Until We Are Stardust

By L.B. Wren

Until We Are Stardust: A Second Chance for Love. Thirty years after leaving love behind, a chef and author decides to seek out the woman whose heart he never should have broken. Will she forgive him? Will her children accept him? Navigating ghosts from the past, Mike & Elaina wonder if it's possible to rekindle love on the Oregon Coast? With the help of guardian angels, four energetic guard dogs and a boatload of family and friends, these highschool sweethearts spend the summer trying to figure it out.

 

 

 

Cover design: SavannaRiley Design

Cover photo: Cynthia Parks

Managing Editor: Elysia Garland

Editor: Rachel Leishman

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wool & Lavendar publishing
• Release date: Oct 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223660149

Book preview

PREFACE

When I was almost seventeen, I decided to defer university enrollment because my Nonno—my grandfather on my mother’s side—had died. I chose to stay home and go to our community college for one year. Then I fell in love and delayed Loyola for one more year. I entered my third year living away from home in the dorm at my new school.

Two years later, I graduated with my bachelor’s degree in computer science. I returned home to resume life with the girl I loved and, with whom, I had somehow managed to maintain a long-distance relationship.

Two months later, I threw a grenade into both our lives by joining the military and telling her we were over. Sometimes young people are stupid. I certainly was. Stupid, scared, overwhelmed, and unsure how to manage another two years apart as she finished college at Creighton.

Three decades later I had to ask myself, So, now what?

STUNAD

I stood beside my car at the side of the two-lane highway, nestled between an old truck and a Sprinter van, on a sandy wide spot at the side of the road. I could taste the salt in the cool air of the morning as it tousled my hair and bit the skin below my eyes. The noise of the sea roared from across the highway. Every crash was like the roar of a crowd cheering me on . . . urging me to take that first step toward the stately two-story that housed the love of my life.

It was early morning when I decided today would be the day I finally stopped. The day I would park, rather than slow down before speeding up the winding road ahead.  Over a plate of eggs and a cup of coffee, I decided I would man up today. The eggs and coffee churned like the grey ocean behind her home. I lost my breakfast, but not my resolve, there beside an old green Ford F150 with a bed full of surf gear.

I rinsed my mouth with water from a stainless-steel bottle and dropped two mints into my dry mouth. How is it possible to salivate with stress and have cottonmouth at the same time? I have no idea. I am curiously talented, it seems.

When the road was safe to cross, I stepped onto the asphalt and made my way to the gate of the weathered picket fence. I don’t know how I missed seeing them exit the house through the large blue door. Somehow, they missed seeing me too.

There she was. Unmistakably older, but every bit as beautiful as I remember.  Long, flowing curls, dancing in the wind. She pulled an oversized cable knit sweater around her torso to brace against the cold. Had the sea not had so much to say that morning, I probably would have heard the content of their goodbye. Instead, I watched with a soul full of regret, as he embraced her on the porch, turning back twice to console her before leaving her arms.

I looked on as she watched him take backward steps from the sunbeaten clapboards to the stone walkway and over to the drive where he waived as he hopped into his sportscar. In the moments it took for him to leave her yard, I replayed the day I last left her. I have spent many moments before this day regretting having left her. The way I left. The reasons. Stupid, stupid reasons I had imagined for needing to leave her behind. My only gratitude at this moment was for already having literally spilled my guts beside the road.  I was a void standing just inside her gated yard when she turned to finally notice my presence.

I found myself running, not to my car, but through her yard, breaking for the shoreline. A panic fueled mistake. My pounding heart and the ringing in my ears drowned out the sounds of her yelling at me, at her dogs.

I was stunned by the weight of the huge dog as he took my body with him to the sand.  I hardly saw him, or his brother, as he launched from the second story deck barely catching his back feet on the first story railing as he catapulted full force to tackle me—the perceived intruder.

There I laid, choking up sand, face down, at the mercy of two Belgian Malinois keen on tasting my flesh.

Don’t move, her familiar voice ordered.

I did as she said. I couldn’t have disobeyed in any case.

She spoke to the dogs in a sharp, deliberate cadence of French. I recognized some of what she ordered from the time spent on airbases overseas. The dog at my feet quickly headed her commands. The one snarling at my neck took a moment to remind me of my mistake in coming, before obeying his mistress.

The melodic cooing she used to praise her guards was familiar to me too. This was the sound of the young girl who I had fallen so helplessly in love with when I was nineteen years old. She was then a high school junior with a talent for languages. French was her favorite when she whispered things I couldn’t understand as she brushed her soft lips across my neck. When I had imagined hearing that voice, those words once more, I never pictured being embarrassed and covered in damp sand.

