The Search by Nora Roberts

brought provisions, you can be the second official member.”
    “Do we get badges? A secret handshake?” He leaned back to press his lips to her forehead. “Let’s go inside and vote on it over burgers.”
    “I talked to Greg’s mother,” Fiona told him as she led the way.
    “Hard.”
    “Brutal. So I’ve been sitting here drinking wine in the dark.”
    “Fair enough, but I’m calling time’s-up on that. Got any Coke?”
    “Pepsi. Diet.”
    “Blech. I’ll take it.”
    As much at home in her place as in his own, he got out plates, set a burger, loaded, on each, then divvied up the mountain of fries from an insulated box. She poured out the drinks after dumping the rest of the wine in her glass down the sink.
    “We should’ve had sex before we got to be friends.”
    He smiled, sat. “I think we were eleven and twelve when you started coming on island to see your dad, so we were a little young for sex when we got to be friends.”
    “Still.” She plopped down in her chair. “If we’d had sex back then, we could have a revival now. It’d be a good distraction. But now it’s too late because I’d feel stupid getting naked with you.”
    “It’s a problem.” He took a bite of burger. “We could do it in the dark, and use assumed names. I’d be Rock Hard and you’d be Lavender Silk.”
    “Nobody can call out ‘Lavender’ while in the throes. I’ll be Misty Mars. I like the alliteration.”
    “Fine. So, Misty, you want to eat first or just go jump in the sack?”
    “It’s hard to resist that kind of romance, but we’ll eat.” She nibbled on a fry. “I don’t want to beat on the drum all night, James, but it’s so strange. Just the other day I was telling Syl how I could hardly get Greg’s face in my head. How he’s faded on me. Do you know?”
    “Yeah, I think I do.”
    “And the minute Davey told me about what’s happened, it was there again. I can see him, every detail of his face. He’s back. And . . . is it awful?” she managed as tears rose in her throat. “Is it? That I wish he wasn’t. A part of me wants him to fade, and I didn’t realize that until he came back.”
    “So what? You should wear black and read depressing poetry for the rest of your life? You grieved, Fee. You broke, and you mourned, and you healed. You started the unit out of love and respect for him.” Reaching over, he gave her wrist a squeeze. “And it’s a hell of a tribute.”
    “If you’re going to be all rational and sensible, I don’t see how you can be a member of the Pity Me Club.”
    “We can’t have a club meeting while there are burgers. That requires really bad wine and stale crackers.”
    “Damn you, James, you’ve screwed up a really good wallow.” She sighed, ate her burger.
     
     
    EVEN THE COMFORT of a friend, the familiarity of her dogs and the nighttime routine didn’t spare her from the bad dreams. She woke every hour, struggling out of the goop of a nightmare only to sink in again the next time she drifted off.
    The dogs, as restless as she, got up to pace or rearrange themselves. At three a.m., Bogart came to the side of the bed to offer her the rope as if a game of tug would set things right.
    At four, Fiona gave it up. She let the dogs out, made coffee. She did a hard, sweaty workout then settled down with paperwork.
    She balanced her checkbook, drafted upcoming newsletters for her classes and for the Search and Rescue subscribers. While the sky lightened she updated her Web page and spent some time surfing various blogs because she couldn’t drum up the enthusiasm to write her own.
    By the time her first class began, she’d been up for over four hours and wanted a nap.
    She loved her classes, Fiona reminded herself. She loved them for the work itself, the dogs, the social opportunity, the interaction. She loved being outside most of the day.
    But right then she wished she’d canceled the other two classes on the schedule. Not to wallow, she told herself, but just for