Not Lovelier Than Lilacs
By Fewthistle

Author's Note: Written for Challenge Seven, Prompt Two at the Livejournal Community even_angels_. Thanks to flying_peanuts for the beta of the first half, and of course, the brilliant first and last lines. Any errors in the rest are my own.

It was only by candlelight that her body slowly reclined. Tracey couldn't remember what the candle scent was called. Some New Age bullshit name like Silent Meditation or Zen Whispers. All she knew was that it smelled like a late July evening in her grandmother's back yard on Cape May. Taking in a deep breath, she was there again, the grass newly mowed, the dew blanketing the lawn, leaving damp spots on her thin tee-shirt and on the seat of her khaki shorts as she lay prone on the prickly, spongy cushion of cooling earth.

Her ears filled with the staccato sounds of crickets and cicadas, punctuating the night air with sharp periods and ellipses that hung against the shadows of the trees like the sparks of the hundreds of fireflies, weaving like drunken lanterns against the dark, sending signals she still wished she could decipher.

Thirty years later there lingered in the recesses of her mind the faint suspicion that all of the secrets of the universe were encoded in the fractured bursts of light that had sputtered all above her as she had gazed up at the canopy of leaves on those perfect summer nights.

With a ragged sigh, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the soft green leather of the overstuffed chair. Her arms hung boneless on the wide armrests, the glass in one hand suspended between her thumb and middle finger, defying gravity as it swiveled precariously, offering a sip of pale gold liquid to the hard wood of the floor, a sacrificial offering of oaken brew.

She relaxed further, a leg casually draped over one of the pillow-like arms. The chair was framed on either side by large, casement windows, both thrown open to the now chilly late Spring air, curtains billowing softly in as the night breezes sought sanctuary in the refuge of her house.

The glow from the candle threw a circle of golden light across the hardwood floor and thick woolen rug. The rest of the townhouse was dark, the light having all but faded from the night sky outside the windows.

To Tracey's tired eyes, the candle's radiance was a pool of golden water, warm and insular. Glancing up, it seemed to her that along the edges of the pool, dark and mysterious shapes stole closer to the sustaining warmth, as the night crept stealthily into the house.

“Fuck. That's enough whiskey for you,” she muttered to the empty room and to the non-existent shadowy forms huddled like she was around the soft golden light of the candle.

A self-mocking smile teased the corners of her mouth, her body jerking a bit at the soundless chuckle that shook her small frame. It wasn't surprising that she was imagining flocks of wildebeest and the stealthy forms of lions creeping ever closer to the pool of candlelight. Flights of fancy were not something that Tracey normally indulged, and yet of late, her head had been swimming in the succulent consommé of fantasy.

And usually the fantasy was about one thing. One person, to be perfectly accurate.

Kelly.

Tracey wasn't certain how it had happened, when her inner musings on legal precedents and the lousy season the Yankees were having had morphed into less than chaste thoughts about her assistant; but morphed they had, into notions of black silk and afternoons spent on the crisp sheets of her bed.

Today had been a series of catastrophes, from the shriek of her alarm clock waking her just short of a bone-melting orgasm, to the loss of not one, but two witnesses, to suddenly faulty memories. And yet, more than once, Tracey had caught herself fixating not on her rapidly collapsing case, but on the perfect curve of Kelly's breasts under her white cashmere sweater, and the way her blonde hair curled sweetly along the strong line of her jaw.

Pathetic. That was the one word that kept coming to Tracey's mind as she noted time and time again how her wayward libido attempted to lead her down the path to that special hell reserved for those who foolishly get involved with their assistants. The incidences of happy ever after were not in her favor. Too many complications. Too many things to screw up beyond the basics of their relationship and careers. It could never end well. Never.

And yet.

Tracey had seen the looks that Kelly threw her way when she thought that Tracey wasn't paying attention. Looks filled with confusion, desire, need, want. Oddly, it was the ones of bemused consternation that tugged at Tracey's heart the most, perhaps because it was an expression with which she was quite familiar. It stared back at her from the mirror on a regular basis.

It was clear that whatever Tracey was feeling, she wasn't feeling it alone.

Hence, the whiskey. And the candles. And the attempts to quiet a mind that was chaotic with the idea of Kelly.

And the failure of any of it to drive from Tracey's thoughts the one essential truth of all of it. She wanted Kelly. Plain and simple.

Drowning her longings in the amber, Irish forgetfulness of whiskey and the entwining scent of the long ago relinquished innocence of a summer's evening was never going to alter that one, fundamental fact.

With a sigh of resignation and defeat, Tracey pushed up from the chair and blew out the candle, throwing the room into darkness. With the golden glow of the flame went all the warmth from the air, and Tracey felt a shiver run along her spine and along the exposed skin of her arms.

Time for bed. Only there, in the shadowy depths of slumber, could she allow her imagination to run free. Only there, in the fleeting whispers of her dreams, could she hold Kelly. Love Kelly.

She slid, exhausted, in a collection of ardent thoughts.