This is private property, she spoke again in English. The beach access is further up, or down, the highway. My yard is not a thoroughfare for beachgoers.

Hmm, uh, yup, I coughed.

Please get up, slowly, and leave the way you came.

Yes, ma’am, I answered as I rose to my feet facing away from her. Stunad, I mumbled to myself as I brushed off my clothes.

I beg your pardon? she objected loudly.

I’m sorry . . . me, not you, I apologized, still facing the water. I’m the stunad.  I shouldn’t have come.  I’m sorry for interrupting your morning.

You . . . she paused. Would you turn around, please?

I should go, I told her, as I tried to leave without letting her see my face.

Please don’t. Not like this. Not again.

Without seeing my face, she knew me for the coward I was. Then. Now. I stopped, keeping my back to her as I tried to hide my shame and fear.

Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t think so.  If I am, surely there is no harm in looking at each other. She paused. If I’m not . . . If you are . . .

I couldn’t move.

I’ve wondered. I’ve imagined this. It looked different in my mind. She giggled in a soft, sad tone. Hmm. Lay down, she said speaking French again to the dogs.

I wanted to move. To run. To turn to her. Something. Anything. My body wouldn’t move. My face cringed with the painful truth of her every word.

You came a long way to not let me see your eyes. Why? Why would you come so far, just to walk away, without a hello, before another goodbye? She continued. If I’m not wrong . . . ?

You’re not, I spoke to the wind.  I’m the same coward I was back then.

I heard her try to stifle the gasp she let out.

It was a mistake for me to show up like this. If I had known you were in a relationship, I never would have come. I don’t know what I was thinking. I have no right to be here. I just wanted to know . . .

I’m not seeing anyone. Why do you think I . . . ?

I saw him this morning. I assumed   he . . .

No, she stopped my thoughts with her laughter. Sebastian? No.

You’re an adult. You’re allowed to do whatever . . .

He’s my son, she said. My oldest.

My entire body felt the relief of her words as they quelled the storm in my soul.

I have four—four children. I have three sons and a daughter.

I’m sorry, I told her as I turned to face her. Lain, I was so...

Stop, she ordered.

The dogs moved to their feet with low growls.

Of course, I answered as I spun back away from her.

You were right, she explained.  This isn’t right.  You aren’t supposed to be here today. Not this way. You should go.

My heart sank. So many mistakes. So much lost time. Now I was losing my last chance. I understand.

I’m a mess. I haven’t showered. No makeup. And my hair! She blurted out rapidly. What must you think of me?

I've really only seen the sand.

Oh yes. You must have sand in your teeth, ears . . . She let out a true giggle then, one like I loved to remember from our youth.  You’ll have to come another time.  Tomorrow! Will you come again, please, tomorrow? she asked.

Yes. I can, yes. I can come back tomorrow.

Good, she said.

Lunch? I asked.

Yes. Lunch, she agreed. What would you like?

I’ll bring lunch. If that’s okay with you? I hoped.

Lovely. I’d like that, she said, hushing the dogs and telling them to lay down again.

This time the dogs were not growling.  They were whining.

Athos. Porthos. Hush you two.

Her orders did little to quiet them.

Oh, I see, she said with a smile in her voice. Go ahead.

I could hear their paws tearing up the sand as they ran off.

They see the other boys coming in from surfing, she told me. They’re equal parts excited and jealous.

I could hear the other dogs and voices coming close now.

I should go, I told her as I started up the incline to her front yard. Tomorrow, then?

Aramis. D’Artagnan. I heard her yell. No!

Then she began to shout French expletives and orders. She was too late. I was already face down, eating sand once more.

Then I heard the voices of the young men calling to the wet dogs, ordering them to let me be.

Sorry, mister, one voice said. 

Why are you apologizing to a trespasser? another voice asked.

Are you okay, Mrs. T? asked yet another voice as the first two argued over leaving me to be dogfood.

Fine, thank you, Elaina told him.  Boys, please take the Musketeers inside.

Sorry, sir, the first voice offered again.

Dude, the second voice challenged.  Stop talking to strangers.

Boys!

Yes, Mom, the young men answered in unison. Right away, Mom.

Mrs. T? a fourth voice wondered. Sure you’re, okay?

Perfectly.

Sir, that voice made five. Okay? he asked, offering me his hand.

Thank you, I nodded, accepting the hand up.

