if I had never seen myself before. And then I remembered the flight attendant escorting me off the last airplane I’d attempted to board.Īt two in the morning, I slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined the oil-drenched olives, the crusty loaves of bread, the pasta, and the seafood. I envisioned the Tuscan countryside, groves of olives, stucco walls obscured by ivy. I closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to travel to Italy, to walk into a café, to order a cappuccino or a glass of wine. When Lucas fell asleep, I turned from him and curled into a ball.

The loight of hidden flowers