Vegas Vampires Chapter 2

          In the nightmare, Heather was chained by an ankle to a gaming table set in the coarse Tahoe sand. The surf pounded away in the background of the night, but she only knew that the lake existed because she never saw it. Her world was dominated by her players’ eyes—large, demanding and as harsh as accusing spotlights.
            No! She shouldn’t be winning! Couldn’t be winning!
            She defeated them relentlessly, winning every single time. She tried to tell them that you made your own luck, or perhaps that it was a sign to stop, but White Eyes stabbed her through the neck. His fingernails extended as though he had switchblades hidden up his sleeve.
            It made no sense, but it hurt, making it impossible to think.
            Heather gurgled, unable to breath as she staggered away from the table. Shocked and reeling, she looked down, suddenly fixated on the small, silver filigreed cross lying abandoned in the sand. She had worn it since birth, thankful and yet apologetic as the only survivor of triplets.                       Now she was dying. She had survived birth, falling off a balcony, an avalanche, and three assaults. But after so many close calls, her luck had eventually run out.
            No! Telling herself she must be dreaming, she clawed through suffocating darkness. She was dying. No, she was not. She hadn’t had time to live for three. And she would live to see Skyler again. They had saved each other, putting them together in this life’s adventure.
            She groggily recalled Skyler resting next to her. When she felt for him, she came up empty-handed. The bed was cool, as if he had been stolen long ago. She kept struggling, slowly reaching a bare state of cognizance. She hated taking medication, but they had promised an easy sleep. Liars. Medicine, that’s why it’s called a practice, Dr.Hunter Stephens often said.
            Tonight’s attack lingered with her like a vicious hangover. It assailed her mind with the times she had been assaulted before,  lucky to live through it each time. The first time, she owed her life to chewing gum. Her second assault had been interrupted by Skyler.
            Where was he? She glanced at the glowing number of the digital clock. It was just after four AM. The recorded sound of the surf murmured in the background, mingling with the dull hum of a fan.
            She knew he was outside working. That was an artist for you. Sometimes he slept poorly with those too far gone for him to save haunting his conscience. What would inspire him so? Or was he simply venting through art, trying to relax from having seen something particularly gruesome? She shivered. Like a toxic incense, the thought of her near death seemed to waft pungently on the air with the oppressive solemnity of a youngster’s funeral.
            When she stumbled past the window, she noticed a beast staring at the tarped carport that doubled as Skyler’s workshop. If not for the creature’s bright eyes, she wouldn’t have seen it. She peered closer, thinking it was a big, black wolfhound. 
            Sensing her, the collarless beast turned to stare back. It must be mostly wolf, because it was huge. The creature’s eyes loomed large, dark and glittery as if sprinkled with fool's gold. Vertigo struck, and she was forced to grab the chest of drawers to keep afoot.
            Once she had regained her balance and her senses, she looked out again, expecting the figment of her imagination to be gone. That was the rationale explanation. That or the medication. Or she would find a dog or coyote inflated by her fears.
            With demanding eyes, the beast still stared in her direction. It smiled, showing its huge teeth. Finally, it looked back toward Skyler’s workshop, then the creature licked its chops.
            With a sudden blink, the wolfhound disappeared into the night, making her wonder if she had imagined it. She couldn’t have. Those eyes burned in her memory like the after image of a flash snapped in your face. It shook her that the eyes looked familiar.
            Frightened and unable to think critically, Heather stumbled through their cabin, bruising her knees and shins. She knocked over puzzles, books, and a standing lamp with her sweeping hands. She grabbed a walking staff to keep her balance. Too scared to walk straight, she chastised herself, but kept going.
            She pulled open the door, then she stopped. The chill of the night slapped her. The skies were clear, full of crystal bright stars. She could hear the recorded surf and the sound of Lake Tahoe washing up on the shore, but the workshop had fallen dead quiet.
            Fear, she recalled reading, was the mindkiller. The persistent thought that the wolf, no longer a hound, had attacked her love, finally drew her out of the house like a siren’s cajoling whisper. It was crazy, but she must know.
            Leaving the safety of the house was difficult. Stepping into the harrowing darkness was worse. Her hiking stick steadied her when she almost fell off the steps.
            His workshop was set apart from their cabins. Light splayed out through the wall of firewood and from under the tarps that created false walls, spilling across the gravel drive and out across a trailer storage fence. He had tied down the blue plastic sheets to keep out the wind, while retaining the heat and containing the sound. This way, he wouldn’t bother her or Mr. and Mrs. B when he cranked up his music or one of his many chainsaws.