Hey, I know you! voice six spoke, as he planted his board in the sand. Hey, this guy is famous, he told the others.

That right? the angry second voice had returned.  I recognized his father’s face as he gave me the same mean mug I used to get when we were young men. You famous?

No, not as such, I said trying to avoid his gaze.

He is around here, a lovely girl said as she shoved the carbon copy from my past. Chef Z, she winked at me with eyes I recognized too.

Your pizzas are bomb! said the eighth and final voice.

Ma, voice one returned. You know Chef Z?

It looks that way, she answered hesitantly keeping her eyes away from mine.

Old friends, I answered. Way before the Chef Z thing. She knows how uncool I really am.

Chef Z . . . Z’s Pizza, she realized out loud. You opened your own pizzeria. The dream.

The dream, I confirmed.

Good for you, she told me with genuine happiness. I have to get inside, she said as she quickly turned toward her home.  Thirteen hundred, she called over her shoulder before she disappeared under the shadow of the deck.

Thirteen hundred? asked Mr. Bomb Pizza.

I’m bringing lunch tomorrow, I answered.

The group looked at me as though I hadn’t actually answered the question asked.

At thirteen hundred, I think, I told them. I think she was telling me what time to arrive.

I gotta shower, said the angry one, as he glared at me with his father’s suspicious eyes.

I should be going myself, I said awkwardly.

See you tomorrow at one, the kind girl said with a wave.

Will everyone be here? I asked.

Yup!  His mouth was as angry as his eyes.

See you then, I sighed, this time calling myself stunad with my inner voice.

MEMORIES

I woke up wondering how much of the thoughts and pictures that kept me awake the night before were real and how much I had dreamt. I knew the worst parts were real.  My aching muscles and the sand I hadn’t managed to dislodge with brushing and flossing were proof of an unfortunate morning I hoped to smooth over with a few great pies at lunch today.

With my mother’s vinyl on the turntable as musical inspiration, I prepared the sauce and dough. My thoughts drifted from childhood—when I learned to make the perfect dough from Nonna—to the first time I baked a Margherita for Elaina, to the first kiss, to the day I broke her heart. I remembered the day I did the right thing by standing silently in the choir loft as I died inside watching someone else kiss the bride. Thirty years of regrets, that’s what I bought myself when I told her we were over. I joined the Air Force, saw the world, tried to find myself while trying to forget her, and came up wanting.

The day I left her standing in the hot sun at her family’s Fourth of July BBQ, I told her not to wait for me. When she cried and reached out for me, I bristled against her touch. I told her I didn’t love her. I told her she needed to move on. She called me a liar and a coward. She was right. I pushed her away and told her this was the only option for us because I never felt anything real for her.  Nothing more than friendship. I stupidly told her that my feelings for her were the same as those for my sister. When she asked if I kissed my sister like that, we both knew I was making a horrible mistake. I wasn’t man enough to admit how scared I was to be away from her.  I was afraid she wouldn’t, couldn’t wait for me.  So, I was cruel. I tried to make her hate me so I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about the endless string of meaningless moments I knew were in store for me.

Two years into my first four years in the service, my sister called to tell me that Elaina had stopped waiting. Meg told me she’d seen Lain with one of my buddies from school. I lied to Meg, who knows my truest heart, and said it was about time Lain moved on. That was the first time my heart broke. It was also the last time I tried to lie to Meg. My big sister saw me through the heartache I brought upon myself then and every time thereafter. She cried with me the day I wasn’t the groom and for me the day I married a woman who could never fill the emptiness I created by being selfish with my love years before. When I cried the day I found out Lain was carrying another man’s child, Meg was there to dry my tears. When I finally pulled myself together and left the woman I never loved, Meg was there to drink away the lost time and helped me begin to live again. Meg helped me pack up my life and move to my seaside escape.

For nineteen years, I lived the life of a consummate bachelor, while building my business and my brand. Meg was there for every high and low: three cookbooks, two restaurants (one failed, then resurrected), a line of marginal wines that ultimately yielded one really solid table red, and a seven-and-a-half-year remodel that had started out as a kitchen addition. I thought I’d finally broken my sister the morning she pulled up and saw the For Sale sign on the front lawn. She exited the car with a vacant stare and stood, mouth open, slowly shaking her head. When she finally spoke, she uttered a single word.  Why? I answered with two words, The view. She stood for a while seeming to ponder my answer. When she had finally reconciled her grief or frustration, she looked at me and asked, What now? That’s Meg.  Never too much time wasted on emotion toward what she couldn’t control. She could roll with everything—anything except being late.  Someday, when I finally grow up, I hope to be just like her.

