Positive/Negativity (2 page)

To that end, before each chapter, I have included a list of the song titles in the appropriate order that came to my heart and mind as I wrote Positive/Negativity. The place for each song is marked by the appropriate music note (
T
) within the text. Should you choose to participate by playing the music along with reading the text, please purchase your music from a source that supports the artist. It is my hope that through listening you will become as engaged, and in love, with Declan, Aria, and the people that care for them, as I am.

Happy Reading,

D.D. Lorenzo

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Jaedin D’hiver – Duo Gadjo

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To Where You Are – Josh Groban

TTT
Sweet Memories – Melody Gardot

He had watched her for days, and it was all but becoming his routine…

Declan Sinclair was an early riser.
T
It was just something you got used to in the Modeling industry if you wanted to keep a steady stream of employment. His early morning discipline of working out at the gym was to credit for his marketable physique and what kept him competitive in an industry that admired younger men. That favorable combination was what also kept his bank account healthy. His lucrative career, thus far, was the reason for how he had been able to afford this remarkable old beach house. It had great structural bones, ample, distinguished rooms, high ceilings, and an expansive front porch. He loved it. It was the first place of his own that he felt he could, truly, call
home
. As he stretched out in the Adirondack chair, he took a long sip from his fresh cup of coffee and took in the view of the lovely woman on the beach. Yes, watching the world from that front porch was special. It was Declan’s current pleasure whenever he could route his travels to afford him to be here, and he came to the beach whenever he could. It was his place of refuge. He had vacationed here since he was a boy and he never tired of the atmosphere. The East Coast had some of the best beaches, and he had been to some of the world’s most magnificent ones. However, this was where his memories had been formed and etched. His life was usually so fast paced that he was pleased for the brief freedom to ponder those memories. He somewhat feared he may have more time on his hands soon. The career life of a male model was short-lived. Typically, it only lasted into the early thirties, and Declan was quickly approaching the finale of his career run.

When, on a visit to a friend, he saw the “For Sale” sign on this distinguished, albeit old, beach house, he knew that this would be a worthy investment for a portion of those carefully stored funds. He had seen this house many times as a child and loved it. It needed some restoration and renovation, but before he purchased the building, he had an engineer check the structure, assuring that it was solid. He was looking forward to returning it to its former state.

Declan’s mother had passed away several years ago, after a valiantly fought battle with cancer. His father, however, was another story. Declan and his brother weren’t close to their dad at all. His father chose to be an inactive participant in his life, and that suited him just fine. They didn’t have much in common, and he wasn’t around when Declan and his brother, Carter, began their careers or when their mother first learned of her cancer. He and his brother leaned on each other for support. They were the police in each other’s lives. They bounced ideas off of each other when it came to new decisions, and they sat down to look each other in the eye regarding serious ones. Their dad’s absence was inconsequential, and he preferred it remain that way.

It’s his loss
, Declan thought, as he settled more comfortably into his chair. It was one of five Adirondack chairs that were left with the house. Those chairs fit his size comfortably. He could drape one long leg over the arm and have the other easefully stretched in front of him. His eyes never left the woman that he had watched for the last three weeks. Declan thought she was simply beautiful. Not supermodel beautiful, but every day, real woman, beautiful. She wasn’t stick thin; a trait which he found completely unattractive in women. He thought that women should be curvaceous and his eyes were following this woman’s curves all the way down. Since he had watched her leisurely walk along the beach, then settle in a spot near the water, each day, he had seen her in different clothing. From what he could tell, she was something pleasant that a man would love to look at and run his hands over. Her hair was dark and wavy. It fell down her back and gently brushed the place on her hip where a very nice curve began. Declan became almost hypnotized, watching her loose curls float back and forth along those curves. He lost himself in thought as he imagined his hands following the sway of where her hair now slowly drifted. No matter the aftermath the wind would leave her hair, it was a lovely accessory to her delicately structured face. Her cheekbones weren’t as prominent as most of the supermodels he was frequently paired with on photo shoots. The woman he watched had a minor touch of fullness to her cheeks, which always had a measurable bit of pinkish color from her stroll during sunrise. He found her simply captivating.

