SAVAGE BEAUTY

by Peggy Webb

  “Mrs. Perkins? Did you hear me? Is this color all right?”

  “Yes.” It was gray, it was Stephen’s choice, and it was now depressing beyond measure. “Carry on.”

  She stumbled out of the bedroom and through the nearest door, which happened to be Stephen’s office. It was a dark cave that badly needed an upgrade, but he’d refused to have it redone.

  It was good enough for my father and grandfather, and it’s good enough for me, he’d said, and she hadn’t argued.

  She closed the door, groped her way toward his carved mahogany desk, and sank into his chair. There was a coat of some kind draped over the back. She folded it on the desktop and rested her head.

  The room smelled of leather and old glue from the bindings on the horticultural books that lined the mahogany shelves. Comforting smells, like the well-loved public library of her childhood and the deep leather chair belonging to Jack’s dad where she used to curl up and nap while her mom worked at her sewing machine in Harper’s Department Store.

  She kept her head down, deep-breathing until she felt her equilibrium return. Then she straightened up and blinked against the gloom. The room had no windows. How Stephen could work and be creative without natural light astonished her.

  Lily thought about hiding in the gloom for the rest of the day, curling up in his big chair and trying to forget the many ways she felt battered and torn. Even worse, she’d hurt people in the process. Would Cee Cee have vanished if she hadn’t been here with Lily and Annabelle?

  She hung the coat once again on the back of the chair then snapped on the desk lamp. A pool of light sent shadows across walls as green as the heart of an ancient forest and fell across a white file folder on the desk. There was one word on the cover--LILY. Underneath Stephen had painted an intricately detailed and incredibly beautiful rose, deep red with a starburst of gold on the inner petals. She’d never seen anything like it. It took her breath away.

  Underneath the picture, he’d written For Lily, always and forever.

  At her engagement party, she’d seen the yellow floribunda Clive had cultivated and named for his wife, Elizabeth “Betsy” Allistair. Clive Allistair, Consolation, the plaque had read. “There are left behind Living Beloveds.” Yellow floribunda rose inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

  Stirred by curiosity and some deep instinct she couldn’t ignore, Lily opened the folder. The front page contained words similar to those she’d seen on all the other rose plaques: Stephen Allistair, Savage Beauty. “I am waylaid by Beauty.” Red and gold tea rose inspired by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

  Was this another Allistair tradition? Naming roses for their wives?

  Underneath he’d written, Rose name from Edna St. Vincent Millay’s biography, quote from her poem “Assault.”

  The double-edged meaning of the poem’s title spread through Lily like a fast-acting poison. Reeling between fascination and horror, she riffled through the rest of the file.

  There were several pages behind the first one, all filled with scribbles of numbers and formulas and types of fertilizer that meant nothing to Lily. On the last page, Stephen had made notes about the characteristics of the rose, including the colors and their unusual arrangement.

  In most bi-color roses, the effect is achieved by having the inner petals one color and the tips another. Savage Beauty will defy all the odds. The outer shell will be as exquisitely red as Lily’s hair. But the gold will form a starburst pattern only on the inner petals of the rose, a pattern that will mimic the streaks in Lily’s glorious hair.

  Stephen had never been a romantic, never been one to read poetry to her or pick out a special song because it had meaning to both of them. He’d sent roses in the beginning—why wouldn’t he? But once she accepted his ring, the roses stopped. Now she had rules and rituals. She had designer gowns when she was presented to the public, expensive clothes she neither needed nor wanted. She had an endearment he used too often to have real significance. In fact, he seemed to use it primarily to placate her. And she had a big, empty-feeling house to decorate.

  She moved her hands over the lines he’d written about her hair. The loveliness and the sentiment behind them almost brought her to tears.

  But was it enough? Was knowing this is how he thought of her in secret, how he dreamed of naming a rose for her in this airless, windowless room, enough to keep her moving forward with their marriage?

  She smoothed her hand over the poetic description of her hair once more, and her eyes fell on the last lines on the page.

  Savage Beauty cultivar process to begin December of next year, after the birth of my son.

  What was this? They both wanted to add to their family and had discussed it fairly early in their courtship. But they hadn’t talked about it since their engagement. And they certainly hadn’t decided to conceive another child immediately after the wedding.

  A savage resistance grew in her until it was so overwhelming she could hardly breathe.

  She looked at the last sentence again. My son. Not our son.

  The chill started on her skin, spreading goose bumps along her arms then sending its icy fingers deep into her bones until Lily was left hugging herself, trying to get warm.

  The tap on the door, followed by Glen Thomas’ respectful inquiry, “Mrs. Perkins, could you come out here a minute,” sent Lily into a frenzy. She slammed the folder shut, snapped off the lamp then made sure Stephen’s chair was pulled up to his desk exactly where he had left it.

  “I’ll be right out.”

  Glen had finished the first coat of paint and wanted to assure her it would be dry by bedtime. “No need for you and Mr. Allistair to worry about that.”

  Lily’s face flamed. “Great. I’ll tell Stephen he can sleep here without worrying about smearing wet paint. Meantime, I’ll be looking at color charts for my bedroom and let you know as soon as I’ve picked something.”