            Did she see wolfhound tracks? As she forced herself closer, she spotted a dark splatter near the entrance. Was that blood?  She stopped, dizzy at the sight. Her heart was spooked and stampeding. Finding her courage was more difficult than fishing bare-handed. Touching the stain was difficult, until she realized it was only motor oil. Although that fear was unfounded worry continued to stalk her. Something was unnatural. She had to see her love alive and well.
            She peered between the tarps and inside. Rarely had she been so relieved. Skyler was pressed up against his latest sculpture, sand-papering its face. She hadn’t seen this one before. The young woman carved on one ski, as she rode the edge racing downhill. Her long hair flew loose in such a fashion that it would be in knots.
            Heather stifled a gasp. That was her! After claiming it was impossible to capture her beauty, he had crafted her out of cherry wood! She had never looked that beautiful. He had captured the rush and rapture of flying downhill in her smile and the set of her eyes.
            She eased back outside. He hadn’t said a word about this, his silence telling her it was a gift or a surprise. And what a wonderful one! The labor of his love made her feel buoyant as she floated off, almost forgetting about the attack.
            Passing the front door, she walked out to the beach and stood by the swinging bench set between the sculptures of a man and a bear fishing with poles. She and Skyler had often lounged here in each others arms. No doubt,  for a mother-in-law’s house, this place had to have the best view in the world. She breathed deeply of the dry air, thinking it smelled like expensive champagne. She couldn’t see the broken granite mountains cradling one of America’s deepest, tallest and bluest lakes, but she knew and loved it well. The stars were bright enough to reflect on the water, creating a wealth of diamonds separated by the black silhouette of the western Sierra. The gaudy lights of the casinos added to the sparkling, promising dreams do come true.
            As a child, she had wished upon many stars. Or had she been counting her lucky stars?                      How had she gotten so lucky to be born to a family that loved her?  The only child of three babies to survive? Or find Skyler? But then, few people would consider nearly getting raped a blessing. She said a grateful prayer, always thankful for the blessings she knew of, those unknown and more to come.
            Heather pondered quitting the Paradise, then she dismissed it. Through the job she earned enough to pay off her school loan, as well as providing her with the ideas she needed to compare with what she could gather at Caesars and Harrahs. While she didn’t like to think about it, the money would also help pay for further medical treatment, if her test came back positive.
            Close by, a door slammed, breaking her revelry.
            An angry voice followed, carried on the zephyr’s dark wings. “I thought I made it clear that you’re not welcome here!”
            Mr. B? It was difficult to tell because she had never heard Eli Battle snap angrily.
            After a moment, there seemed to be a reply, except she only heard the whisper of the wind across the water and sand. It brought with it the rank odor of cigarette smoke.
            “It’s not just her choice! It’s our choice! I’ll have to live with it. You’re not telling her everything. She’s dying, and you’re preying on her desperation.”
             A cold wind knifed into her. Heather squinted and searched the shoreline deck of the mansion. Inside and out, all the lights were dark. Standing near the glass doors, Mr. B’s bushy white hair stood out, making him easy to identify. She had the impression he was shaking.
            “Please. I . . . I apologize for losing my temper but . . . Please, just go. This is all very upsetting. We’ll talk over your offer, again, and call you in the next few days,” Mr. B stammered. Never had she heard fear in his voice, nor the tone of being cowed.
            In the shadow, a ruddy light flared. She caught a glimpse as Mr. B’s tall visitor turned toward her and dragged on a cigarette, its dim glow firing his eyes. When he drew up his collar up and donned a hat, he disappeared completely into the darkness.
            She heard Mr. B weeping with soul-wrenching angst. Just listening almost made her cry, too.
            Like a church mouse, she crept quietly away, not wanting to intrude. She sensed she had overheard something secret and feared she had eavesdropped on something compromising. Or worse, illegal.

            Upon awakening, the first thing she noticed was the quiet. The sound of the surf had died, although the fans continued their white noise hum. Heather knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t place why, still half-asleep.
            “Hey, sleepy-head, are you going to snooze the day away?!”
            Through the haze of limbo, that place between sleep and awareness, Heather recognized Amber’s voice. At least she wasn’t singing at the top of her lungs.
            “How does the Queen of Swing Shift Blackjack feel?” her younger sister asked. Amber strolled in and perched on the bed. She flounced her curly red hair and settled in.
            “Don’t call me that.”
            “Grumpy, but alive,” she teased.
