Tomorrow's Sun by Becky Melby

Liam’s arm, whispering of wedding plans.
     
    An exasperated sigh ruffled the coppery tendrils tickling her face. Make-believe brought only emptiness. God knew what He was doing. There were more important things than dreaming of white lace and daisy bouquets.
     
    Papa had told her to rest for a few hours, said he’d call up the stairs when it was time, and there was nothing more she could do for their guests. They were all asleep.
     
    How could they?
     
    “Musn’t think.” She stretched out on the folded quilt she’d laid on the floor. Truth be told, she’d come up here to be farther away from the sadness in the cellar. She knew she’d hear nothing down in the back parlor where she slept for now. They’d harbored seven people since spring and never had she heard a sound, even from the little ones. A child too afraid to cry was an unbearable thought.
     
    She forced her top lids to meet her bottom. Her fingers still worried the gray muslin of her dress. If only she could catch the thoughts that flitted through her mind and seal them tight like fireflies in a canning jar. Her arm grazed Tildy. She picked up the doll by one wooden arm. Tildy had been Mama’s doll when she was little. Hannah always fancied Tildy looked like Mama with her black hair, round face, and rosy cheeks. Her body was soft leather and her wood shaving stuffings made her huggable. She still wore the dark green calico dress Mama had stitched for Hannah’s tenth birthday.
     
    A tear slid to her tatting-edged pillowcase. She sat up. Eighteen was far too old for hugging dolls.
     
    But just the right age for reading love letters.
     
    The board at the back of her closet lifted with a soft
whoosh
. She’d promised Liam she’d destroy them. Tear them to bits and toss them in the river. Only once had she followed through. Watching his words dissolve and float away was intolerable. Someday, as they sat by the fire and reminisced on the early days of their love, she would pull them out and read them and Liam would be glad she’d saved them.
     
    No one would find them here.
     
    And it was only a small deception.
     

C HAPTER 7
     
    S unday morning dawned with a tease of summer. Emily opened the dining room window on her way to the coffeepot. Through the trees, she glimpsed a black convertible sailing across the bridge, a woman with platinum hair behind the wheel.
     
    A different time, a different place, and that could have been her. Two years ago this week she’d driven her VW Eos to Sault Ste. Marie, top down the whole way, to meet up with college roomies for a spa day. She looked down at short, bare nails and ran them through tangled morning hair. Eight inches of dishwater-blond roots kept record of her apathy—half an inch for each month of not caring what she looked like.
     
    The girl with the standing appointment at Studio 1 hadn’t survived the accident.
     
    Maneuvering around boxed cupboards in the naked kitchen, she made her way to the coffeepot on the tarp-shrouded stove and filled one of the two mugs she’d brought. As she set the pot back, the side of her hand bumped a rectangular bulge beneath the tarp. The treasure can. She’d dumped the contents into a bag so Michael could use the container for Squiggles then stuck the bag back into the can when Squiggles had gained his freedom. She hadn’t found time to look through it all.
     
    Folding her air mattress like a chair, she shoved it against the dining room wall below the open window next to her coffee, the Sunday
Racine Journal Times
, and the treasure can. Settling onto the bouncing contraption took more than one try, but she finally accomplished it. She took a sip of coffee and lifted the can.
     
    She set the giant marble in an indentation in the mattress and parked the truck on the newspaper next to the Indian on horseback. Her imaginary friend in the striped shirt tiptoed in, sitting cross-legged on the floor, chin resting on his knuckles.
     
    “What’s next?” A