Tomorrow's Sun (Lost Sanctuary) - By Becky Melby Page 0,2

walked to the end of the porch and bent over the railing. Two young boys wrestled over a basketball in her side yard. On the ground beside them, a circus-colored beach ball rocked in the breeze.

Some things she wouldn’t get away from, no matter how far she moved.

Turning back to the pine tree, Emily tried to conjure her imaginary hammock, but it wouldn’t return. She opened the screechy screen door and stepped into the kitchen.

The floor sloped toward the back of the house. In front of the sink, a layer of pink-and-gray-flowered linoleum showed through a hole in the brick-patterned vinyl. She padded across the uneven surface to a white corner cupboard. Resting her cane against the windowsill, she unlatched a tall door, releasing memories mingled with cloves, cinnamon, and coriander. She’d been fifteen when she spent the summer visiting her best friend’s great-grandmother. Cara’s Nana Grace was the quintessential grandma. Memories of that magical summer and the big white house in Rochester chronicled all five senses—violets, fireflies, apple crisp, a cobwebby cellar, and the trill of tree frogs. Exploring the town on Nana Grace’s wobbly old Schwinn bikes, giggling about the bare-chested guy washing his car down the street, dangling their feet in the river, talking for hours about that clumsy, dream-spinning kiss. Carefree.

The way young girls should be.

Her shoulders shuddered, an invisible weight constricting her lungs. Closing her eyes, she repeated the words branded in her brain. “Release…relax…let it go.” With a fierce exhale, she tugged on the window next to the cupboard. It stuck. She banged on the frame with the heel of her hand and tried again. The sash gave way, sliding up so quickly she almost lost her balance.

Sweet spring air thwarted panic. Be present in the moment. The cardinals still sang. In the distance, the metered cadence of the basketball on cement joined the rhythm of the afternoon. She concentrated on the steady slap, slap, slap as she labeled the smells. Wet leaves. River mud. Charcoal smoke. Violets.

As her pulse reclaimed a normal pace, another shrill scream pierced her quiet and she slid the window down. It banged shut but didn’t block the noise. The scream grew louder. Closer.

No laughter followed.

“Let it go!”

Strange to hear her therapist’s advice yelled from a child’s lips.

“Michael! Stop!”

The beach ball bounced toward the river, propelled by the wind. And followed by a barefoot boy. A gust whipped it against the crippled oak. The ball shot into the water.

Lord God, no. Caught in a whirlpool, the ball swirled in a tight circle. Red…white…yellow…blue…

The boy grabbed onto the broken limb with one hand and reached for the ball with the other.

Emily’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her breath rasped, fast and shallow. Black walls pushed in, narrowing her vision.

The limb swayed. A crack split the air. “Michael!” A man’s voice. “I’ll get the ball. Come here. Now.”

The boy stopped and waved toward the voice, then glanced up at her and waved again.

The room tilted. Emily closed her eyes. Release. Relax. Let it go.

Her legs gave way. She slid to the floor, biting her lip against the stab of pain in her right hip. Knees to chest, arms encircling her legs, she folded. Making herself small.

A heavy knock shook the screen door. She shrank against the cupboard.

The door rattled again. “I don’t think she’s home.”

A lighter, quieter knock followed. “I just sawed her,” a small voice insisted. “Just now in the window.”

“Miss Foster? Jacob Braden, Braden Improvements.”

Emily rubbed her eyes with both hands. Go away. She’d call the contractor tomorrow, make up some excuse. A headache or phone call. Tomorrow she’d be rested, calmer, able to think.

“Go in,” the small voice whispered.

“We can’t just walk in. That’s rude.” Footsteps retreated. “Come on.”

“Nuh-uh. Nana Grace lets us.”

“Nana Grace is—Michael! You can’t—”

Hinges whined. Emily raised her head from her cocoon.

Bare feet. Red shorts. Huge brown eyes. “I’m Michael.”

Breathe. Emily clenched and unclenched tingling fingers. Live in the now. “Hi, Michael. I’m Emily.” She smiled. It felt almost natural.

“Nana Grace gived us peanuhbutter cookies.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t had time to bake.”

The door opened again. A man: dusty work boots, one lace untied and trailing; faded jeans, hole on the right knee; snug, heather-blue shirt; sun-lightened brown hair curling over his collar. Eyebrows rose above inquisitive eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She was sitting on the floor, half-curled in a ball. Not a chance he’d believe her. “Just…trying to get a feel for the place.”

He nodded and a chunk of gold-licked hair swung over