  It was Glen’s turned to be embarrassed. “Then I’ll be back tomorrow to put the final coat on Mr. Allistair’s bedroom. It’s a little late to start on it today.”

  After the painter left, Lily trudged upstairs, too tired and defeated to do anything except hang her jacket in the closet and stretch out on the bed. She sent two texts:

  Stephen, I have a terrible headache and won’t be joining you this evening.

  She thought about adding her usual Talk later or See you in the morning, but she had no idea what she’d say if she saw him or what she’d be doing in the morning. And she certainly was in no mood to sign off, Love, Lily. Days of tension combined with the pain of losing Cee Cee were knotted across her shoulders and trapped behind her eyes. She no longer felt capable of forming a coherent thought, much less a plan for the future. She just wanted a few minutes to do nothing except be.

  Sighing, she sent her second text:

  Annabelle, when you get back from the greenhouse, let’s have a quiet supper in my room, just the two of us. I need some alone time with my daughter. Love you to the moon and back! Mom

  The rain had started again, harder this time. Lily closed her eyes and wished she were anywhere except Allistair Manor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She leaned her head close to the duct work, listening, listening. There was no sound, no answering tap, tap of a tin plate against metal, no cries echoing through the gray walls, no sobbing. Nothing.

  “Please, please!” she whispered. And then she called. “Are you there? Are you still there?”

  Somehow knowing someone else was trapped in the cold dampness behind these prison walls had helped her endure the long restless night where the light burned constantly against her closed eyelids and the lumpy pillow was soaked from the tears she couldn’t hold back. It had helped her though the endless, unchanging day where she worried she might eventually lose her mind.

  She’d lost count of the days. She’d never really even had a count. Now she wished desperately she’d at least scratched some marks where he couldn’t see, some kind of crude calendar to show
she’d been here. She was alive.

  But for how long?

  She banged her plate against the pipes. Tap, tap. I’m here. Tap, tap. Please answer. Tap, tap, tap, tap. You are not alone.

  It wasn’t any kind of code. She didn’t know any code except the one embedded in her heart. Was it possible her own heart’s yearnings were so strong they could carry through prison walls and imprint themselves into the mind of her fellow prisoner?

  She imagined herself transported to Avalon where Merlin brought magic from the air, and miracles rose up from the surface of a lake so blue it hurt the eyes.

  She held her breath, waiting for the answering tap. But all she heard was the sound of footsteps, drawing closer as they echoed down the hall.

  She scrambled off the floor and into her chair then set her plate among the remnants of today’s food allotment--fresh bread, a hunk of half-eaten cheese, a few leftover grapes, an empty carton that had held milk, and the empty plastic bowl that had contained a thick and hearty beef stew.

  She cringed when the key turned in the lock.

  He was back, wearing the long back coat, its pockets bulging with fresh horrors.

  “I see you ate most of your food. Good girl.”

  “Why do you want me to be a good girl? I’m in this room by myself and never see another soul. What difference does it make what kind of girl I am?”

  His chuckle was evil sounding. She wanted to cover her ears and scream. “You’re priceless. It’s too bad I can’t keep you.”

  “You’re letting me go?”

  “Don’t pester me with questions. You’ll find out soon enough.” He pulled the dreaded syringe out of his pocket. “Hold out your arm and make a fist.”

  He was taking her blood again, a vampire who only walked in the dark of night. As her blood left her body, she imagined her skin turning so pale it was the shade of ivory soap. She didn’t have to be Michael Jackson with his secret potions and formulas that had turned him almost alabaster. She was being transformed by a monster. First he took her hair, and then he took her blood.

  What would he take next?

  “There now.” When he ran his hand over her smooth scalp, she felt as if icicles were forming inside her, stalagmites and stalactites that pierced her heart and froze her soul. “Keep your eyes closed, and don’t ask questions.”

  He withdrew the needle, and she fought against dizziness. If he kept taking her blood, she would die. No amount of vitamins and savory stews could keep her alive.

  Don’t think like that. Be strong. You are not alone.

  When he stretched her arm onto the table and held it there, she opened her eyes. He was holding a knife.

  “No! Please, no!”

  “I told you to keep your eyes shut.” She screamed and clawed at his arm with her free hand. He quickly overpowered her, scooped her up, and handcuffed her to the bed. He was panting as he straddled her. “Now, look what you made me do. If you’d kept your eyes shut like I said, this would already be over.”

  He raised the knife and her screaming kicked up a notch. She screamed through the spurting blood, the blinding pain, and the awful realization of what the monster was doing to her. The room began to spin, to go dim, and still she screamed.

  She didn’t stop until he plunged the needle into her, and she spiraled into darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was an early morning phone call from Detective Yancy that brought Lily and Annabelle back to the police station. As they trekked inside Lily fought against the chill that seemed to have seeped into her bones and said a silent prayer he had news that would lead them to Cee Cee.

  They were shown to the detective’s office. He was leaning back in his chair, swigging coffee and eating doughnuts from a box that sat on his desk amidst the clutter.

  “Have a seat.“ He waved to the chairs opposite his desk. ”Doughnuts? Coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you, to the coffee.” Lily was grateful to get the steaming cup he brought to her.

