When dreams come true
Gabrielle was still asleep when I woke. I left her a note saying I had gone into town to buy her clothes and food, then locked the sexton's house behind me.
It was one of those radiant spring mornings that makes the whole world feel possible. The gentle breeze carried me forward, lightening my steps. For the first time in my life, I felt truly content. I was madly in love, and the feeling was almost too vast to contain. I was no longer the man trapped in monotonous days that drifted inevitably toward the end. I had stepped outside that grey mediocrity and discovered a life brimming with possibility. The realisation left me dizzy with hope.
That elevated state shattered the moment I returned. Santana's car was parked beside the cemetery gate. I wanted to shout, to call the police, but I couldn't risk exposing Gabrielle. Instead, I approached at a measured pace, struggling to steady my breathing.
Santana stood at the door of the sexton's house, peering intently through the windows like a predator catching the scent of fear. She wore an emerald-green suit that made her look like something cold-blooded and venomous.
She flashed a predatory smile as I drew near.
"Caretaker! I see you've been shopping," she said with exaggerated sweetness.
"Yes, ma'am. What brings you here?"
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" she asked provocatively.
I opened the door, speaking loudly to warn Gabrielle. Placing the bags on my desk, I positioned myself to block the passage to the bedroom. I regarded Santana with the same detached calm I used with every mourner.
She stood listening, lips pursed, clearly straining to detect any sound that might betray another presence.
"I heard some disturbing rumours in town this morning," she continued. "People say a grave was desecrated last night. The robbers were after jewellery and discovered the woman inside was still alive. Do you know anything about this?"
She could only have heard it from Mario. I chose my words carefully.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry I didn't contact you sooner. I wasn't sure whether to call your husband or the police first. Someone dug up Gabrielle's grave last night. They opened the coffin and fled when I approached. The tombstone split in two. They left their tools behind."
I was on dangerous ground — protocol demanded I call the police immediately — but I hoped her main concern was the jewellery.
"How horrible," she said, feigning shock. "Show me the grave."
I led Santana there and pointed to the repaired headstone.
"Gabrielle was definitely dead?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am. I can tell the difference between the living and the dead."
"Was anything taken? She was buried with a valuable necklace set with precious stones. Did you see it?"
"No, ma'am. There was no necklace when I closed the coffin. Shall I call the police?"
"No," she replied quickly. "You did the right thing. I'll inform my husband. We'll handle this discreetly." Beneath her calm tone, I could hear barely suppressed rage.
"And the tombstone, ma'am?"
"I'll have it replaced," she said dismissively, then left without another word.
The moment her car disappeared down the road, I rushed inside. I found Gabrielle hiding in the wardrobe, trembling and in tears. I held her, calmed her, and recounted the conversation. It only deepened her suspicions about Santana and left her even more heartbroken.
Exhausted, she climbed onto my lap. I kissed her cheek gently and told her I had something that might cheer her up. When I showed her the pink dress printed with vintage roses, her eyes lit up. She agreed to try it on.
As she changed in the bedroom, I couldn't resist glancing through the crack in the door. She wore only her white underwear beneath my oversized sweater. She laid the dress on the bed and admired it for a moment before slipping it on.
I stepped inside just as she finished. She jumped in surprise, then laughed. The sound made me smile.
"How do I look?" Gabrielle asked.
"Delightful," I whispered, the word heavy with longing.
Gabrielle studied me curiously, then closed the door. Taking my hand, she led me to the old chair by the window and asked me to sit. For a long moment she simply looked at me. Anxious not to frighten her, I gripped the armrests and waited.
Cautiously, she placed her small hands on my face and kissed me. When she drew back, her fingers trembled as she began unbuttoning my shirt. I helped her, then stood and let her explore my skin with her cool touch.
I moved to the bed and drew her onto my lap. With one hand I massaged the back of her neck, watching every flicker of expression on her face. Her body gradually softened beneath my hands. Each time a soft moan escaped her, I caught it with my lips.
Her mouth reminded me of the tailflower — soft, red, and strangely intoxicating. The longer I kissed her, the deeper the kiss became, until I could almost taste a faint, bitter nectar. Lost in the moment, she didn't notice as I unzipped her dress and laid her down.
I knew it was her first time. I moved slowly, patiently arousing her with kisses and caresses, determined to make her feel safe and cherished. I remembered every tender act from my dream and recreated them with care. When I finally entered her, she gasped in surprise, but there was no pain. Later, she whispered that it had felt strange… but enjoyable.
Making love to Gabrielle was pure bliss. We lost ourselves in feverish passion. Several times during the night she woke me, climbing on top of me, hungry for more.
Her thirst was finally quenched at daybreak, as the dark sky outside softened into purple haze. She fell asleep on my chest. Though exhaustion pulled at me, I couldn't close my eyes. The lavender light seemed to drift into the room, wrapping around us both until the world outside ceased to exist. I pulled the covers over us, pressed her closer, and listened to the steady rhythm of our hearts beating as one.