            “Actually, I feel fairly good. Skyler takes wonderful care of me,” she replied. She craned her neck to show how well it felt since he had massaged it. Even so, she could sense the phantom fingers of her attacker.
            “So when are you two going to set a date to get married?”
            Heather started and blinked. It was not the question she expected. “After I graduate, so in about three years.”
            “You’re lucky. He’s kind, considerate and all right looking,” she teased. “And even though he’s an artist, he isn’t starving because he’s connected.”
            “I’m glad you approve,” Heather replied acidly. “Why did you tell Mr. P that I had the luck of three?”
            “I didn’t. I have never told anyone that.”
            “But he knew,” Heather said, putting steel in her voice.
            “Girl, I have never told anyone about Vivian or Roman.”
            “May they rest in peace,” their mother said, coming to stand in the bedroom door. Twenty-some years later, she could talk about it, although they rarely did.
            “Good morning,” Heather said.
            “Good afternoon,” she said in her elementary teacher voice. Mom looked like a settled down Amber, twenty-five years her senior. She was bespectacled but still beautiful after all life had dealt her.
            “Sleeping in felt good,” Heather stretched.
            Finally, Mom spoke up, “After you were attacked at the beach, you had nightmares.”
            “I remember,” she replied quietly.
            “I would like you to think about giving notice.”
            “Oh? Do you want me to claim worker’s comp and go get professional help? You didn’t make me quit going to the beach.”
            “That was different, honey. You did stop going to the beach alone. Lord protect us from our own stupidity. And here I thought you had learned something at college. Isn’t critical thinking taught both in psychology and philosophy.”
            “I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”
            “She dealt herself a nine card twenty-one,” Amber said as if she were accusing her of something illegal.
            Heather glared, furious at her sister’s idiocy. “It was bound to happen. I’ve dealt thousands of hands.”
            “None of the dealers I talked to have ever gotten a nine card twenty-one. Five, sure. Seven, perhaps. But never nine. Old King Richard has dealt single deck for forty years and never gotten one.”
            Mother waved Amber off. “Honey, I’m just worried about the environment you work in. Remember, I’ve been there and escaped. Next time, some psycho could be waiting in the parking lot.”
            “Or walk into school with an Uzi,” she retorted. Mom sounded like Skyler. “I can’t just give up! That would mean I let some stupid brute make my decisions for me. That’s not smart. I wouldn’t stop going to the beach. I refuse to let anyone usurp away my Divinely given power.”
            “Usurp?” Amber asked, frowning. “You mean Skyler doesn’t . . . usurp you?”
            “No, he doesn’t. We share our power. That seems to be a concept that eludes you,” Heather snapped.
            “That is enough, you two. We came to see Heather, not to start a fight.”
            “I know, if I don’t have something pleasant to say, don’t say anything at all,” Amber said, hopping off the bed and leaving in a redheaded huff.
            “She is such a Drama Queen,” she said. Her sister was one of the reasons she had pursued a psyche degree. Amber denied she was bipolar but had all the signs, especially mood swings.
            “Heather, please think on it. That’s all I ask. What is it you always tell me? That the mind will trick itself, making believe in the . . . Idols of the tribe?” Mom asked, pondering aloud.
            “Thanks, Mom,” Heather replied. She thought for a moment about Francis Bacon and The Advancement of Learning. Was she gathering information correctly to make a decision?
            “Well, I’m going to do something that often defies being rational:  going shopping.”
            “Beware of Idols of the market-place,” she chuckled. Mom laughed with her. Bacon hadn’t been referring to marketing, exactly, but to the way people misused words.
            “Is there anything you need?” Mom asked. Heather shook her head. “Has the doctor called?”  In her mother’s voice, she could hear concern. She was a breast cancer survivor.
            “Not yet,” Heather replied, trying to keep that worry at bay.
            At the front of the cabin, someone knocked on the door. They waited as they heard Amber answer the door. “For me!? Aw, for my sister, like always.” She came back carrying a beautiful flower arrangement. Cookies, a large card, and a bright blue ‘Get Well Soon’ balloon added to the festive arrangement.
            Heather examined the card. “Wow! It’s from work and signed by just about everyone.”
            Amber peeked over her shoulder. “Ohhh. Even Dirk DeVault added his John Hancock.”
            “Who is he?” her mother asked.
            “He’s the casino manager,” Amber replied for her.
            “Wow! Who sent the flowers?” Skyler asked, entering shirtless and sweaty. He came over, kissed her on the cheek and sat. Flecks of damp sawdust clung to him. He smelled pleasantly woody, bringing a smile to her.