  “I’ll take a doughnut,” Annabelle said. “I’m starving.”

  “That’s teen-speak for we left without eating breakfast.” Lily sipped her coffee and let the warmth spread through her. “I’m anxious to know what brought us here.”

  “We picked up a man who has Cee Cee’s cell phone.”

  Annabelle gasped while Lily tried to remain strong in the face of her own emotions.

  “Who is he?”

  The detective passed two photos across his desk to her, a mug shot and a full body shot. “Do you know this man?”

  He was slender to the point of looking emaciated, with hollow cheeks and dark eyes that were squinty because of the pouches underneath. His hair was dark, unkempt and bushy. The stats printed at the bottom of the photo described him as tall, six feet and two inches.

  Lily did a mental inventory of every person she’d seen at Allistair Manor, staff as well as party guests, cleaning crew and her own crews of plumbers, painters and carpenters. She waded through her memory of everybody who had come in contact with the girls through the years--teachers, coaches, art instructors, neighbors, friends, clients, other parents. She was desperate to say, Yes, he’s been hanging around, stalking Cee Cee. Make him tell you where she is.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know him, and I don’t recall ever seeing him.” She passed the photos to Annabelle. “But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have taken her. Isn’t her phone evidence enough?”

  “He claims he found it in an alley.”

  “I know him.” Annabelle looked up from the photo. “I’ve seen this man.”

  “Are you sure?” Lily shuddered to think her daughter had been in contact with a man who looked as if he had only a passing acquaintance with soap and water, and probably lived under a bridge.

  “I’m positive. He was on the beach this summer when you brought us over here, Mom. You remember that picnic on the fourth of July?”

  “Yes, I do.” There had been the threat of thunderstorms all day. She’d wanted to cancel, but Annabelle and Cee Cee insisted the rain would hold off for the fireworks display.

  “This man was combing the beach. Cee Cee thought it was odd he didn’t move on. He just kept standing near our beach towels, picking up seashells from the same spot.”

  “Why didn’t I see him?” Lily was horrified to think how an ordinary outing could expose innocent children to all sorts of predators.

  “You’d gone to the hotdog stand. When you came back, you said the line was a mile long.” Annabelle scrolled through her cell phone. “Look. He stayed so long I took a picture of him. That’s when he left.”

  With the whitecaps and the sun behind him, he didn’t appear as unkempt as he did in the police photographs, but it was definitely the same man. And he was staring directly toward the camera in a way that made Lily shiver.

  “You never mentioned this.”

  “Mom! What was I supposed to say? Some dork was staring at us because we had on bikinis?” Annabelle was close to tears.

  “It’s okay.” Lily reached for her hand and held on. Considering the photographic evidence, she wanted to hold her daughter’s hand and not let go for the rest of the teenage years, if not beyond.

  “You did good, Annabelle.” The detective slid the photos back into the file. “This could be just the break we need in this case.”

  The man appeared to be a vagrant, but there was nothing particularly menacing about him, even in Annabelle’s photo on the beach. Underneath that mild, downtrodden façade was he a monster? Exactly what did evil look like?

  Lily got up to stand close to her daughter’s chair, as if she could shield her from everyday monsters that passed themselves off as ordinary people.

  ”Detective, you’ll make him tell you where Cee Cee is, won’t you? We’ve got to find her.”

  “I wish it was that simple, Mrs. Perkins. He’s admitted nothing except being in possession of a phone he claims he found. Maybe she lost it. Maybe she was over here meeting a boyfriend, a
nd they got in a fight and things went downhill from there.”

  “That’s not true!” Annabelle trembled with righteous indignation.

  “Detective, I don’t think you believe that any more than we do,” Lily added.

  “What I’m getting at is that we’re a long way from being certain we have the right person.”

  “What about Glenda Jane Bates and Graden Young? Did you find out anything more about them?”

  “I can’t discuss details of those interviews with you at this time, but I can assure you, we’re doing everything in our power to find all the missing girls, including checking leads. My men are in this guy’s neighborhood now, talking to the neighbors. The local news channels are running pictures of these girls every hour, pleading for information.”

  Lily pressed a hand against her temple where the persistent ache had settled again. “I know you’re doing all you can, Detective, and I’m grateful. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

  “It’s tough to lose somebody you love. Especially around the holidays.” He came from behind his desk and escorted her to the door. “Try not to worry, Mrs. Perkins. I’ll let you know if I have any other news.”

  How could a mother not worry? Still, life never asked your permission to move forward, never inquired whether you were strong enough to withstand the storms it had planned for the day.

  After a brief consult with her daughter, she dropped Annabelle off at the greenhouses then went to the mansion to continue renovations. That’s all she knew to do, move forward, one step at a time. Whether the mansion was her future didn’t really matter. She’d made a commitment.

  Jack had only two patients in the hospital--his mother’s lifelong friend, Carol Myers, a Type 1 diabetic whose secret consumption of Hershey bars had landed her there with dangerously high blood sugar, and Danny Owens, a new patient whose bizarre range of symptoms had turned out to be viral meningitis.