Remy and Madeline were sitting side by side in two white wicker chairs on the front porch of their cottage in Maine.
This had always been their favorite time, when the day eventually succumbed to the night. Usually they’d had their supper, and then retired with a cup of coffee, or a cocktail, to the peace of the porch and the surrender of daylight.
The nocturnal bugs were tuning up, preparing a woodland symphony just for them. At least, that was what they had liked to think: a concert of clicks, buzzes, and hums for their listening pleasure only.
“Hey,” Madeline said, reaching across to give Remy’s hand a loving squeeze.
“Hey back,” Remy said, smiling at her. It was always good to see her, even though it broke his heart every time.
“Good day?” she asked, as they gazed into the darkness beyond the porch. It sounded as if every insect in the woods had something to say . . . something to sing about.
Remy was silent, not quite sure how to answer.
“What?” Madeline asked, turning to him with the smile that transformed his insides to liquid.
“Interesting day . . . and night,” he said, not looking at her.
“Is that a touch of guilt I hear in your voice?”
Remy shrugged noncommittally, even though he knew she had the answer.
“You realize that’s a waste of perfectly good guilt,” Madeline stated, continuing to rub the side of his hand with her thumb.
“Perfectly good guilt?” he repeated with a grin, finally turning to face her with a look of feigned innocence.
“Mmmmm-hmm,” she replied with a quick nod. “All that energy could be put to good use elsewhere, like returning your phone calls, or giving to that kid outside the Market Basket collecting for Pop Warner.”
“I didn’t have any change that day,” Remy protested.
“And taking Marlowe to the Common,” Madeline continued, ignoring his outburst. “Poor baby hasn’t been to the Common in days.”
“It hasn’t been days,” Remy attempted, before realizing that she was right.
“See, perfectly good guilt going to waste over me.”
“Nothing ever went to waste over you,” he said, missing her more at that moment than he had in some time, knowing that this wasn’t real, but realizing it was better than nothing.
“Ah, flattery.” She squeezed his hand. “So, what was it like?” Madeline asked. “Being out on a date after all this time?”
“Different,” Remy said. “Nerve-racking.” He started to laugh.
“What’s there to be nervous about? You always gave good date.”
“Gave good date?” Remy repeated with a chuckle.
“It’s true,” Madeline said. “You were the best I ever dated. I always had the nicest times with you.”
“You brought out the best in me.” Remy leaned forward and kissed her hand.
“See?” Madeline said. “Even now you’re giving good date.”
“This is a date?” Remy asked.
“What would you call it?” asked the woman he had loved for more than forty years. “You’ve created this place in your head so we can spend some time together, and here we are, enjoying each other’s company. I’d call it a date.”
“Well, I’m not sure what kind of date I was the other night,” Remy said, reflecting on his dinner with Linda.
“Why, did you make her run screaming from the restaurant?”
“No.”
“She didn’t eat with her hands, did she?”
“No, she knew how to use a knife and fork.”
“Phew.” Madeline rolled her eyes. “For a minute there I thought maybe—”
“She wasn’t you,” Remy interrupted quickly, his heart filled with emotion for the woman who had made him what he was.
Who had made him human.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“I don’t think I was very good company because I kept thinking that I’d rather be with you.”
“You’re so sweet,” Madeline said. She reached over and placed her warm hand against his cheek. “And I’m flattered, really, but I’m also dead, Remy. The only way we can see each other is like this. Just you and me . . . and your very active imagination.”
They were both silent for a moment, listening to the insect song.
“You didn’t bring me up, did you?” Madeline asked finally.
“No,” Remy said. “I didn’t think it would be appropriate.”
“Thank God for that,” she said with a gentle laugh.
“Hey, I’m not as hopeless as you think I am,” Remy defended himself.
Madeline leaned over and put her head on his shoulder. “You’re not hopeless at all,” she told him. “Just a little bit stubborn sometimes.”
“Ya think?” Remy asked, putting his arm around her.
They sat like that for quite some time, Remy not wanting to speak—not wanting to ruin the moment. It felt like it had when everything was perfect.
When everything was just right.
“Did you have a little bit of fun?” she asked him.
“Maybe a little,” he answered, immediately feeling that twinge of guilt.
“How much?” Madeline asked, sitting up and turning to face him. She held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch a part. “This much?”
Remy shrugged. “Maybe a little less. She had a runny nose.”
Madeline wrinkled hers. “Really?”
Remy nodded. “Yeah, it was cold, though, so I guess I should cut her some slack.”
“I guess,” Madeline agreed. “Do you think you’ll see her again?”
Remy didn’t want to answer that question.
“Remy,” Madeline said, trying to get his attention.
He looked at her then, wishing with all his heart that this could be real.
“I asked you a question,” she said, her beautiful gaze urging him to answer.
“Yes,” he finally replied, and as the words left his mouth, the sounds of the forest were suddenly—eerily—quiet. “Yes, we’re having lunch tomorrow.”
Madeline smiled then, a smile that he’d seen thousands of times, a smile that had never failed to warm him to his core, a smile that personified the love she’d felt for him, reflected back as the love he had for her.
“Good,” she said. “I like her.”
“She isn’t you.”
“And you wouldn’t want her to be,” Madeline said, slowly shaking her head. “What we had belongs to us.”
“And only us,” Remy added.
“Exactly.” She leaned forward in her chair, her lips suddenly so close to his.
“No more wasted guilt,” she whispered, as their lips touched.
Remy opened his eyes to the reality of his world.
The Maine cottage was gone, as was his wife. Instead he sat at his desk, where he had been finishing some billing when he’d closed his eyes and let his consciousness wander. An angel needed no sleep, but often he would enter a kind of fugue state to rest his weary mind and spend time with his wife.
Marlowe lay flat on his side on the rug beneath the desk, legs outstretched as if he’d been shot, his dark eyes watching Remy.
The clock at the bottom of the computer screen said that it was after three a.m., and the street outside his Beacon Hill brownstone was quiet. Maybe it was time to alleviate some more of his burdened conscience.
“Hey,” Remy said to his dog.
Marlowe sat up at full attention, head tilted, waiting for Remy to ask the question.
And he did. “Want to go to the Common for a walk?”
No more magickal words had ever been spoken.
The Labrador immediately sprang to his feet and began to anxiously pace.
“Guess that’s a yes.” Remy stood and stretched, then headed for the stairs, a very excited Marlowe at his heels.
As Remy was getting ready to take Marlowe on a nighttime walk, Fernita Green was dreaming.
She had fallen asleep in her living room chair, as she was wont to do these days, surrounded by the clutter of her life, Miles the cat curled tightly in her lap, also deeply asleep.
Sharing the dream of his mistress.
Fernita walked through the jungle, tall grasses and thick underbrush moving aside to allow her to pass.