            “All the rich and powerful men at work,” her sister sassed.
            “Amber!”
            “Bye! I’m going to get ready for work,” Amber said cheerily as she dashed off.
            “Who sent the flowers?”
            “It looks like just about everybody at work, even the president,” Heather replied.
            “I’m not surprised. You always make a good impression,” he said and gave her the loving smile he reserved only for her. He kissed her forehead, then he examined the gift. He breathed in the flowers, sniffed the cookie, and then examined the card. “DeVault’s signature is huge, even bigger than the president’s. They really don’t want you to sue.”
            “I am all right!” she snapped in frustration.
            “That’s not the point. It could be worse,” her love said, getting overprotective.
            “I’m not into suing,” Heather protested.
            “I have a feeling this is an argument I should stay out of. Have either of you seen Mrs. Battle recently?” her mother asked.
            “Not in weeks. They’ve been traveling, but they’re home now,” Skyler replied.
            “I’m beginning to think she’s ill. She has canceled our last two lunch dates. Would you look in on her?”
            “I’d be glad to, then I’ll give you a call,” Skyler replied.
            “Are you going to work tonight?” Mom asked her.
            Heather was unhappy that she had brought up the subject, again, because Skyler would want to discuss it to death. “I don’t know.”
            Mom sensed the tension. Without a word, she kissed her on the cheek and left.
            “Going back would be rushing it,” Skyler said.
            “We could use the money. A bunch of whales are visiting this week. The night before last I made $550 in tips.”
            “Make your decision on love, not money,” Skyler said.
            “Oh, that’s playing dirty,” she growled.
            “I learned from you and Amber,” he retorted with a smile.
            “Care to go for a stroll along the beach?”
            “Always. Do you plan to play dirty there?”
            “Is it warm?” she asked.
            “Almost balmy but definitely not bikini weather,” he replied, mocking disappointment. Even so, he watched with keen interest when she dressed in jeans and a UNR Wolf Pack t-shirt.
            Hand-in-hand, they left the mother-in-law cabin and headed for the beach and the Elk Point Marina. She heard the seagulls screech and the sand crunch beneath her shoes. The grounds had been left natural, hard sand and dotted with Ponderosa and Douglas pine trees. Along with their mother-in-law cabin, the Elk Point Country Club contained nine one-story cabins crafted out of redwood and green-singled with small porches. The caretaker’s place sat on the other side of the drive, next to the southern fence bordering beautiful Nevada Beach State Park.
            With her love beside her, the Tahoe basin seemed like a different part of the world, day compared to night. The sky was a high arching blue dome, while the lake appeared to be composed of liquid sapphires. Hence its nickname as the jewel of the High Sierra. Da Ow A Ga in Washoe sat at 6226 feet, the big water surrounded by decomposed granite beaches and gray mountains swathed in pine trees. Pressed against the heavens, the lake of the sky lapped God-kissed and sacred shores. Bark beetles, lightning sparked fires and the storms of humanity left scars on its natural beauty, along with gray trees, ski resorts, magnificent mansions, and ostentatious casinos.
             Everyone wanted a slice of Heaven, even Heather. She wanted to get married atop Freel Peak, the basin’s tallest summit, but she would settle for the beach. Even at lake level, the air was dry and brittle like a high desert plateau. She loved the sweet-smelling air and the lack of bugs.
            They sat on the bench swing next to the pier which led to the marina. The simple structure had an office and large private boathouse to support eight open slips. Mono Lake-born Seagulls sat atop the high metal beams supporting the winch systems. Empty of boats, it appeared abandoned.
            Both the marina and county club had closed last month, leaving only Skyler, Heather, and the Battles in their incredible shoreline mansion. The gray stone, balconies and towers reminded her of a medieval castle protecting a hamlet of log cabins. The mansion’s design had been inspired by Vikingsholm in Emerald Bay. The private beach was essentially the Battles’ backyard. It made sense to her that Skyler had grown up to be an artist, appreciating life and nature.
            “Are you really thinking about going to work tonight?” her love asked. They were surrounded by his amazing artwork. The life-like wooden creatures seemed to lean forward or cock an ear to listen to her response.
            “I really do feel fine.”
            “You do now. It might be different when you walk in. You don’t have to do this.”
            “Yes, I do. You should understand. We’ve been through this before.”
            “You don’t have to work. I’m going to earn enough money to send you to school.”
            “Ah, I like the sound of that. How?” she asked.