Although Declan didn’t know from where those walks originated, by the time she reached his view, the sun, the wind, or both had added the flattering color to her skin. Declan wished that he could see her eyes, but he wasn’t close enough for the privilege of knowing that information, and she protected them by her dark glasses. It was that minor piece of her mystery which he desired to know most. He surmised that everything else about her was so lovely, and that her eyes must be mesmerizing. The desire to know what they looked like, especially their color, grew stronger with each passing day.

This morning was no different from mornings of weeks past. Typically, beginning at approximately 5:30 am, he saw her approaching as she leisurely strolled, from his right, on the beach, just at the water’s edge. She was usually dressed in shorts or sweatpants and some fashion of button down shirt—that was never buttoned—over a tank top. Much to Declan’s pleasure, the over shirt would float in the sea breeze as she would walk with one, sometimes both, hands in her pockets. She always looked deep in her thoughts, and most times, appeared melancholy.

What's her story?
he thought. Declan wondered what caused the range of emotions he witnessed her exhibit from day to day. It was more a mere curiosity than a genuine concern. She appeared to be oblivious of him sitting on the porch, and she certainly didn’t notice his analyzing observations of her. She would pass him by, about fifty yards ahead, and settle herself in the sand where she would gaze out at the ocean, contentedly. The only deviation from her routine—from what Declan could tell—was the length of time she would remain there. He wondered what factored into her decision to stay or go. Mood? Weather? Comfort? No matter the duration, the pose, or the weather, she fascinated him. He found himself speculating as to the reason for her walks and meditation. Again, he thought, curiosity, not concern.

He took a closer look, giving notice to an item in her hand that caused him to smile. She carried a large cup of coffee. He grinned because he knew that gave them one thing in common, and he had just decided he had played spectator long enough. This commonality just might open the door for dialogue. It was a justifiable topic of conversation. The notion that a sane person could function without coffee was incomprehensible to Declan, and he concluded that this woman showed excellent judgment skills; at least of the “java” kind.

At the moment, while his very thought and plan was forming, she stood from her spot to conclude her daily regimen.

As she was brushing the clinging sand from her pants, her head tilted which placed her gaze in his very direction. She looked straight at him, and as he looked back, his reward was a stargazing smile. Declan responded to that beaming smile with one of his own as a sensation of unadulterated pleasure began to flow throughout his body. She just looked delicate…ethereal…beautiful. One thing was for certain, he couldn’t seem to pull his intrigued eyes away…

There is a very beautiful man staring at me.
That was the first thought I had when I stood up to brush the sand from my sweatpants.

Good Lord! I have goose bumps!
Realizing I’m thankful for this rush of excitement that just went through me, I smile at him. The goose bumps are proof that I’m not a hollow shell and I didn’t die along with my dad. I haven’t felt much since he passed, and I certainly haven’t been interested in much. I’m not certain he would approve of how I’m handling his death, but this is all new to me. I’ve never felt loss like this before. What is it about death that makes you feel so primal and raw? I don’t know if this sunken feeling will ever go away. I can only pray that it will, and that it does—soon. It is said that time heals all wounds. I don’t know if I believe that. I do believe that with time all wounds become scars, and, thus, become more bearable. With each day that passes I cry a little less. The loss of my father exposed a nerve inside my emotions that I didn’t know existed. I could only describe the feeling as “raw”. Numbly making it through the obligatory viewings, I said all the correct and proper words, such as, “I know he’s in a better place,” and “We know he isn’t suffering anymore.” I only wish I had felt the solace of those words deep down to the core of my heart. I held it together so that my Mother would have someone to lean on; someone to stay strong for her. No one noticed that I was holding on by a mere emotional thread at the funeral.

Once the sad observance was over, and the compulsory luncheon was done, I quietly collapsed onto my bed at home, where I remained silent no longer. The cries came from depths I had not previously battled within myself, and I endured gut wrenching, soul cleansing cries well into the night and into the next day.

When I drove to the cemetery for a solitary conversation with my—now spiritually existing—father, I didn’t inform anyone of my whereabouts. They might have questioned my sanity, and I didn’t want to hear judgment from anyone.
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I simply took my iPod, parked my car, and placed the ear buds in my ears. I sat there, staring at the single, enormous cascade of flowers that covered Dad’s grave.