“Rosalia!” she said, bringing one hand to her heart, the other clutching a spatula dripping raw egg onto the floor. “I didn’t even hear you come in!”
“No,” I said, moving around her, a grin lingering on my face. I put the burners lower, one by one, so she wouldn’t catch the place on fire. “How many one-girl shows have you done between last night and this morning?”
She smiled. “Not counting the last one…maybe ten.”
I laughed again. “Bambina must have loved that.”
“I took her whines and growls as applause.”
“You would,” I said.
I went to move closer to my room, but she flung her spatula at me, and egg ooze hit me on the forehead. “You’re bleeding!”
She rushed to get to me, but I moved my hand out of her grasp. “I’m all right,” I said. “It’s only a small cut.”
“It doesn’t look small.” She narrowed her eyes at my finger and then at my face. “It looks like it needs a bandage.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “I have some first aid stuff in my bathroom.”
She looked unsure but then nodded. “Breakfast will be ready in ten.”
I sighed as I shut my door, keeping her and the music out.
Bambina peeked her head out of her doggie tent, making sure the coast was clear, and then came running over to me. Her tail wagged so hard that her entire body twisted.
Bambina was an Italian Greyhound probably mixed with who-knew-what, but I had no idea with what.
It seemed to me that she was all Italian greyhound because that’s exactly what she looked like. Her coat was like gray velvet with a white stripe up her chest. Her ears usually flopped over unless something piqued her interest, and then they perked up. Like a greyhound, she was tallish and lean, and so damn regal that sometimes I thought she felt like she was too good for this place. She didn’t even mind wearing a pink pearl dog collar and a matching sweater.
I knew my love for her probably verged on unhealthy, but even the thought of anyone harming my little dog made me almost murderous. She was all I had. Something that was completely and utterly mine. No one could take her from me.
She loved me like no one else ever had. Her love was unconditional, and before Cilla arrived, she put a smile on my face when I got home.
After my accident, I’d gotten a call from a shelter. Apparently, I had left my name and number and told them if an Italian greyhound ever came through, I wanted first dibs at adopting him or her. I didn’t remember doing it, or leaving my name and number, but she came to me at the right time. She was just a puppy, and with my mind the way it was, we took each day together, learning how to grow and live in this world. For me, again.
“You and me, girl,” I said, stroking her head. She was the best part of my days and my nights. “Ride or die.”
Having had enough of the attention, she gave me a prissy look and then jumped on my bed. I grinned at her. She knew better, but she still got away with it.
Before I took care of my finger, I took a seat on the floor, placing my bag beside me. I reached underneath my bed and pulled out a storage container. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something to keep the dust off.
Inside, a bunch of resin squares with preserved burgundy roses were stacked. Next to them were pieces of glass that came in a variety of sizes and shapes. None of them were too big to fit in the container though. When my body collided with the glass, my head must have gone through first and shattered it pretty good.
I’d always been told I had a hard head, so…
Next to the glass and roses was a picture. I set the glass in the container, the rose next to it—I’d set it in resin later—and picked up the cheaply printed picture. My hands trembled as my mind struggled to remember.
Richard Dalton. My intended husband.
My eyes closed without consent, and my throat felt tight.
The day the accident took place, we were on our way to Club D to get married. From time to time, some of the women chose to exchange vows in the club in a stunning room with stained glass. It was almost medieval looking, with the contrast of dull stone and colored glass, and it made for excellent pictures. Especially when flowers seemed to touch every surface, and candlelight danced on the glass.
I assumed that was why I had chosen it. Or maybe I hadn’t chosen anything.
The specifics were lost on me. All I knew was that I had dated Richard for a short time before we decided to get married. Besides this picture, I had no clue what he looked like. What his smile looked like, whether it was wide or only a grin, or what his laughter sounded like. How his touch felt on my skin. He had somehow slipped into that void in my mind—and a real one, where he would never return for me to find out who he truly was.
He’d been killed in the accident. A piece of glass had impaled him in his chest—it went straight through his heart, and he bled out on the ground by the tree. Club D had a collection of vintage cars, and it seemed like they were going all out on our wedding day by picking me up in a 1915 Cadillac Type 51. It was not equipped with safety glass, like modern-day cars.