            “The Battles are going to buy Sierra Galleries. Mrs. B loves my stuff . . .”
            “That she does,” Heather said. She had been a boon to Skyler and his creations.
            “And she intends on displaying my work.”
            “Have they purchased the property yet?”
            “No, but Mrs. B assured me it would happen.”
            “I see,” Heather said, not sure how to say this. Skyler loved Mrs. Battle like she was his mother. She was a doting godmother. “Let’s use all our thinking tools here. Step away from our vested interest and look for evidence. Let’s gather some evidence first.”
            “I trust Mrs. B’s word.”
            “That’s not the issue, Skyler. Lots of things could happen. People change their minds. Perhaps Sierra Galleries decides not to sell. Are the Battles going to build a gallery? I like the sound of taking the rest of the year off and just skiing, but I think I’ll take a wait and see approach. When was the last time you saw Mrs. B?”
            “Three weeks ago. That’s when she told me their plans. She believes Tahoe needs a stronger art presence to compete with Jackson, Wyoming. I assumed they have been out procuring art. I plan to look in on them tonight before I go to work.”
            “You’re going to work tonight?! Where?!” she asked, not believing this was happening.
            “I’m working for Chad,” he replied sheepishly.
            “You want me to stay home tonight, but you’re going to work?!” she asked incredulously. He wanted her to stay home, but he wouldn’t stay home himself? She kept a good grasp on  her anger, knowing it must be for a good reason.
             “He has a funeral in Sacramento. I promised I would cover. I have called everyone I can think of, and everyone anyone else can think of, too. No one else can help.”
            “I am not staying home alone. No way,” she said, thinking of the wolf and the conversation she had overheard last night. “I would rather be surrounded by people.”
            “I guess that makes sense, if you’re determined to work. I didn’t think dealing was addictive.”
            “Don’t worry. It’s not. But I have to stand up for myself! You can’t be with me all the time, not even tonight,” she replied. He winced. “More importantly, I know you wouldn’t leave, that you would stay with me if you thought I was in bad shape. True?”
            He hung his head a little, defeated. “Absolutely. You’re stubborn enough to get through it, but I don’t want you to have a breakdown later, my love.”
            “I have only been attacked once at work,” she pointed out.
            Hearing the grind of sandy footsteps, she turned before Skyler could argue any further. His godfather slowly approached, hobbling with the help of a ornate and hand-crafted cane. Even stooped, Eli Battle was a tall, white-haired and stately-looking gentleman. He wore a beige suit and a black tie, his fall beach attire.       
            “Hello, Mr. B!” Skyler addressed him as his father always had, but far louder due to his advancing age. “How are you feeling today?!” 
            “Very old, young man. Very old indeed,” Mr. B replied, looking grim, his forehead furrowed like a plowed field. His bushy eyebrows were bunched together, reminding her of a white hedge. Usually well groomed, his wavy hair was wild, blowing unkempt in the breeze. Around his snow white mustache, his weathered face was uncharacteristically unshaven and stubbled, looking a bit a like a troubled Mark Twain.
            Heather couldn’t help but think of last night, but the question stuck in her throat.
            Skyler hugged him and asked, “Mr. B, I don’t mean to pry, but is anything wrong?”
            “What did you ask about a song?”
            Skyler repeated his question, so Mr. B could read his lips.
            “I look like that, do I? Take my advice, don’t worry. It only makes you get old faster. Look at me!” he tried to jest, his voice flat. He sighed heavily. “I’m just weighing the kind of decisions you make when you’re geriatric and decrepit.” He peered at Heather. “You don’t look like you feel all that well yourself, darling. My hearing has gone bad, but my eyes are still sharp. Is something wrong?”
            She tersely recounted last night.
            “Oh, dear! Thank the good Lord you’re all right. I hope you appreciate your angels,” he replied, looking grave as he crossed himself. “Have you thought it might be a strong hint to quit working at the casino?”
            Heather nodded. The whole day seemed a little surreal. Mr. B had always been a strong supporter of having choices, including casinos, as long as they paid their fair share and contributed to helping those who grew sick from gambling. Like many native Nevadans, he believed in personal responsibility and state power, not big government.
            Mr. B looked to Skyler. “What are you creating nowadays?”
            Skyler let him change the subject. “Come see.”  He guided them to his makeshift studio.
            “Last night, looking out my window, I thought I saw a wolf,” Heather said.
            “During my morning constitutional, I found a dead cat and animal tracks plenty big enough to belong to the beast you’re talking about,” Mr. B said.