When fate brought this house to me, I knew I would never let it go. The spirit of this house filled mine. Everything here brought and continues to bring peace and a sense of belonging to my soul. I could stand in this kitchen and watch the emotions of the sea from dawn to dusk. On moonlit nights, I’d lay in bed and take in the stars as they danced across the skies and over the rippling waves. I took my morning coffee with a salted breeze and the scent of my herb garden drifting through the air. It was a good life. Not the life I planned as a young man, but a good life all the same. I’ve had moments of lament, regret, sorrow. One really hard year that I wouldn’t have survived without Meg. But I knew the life I had was the sum of the choices I’d made.  Good or bad, all the choices led me there, to that place and that life—a life that was good.  This should’ve been enough, and it probably would’ve been enough—maybe—if I’d never realized that she was there, living a good enough life only two miles away as the crow or, in our case, the seagulls fly. I wasn’t sure how long she’d been here, or how many times she’d come to the restaurant. I know I’d seen her twice in as many years, both times, I told myself, I was allowing my haunted mind to play tricks with my eyes. I convinced myself that I was seeing her because I wanted to see her.

The first time I caught sight of her was while buying tomatoes at the Saturday Market. She had her hair loosely tied in a messy bun; her eyes barely hidden by pale, blue-tinted sunglasses. I recognized the sundress, I thought, from the summer after we began to date; her grandmother sewed it for her on an old Singer she’d inherited from her own grandmother. The fabric was navy blue with small white flowers and bright red strawberries—a birthday gift to wear on the Fourth of July, at the annual family picnic. I doubted my vision that late spring morning since it didn’t make sense for her to be there.  I doubted my eyes and my memory of her when I thought I caught sight of her climbing into an SUV in the parking lot of my pizzeria.  At that time her full head of loose curls was freely lying about her neck and shoulders.  Her beautiful heterochromatic eyes, one hazel, one blue with flecks of gold, smiling at a teenage boy who traded her a stack of pizzas for the keys to the black vehicle. I watched the pair from behind the tinted windows of my own car. For a moment, I imagined her wide smile and sparkling gaze were for me. When I saw the license plate SAYLAV, I knew I hadn’t been seeing apparitions. The ethereal vision was the woman my Lain had grown to be. C’est la vie or it’s life in English, was her favorite saying when we were young and the meaning of her vanity plate.

I ran to the register and asked about the beautiful woman and young man who just carried out the armload of pies.

Casey, one of my best servers, looked up from wiping down the To Go bar, and said, Dante and Mrs. T?

Mrs. T? I questioned almost frantically. Mrs. Troy?

Yeah. Mrs. T is Dante’s mom.

So, are they seasonals, or do they live here? I pressed.

They’ve been here several years now.  They bought the big house off the highway across from Heather Glen.

Heather Glen . . .  that’s the wedding place with the horses and the barn with the blue roof? I asked, to be sure I knew the right place.

That’s the one. Their house is about half a mile down from the Heather Glen main gate. They have one of these French pointy flower things on the north end.

And a blue front door, I said, realizing I knew the house. Moreover, I should have known it was hers the first time I drove past. Everything about it screamed Lain.  She’d only described her dream home to me a thousand times when we were dating. I started to imagine the French country meets beach cottage vibe of the interior. As my thoughts ran away with me, I knew I had to take this moment of serendipity and go to her.  I had to make right the error of my youth and hope that her propensity for forgiveness was still one of her better virtues. And pray that an ember of who we had been still warmed somewhere within her, hope that the heart I had broken wasn’t turned to stone the day she lost the man who was smart enough to love her the way she deserved. I wondered if she could forgive me for taking so long to find her after everything she had suffered.

The logical part of my brain knew it wasn’t my place to have gone to her during the tragic time after the accident. That logic didn’t stop my instincts from trying to push myself to do something stupid, like try to talk my way into the rehab center where she recovered for months. Logic definitely did not stop me from writing letters that broke my heart as I watched them burn, rather than sending them, once or ten times every year after Howie J. was buried. It’s a terrible thing to reconcile; logic and desire, empathy for another’s loss and a burning need to reclaim what you’ve let slip from a perfect grasp. Ten years, I hoped, must be long enough. Maybe too long. Definitely not too little time to wait before approaching her with reverent sympathy for her loss and contrite understanding of the part I played in much of the sorrow in her life. My greatest hope was that she would pardon my crime and let me occupy some space in the life she had built.

Today, I would try to explain myself.  I would