At First Touch. Cindy Miles

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       CHAPTER TWO

      THE PUNGENT AROMA of strong coffee brewing seeped into Reagan’s subconscious, and her eyes blinked open. Confusion webbed her mind at first—where was she? For a moment she stared hard, trying to clear the haze and blur of the room. She sat up, rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. Then the feeling of dread that visited her daily swamped her, and she froze. She wasn’t just blind. She was blind...and home.

      Back on Cassabaw. Had been, for nearly a week.

      Coming home was...a shock. The last time she’d been on the island was the day of their parents’ funeral. They’d pulled away from the cemetery, a U-Haul carrying their belongings, and she’d never been back. She didn’t remember as much as Emily did, but flashes now crossed her mind, and they were like a thick cloud of recollections in front of her face. Ones she could almost see, but not quite. Faded pictures that were memories of her parents, laid out in an album; of playing on the dock with her sister; of easing through the creek in their father’s aluminum boat and letting her fingers brush the marsh grass as they passed. Sometimes she wondered if she actually remembered the memory or just the photograph.

      She’d lost her sight. Her parents. Her childhood. She’d lost...all of that. What she had in her brain was now the only photo album she had.

      Reagan let her body fall back against the pillows and she lay there, arm draped over those cursed eyes, and she squeezed them tightly shut and just...breathed. Tears pooled and spilled over her closed lids, dampening her pillow.

      Moments later, a knock sounded at her bedroom door, and before she could respond, the creaking of a rusty hinge alerted her that it was being cracked open.

      “Rea?”

      Reagan swiped at her eyes and sat up. “Hey,” she answered hastily, not wanting her sister to catch her in a moment of weakness.

      Emily’s soft footfalls crossed the room, and the bed sank a little when she sat on it. “I made coffee,” her sister said.

      “Yeah, I uh...” Reagan replied. “I can smell it.” She smiled, but turned her face toward the light streaming in through the window.

      “You okay, sis?” Emily asked, and she draped her arm over Reagan’s shoulders. Then she lifted the ponytail Reagan had pulled her shoulder-length hair into the night before. “Want me to brush it? It’s grown out since you cut it short.” Emily tugged at her ponytail. “I can braid it if you like—”

      “No, Em.” Reagan rose from the bed and slowly moved toward the blurred image of the window. With her hands outstretched, she grasped the sill and stood, allowing the sunlight to bathe her face. Outside the windows, crickets chirped. “I’m not helpless. I can get myself in and out of bed, dressed and...even braid my own hair. I’m not an invalid.”

      Emily’s sigh reached her ears. “I know—I didn’t mean anything, Rea. Honest. Hey,” she said brightly, changing gears. “Let’s have breakfast on the dock. Like we did when we were kids. Do you remember?” Her footsteps grew closer. Hesitant. “It’s a sincerely magical morning. Perhaps a mermaid will join us.”

      Reagan closed her eyes briefly, and a slight smile touched her lips. Emily had a way with words, and she’d always made up the best stories when they were kids. “Sure.” She turned toward her sister. “Sounds good.”

      “Swell! I’ll throw everything together! You like bananas, right? Fruit? Greek yogurt?” Emily said, and Reagan nodded. “Great!” Em’s voice grew faint as she hurried from the room. “It’ll only take me a sec!” A crash to the floor followed by a muttered shiitake mushrooms! reached Reagan’s ears, and she again felt her mouth pull into a slight smile. Emily Quinn—soon to be Malone—hadn’t changed a bit. She’d never been one for swearing. Instead, she’d made up her own forms of verbal release. Shiitake mushrooms being one of them.

      The sounds of Emily bustling around in the kitchen washed over Reagan for a moment more; they—the noises—seemed familiar, too. Of a time long, long ago, when their mother used to make ham sandwiches and dill pickles to eat on the dock. Or toast waffles—toast with butter and syrup—and bacon on Saturday mornings. Sounds she’d taken for granted as a kid were the only link to the past she had now. The clink of silverware. The creak of the pantry door. Reagan breathed, scanned the room with her useless eyes, then eased across the wood-planked floor, arm outstretched, and made her way slowly across the hall to the bathroom. The thing about the Quinns’ river house was that it had a lot of windows, allowing the sun to pour in from all directions. It gave her some semblance of direction. A small help, she guessed.

      In the bathroom, Reagan quietly closed the door behind her, washed her face and brushed her teeth with the toiletries she’d СКАЧАТЬ