            “Maybe our new neighbors have a dog. Have you met them yet?” Skyler asked.
            “I met a representative of the new owners, since it’s now the property of the Twilight Paradise.”
            “It is?” Heather asked, a bit surprised. Nobody had mentioned it at work. Dealings of the TPT were usually big news.
            “It’ll be used as host quarters for high rollers and celebrities who are looking for peace and quiet.”
            “Good. Those people can afford pricey, hand-crafted, and Tahoe-inspired art. Tah-dah,” Skyler said, gesturing to the large wooden eagle. Through detail and a feathery touch, the sculpture looked life-like. The raptor soared low, plucking a salmon from between the waves. She looked around finding no sign of the sculpture of her.
            Mr. B took one look and gasped, “Amazing.” Donning his bifocals, he scrutinized it from every direction. “A masterpiece! Martha would love to see it!”
            Skyler mustered his courage, asking, “How is Mrs. B?!”
            Mr. B’s expression fell, his mask failing. “Not well, I’m afraid.” He suddenly clutched Skyler’s hand as if he were trying to keep from collapsing. “She’s . . . dying of cancer.”
            Heather was stunned by the bombshell revelation.
            Her love fell ghostly white. “Cancer?” Skyler repeated dumbly. The Big C had taken his parents.
            Heather took his hand and squeezed hard. Because of his history and fears he would worry needlessly, she had not told him about her tests. She had tried to remain strong and have faith that all would work out for the best, as the Divine intended.
             “I . . . still haven’t told my boys. They’re coming by next week, and . . .” he spread his hands uncertainly, unable to continue. He wobbled, his knees about to buckle.
            Skyler rushed forward, taking her with him to support his godfather. Even together, they were barely able to stand under the weight of fate. Heather stepped in to help.
            “I pray I have more courage by then. I have spent up telling you,” he managed, then he wept.
            Heather felt out of place, the roles reversed as she comforted a great man many times her senior. Sometimes, she felt a little like a child when it came time to take care of the elderly. She wanted to say it would all work out in Divine order, but she knew that he knew. It must be hard to accept knowing you would lose the one you cared for more than life. How would she feel if Skyler was slowly dying? It made her ill just thinking about it.
            “We found out just before we finalized plans to purchase the High Sierra Galleries,” he finally managed. “That would’ve been good for your work, yes it would, and fun for us, but now she isn’t up to it. She loves art as much as life. But while the spirit is willing, her flesh is weak. I doubt she’ll make it to Christmas. Treatments offer no hope. Like vultures, charlatans and con men circle her, offering dastardly proposals,” he spat with surprising venom.
            Heather experienced a sweeping chill. He sounded like the man she had heard last night. He was quickly replaced by a man burdened by despair.
            “She’s scared and in a lot of pain, and there’s nothing I can do. All my money, all my Nevada juice, and I can’t do anything to help the woman I love.”
            Skyler groped for words. He knew the torture of watching somebody he loved waste away. Heather had watched, as at twenty-four, he was already too familiar with death. “Is there anything I can do?!”
            “Martha would love to see this. Did I ever tell you she was disappointed none of our kids were interested in art? That’s one of the many reasons she loves you like a son. She’s been avoiding you, afraid the news would devastate you, perhaps kill your creativity. I know you’re strong. When you get a chance, take your new creations to her. Don’t wait too long . . . .” He spread his hands hopelessly, then he reached into a pocket, pulling out a silver chain with a shiny cross dangling from it. He handed it to Skyler. “Pray for her, please. I’m not sure she believes anymore, but sometimes, as you know, all we can do is pray for the best.”                   
            “I will.” Skyler accepted the necklace.
            “If she . . . passes on, I don’t think I could live here anymore. Just . . . just something to think about.”
            Heather saw Skyler stiffen as though he had been spindled through the heart. Shock overshadowed his eyes, as if seeing wasn’t believing— it was just a nightmare. He would lose a patron, his home, and his ‘Fairy’ godmother all at once. “What would you do with it?”
            “Martha suggested I turn it into an artist’s colony,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m glad you’re marrying Heather. She loves you for who you are, a caring young man and a talented artist. And she loves to help others. Spend lots of time together.” Mr. B gathered himself, then he trudged back to the mansion.
            “Skyler, I’m so sorry,” she said.
            “Stay close. It feels like my world is coming apart,” he whispered.
            “We have each other. Always remember, I love you through good times and bad,” she said, squeezing his hand. Then she kissed him as if for the last time. She didn’t know what she would do if she lost him.