by Mary Clark

Created on: December 17, 2008

An Adolescent Pledge

Bree turned the letter over in her hands. The distinct all-cap script that lilted slightly to the right was unmistakable. Time lulled her into a sense of denial but the letter she prayed would never come now rested in the palm of her hand. With it came the caustic bite of her past that entered her isolated existence by force. Stunned by its arrival, Bree turned from the mailbox duty-bound to uphold a childhood pledge. Marc's letter was merely a reminder of a promise she made in haste, a promise that now demanded fulfillment.

The mile walk home led up a series of steep switchbacks cut along the ridge of Camden Cove, a rugged peak that kept her far-removed from the haunting images she would rather forget. By the time her feet stepped onto the porch of the chalet, Bree began to regain her composure. Here, on the familiar footing of home, she shed her boots with one hand, the other clutched Marc's letter. She allowed her boots hit the deck with a hollow thud that reflected her mood.

Inside, Bree let her fingers drift along the return address and found herself muttering "God damn you Rory, God damn you and your lousy timing!"

If Rory had a trademark, it had to be bad timing. Bree banished him from her life long ago, survival demanded that, and it was clear that the passing of twenty years had not changed him. Even in the face of something as monumental as this, he, and his timing were not going to be any different.

Rory remained an enigma, which left Bree enamored by the memory of his charm and disgusted by the vices he craved. There was no denying that Rory was quite a package; he was seductive eye candy that no woman could resist, but Bree had been a victim to his dark side too many times. Instinctively, she slid her fingers along the scar that ran the length of her right cheek from the corner of her eye to the edge of her lip; a brand Rory left her with after one of his darker moods.

With a flip of the wrist, Bree tossed the letter on the kitchen counter. If ignored, maybe Rory would disappear, but he lingered and taunted her through the afternoon.

As evening fell, Bree retrieved a box from under her bed and scurried back to the kitchen for the letter before the courage to face it left her. It was unsettling to hold so many fragments of Rory's life in her hands again.

She opened the French doors and slipped onto the balcony juggling a coffee in one hand and her mementos of Rory in the other; outside, a vibrant evening greeted her. The hammock

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