"Are you always this friendly?"
I pull up to a four way stop and turn to look at her. To my surprise, she's grinning. "Why so serious?" she asks in a weird accent and funny sounding voice.
When I don't respond, she bursts out laughing. "Aw ... come on. You don't know the Joker? Everyone knows the Joker. Heath Ledger was an epic Joker."
I shake my head and pull out once I make sure the roads are clear.
"Sorry to break it to you, but Jack Nicholson was hands down the best Joker." I try not to smirk at her horrified expression, but I can't help it, and the corner of my mouth twitches.
"That's just wrong. So wrong."
"You're too young to understand the complexity of his character. Nicholson embodied the sociopathic tendencies while also touching upon the Joker's more vulnerable side. Which, in my humble opinion, made him far more likable to audiences as a whole."
I try to keep my cool, but something about the way she gets riled so easily only encourages me to antagonize her even more.
"Are we talking about the same movies? Because I can't believe that you're saying Jack Nicholson's Joker was a more relatable character than Heath Ledger's. That's just absurd. Heath Ledger portrayed a man cast aside by society who deluded himself into thinking the world would give a damn if he made them notice him. Whether by foul deeds or good intentions, he just wanted to be noticed and his genius acknowledged for the value he deemed himself worthy." She mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like "imbecile" and then continues with her rant. "What was your favorite scene from each movie?"
I wait a few minutes before finally answering her.
"I don't know ...” I pull into the gated community and wave at the guard in the security stand before punching in my access code.
"You don't know?"
I don't answer until I turn into my driveway and wait for the garage door to open before entering. Once I put the car in park and press the button for the garage door to close, I turn to face her. "Yes, I don't know."
"What do you mean?" Her nose scrunches up as if she's smelled something gross.
"I mean, I've never watched either movie." I turn before she can respond and hop out of the SUV. As I make my way around the hood of the car, she opens her door to step out, but I reach for her before she takes her first step. "Let me help you." I slide my arm around her back and loop her arm over my shoulders.
I try to step forward but notice that she's stopped. I can feel her eyes on me, and it takes more willpower than I care to admit not to stare back. "You were teasing me?" she says, her tone a little bewildered.
The statement catches me off guard and causes a wave of guilt to consume me. Was I teasing? Maybe even flirting? No ... definitely not. I was most assuredly NOT flirting ... or teasing.
I clear my throat and tug her along. "I was merely stating a fact. Nothing more."
If words could take form, mine would have turned to blocks of ice. I don't know why I feel the need to be so harsh with her, but something makes me want to keep her at arm’s length. If not for my own protection, then for hers.
Chapter Ten
Kara
I'm so tired that I don't even notice the house or the layout before I'm asking which bedroom is mine. It's been a long and mentally exhausting evening, and I'm cramping a little. The pain reminds me of what it feels like after you've had a rough pap smear. Some doctors have the golden touch. Others ... not so much. That's what this feels like.
I'm a little tender and aching between my legs, but it's the bone deep exhaustion that is weighing me down more than anything. Even with the nap I had at the doctor’s office, I'm still sleepy.
For the first time in I can't remember how long, I don't feel as if I need to be constantly flinching or looking over my shoulder for a fist barreling toward my face. I don’t have to be on alert. The effort it took to do so for as long as I have, and the feeling of having that weight lifted, has left me exhausted both mentally and physically.
"Right this way," Mr. Scott says as he gestures to a room at the end of the hall. I step inside and take a brief look around, but all that I notice is the bed.
I want to curl up under the luxurious comforter and sink into the plush pillows so badly that I don’t even mask my eagerness to do so. I sigh and lean up against the massive four-post bed while absently running my fingers over the silk comforter.
"I took the liberty of having your things unpacked and placed in the closet. Abigail took it upon herself to buy you an assortment of comfortable clothes so you can lounge around for the next week or so. Dr. Carter wants you on bedrest for the next few days, and after that, you'll have to limit your activity to ensure everything proceeds as planned."
"I know. He explained it all to me before and after the procedure, but I appreciate you looking out for me."
"You're an investment in my future, Ms. Murphy. It would be foolish of me not to look after you."
I give him a disgusted look. "Well ... since you put it so eloquently."
He opens his mouth as if he's about to say something but quickly closes it, having thought better than to voice any uglier words in my direction. I don't know what it is about me that ruffles his feathers, but there isn't a doubt in my mind that we could be friends if he weren't so insistent on building a wall between us. In fact, if we'd met under different circumstances, I have a feeling things would be very different between us.
I turn my back on him and make my way over to the large walk-in closet. "You can go now. I'll find what I need."
"Ms. Mur ...”
"Go." He tries to approach me, but I raise a hand to halt his steps. "I'm fine. I just need to get some rest. I'm feeling tired and turning in early should do me some good." He stands outside the closet for a few minutes as I rummage through everything Abigail has bought for me.
When I hear the bedroom door close a little while later, I head back out to the room with a pair of pajamas in hand and quickly change then crawl into the luxurious bed.
The last thoughts I have before I drift off are of him.
Yes, Mr. Scott sucks at basic niceties. And as far as I'm concerned, I don't care much for him or his cold demeanor.
Chapter Eleven
Will
Before I can make it back to the kitchen, my cell starts ringing. A quick glance down tells me it's Abigail.
"Abigail," I state, nonchalantly.
"Don't give me that tone. Tell me how everything went today. I want details. Dr. Carter already called my nurse practitioner to let her know the procedure went well, but I want your side of it."
"What could I possibly have to add beyond what you can read in her chart?"
She sighs. "Come on, Will. Tell me how you two are getting along? I want to know how you're feeling right now. This can't be easy for you. If anyone knew how much you loved Sophia, it would be me. She was my best friend, for Christ’s sake. I'm calling to check on my baby brother. So spill it."
I barely contain the groan threatening to escape me. "Well, if you must know, I'm hungry. I haven't eaten all day, and I have a Spartan race coming up in six weeks that I need to start training for. I need to have the maid service pick up a few things from the grocery store to stock the cabinets. Oh ... what was that food delivery service you used that had your meals already prepared?"
"Chef Express. And they weren't prepared. It was everything you needed to make a meal all vacuum sealed and ready to cook. All the ingredients and spices included. No shopping. All you have to do is cook. Think you can handle that?"
"No, but my maid service can."
"They're not chefs, Will. They come to clean your house, not wait on you hand and foot."
I scoff. "For what I'm paying, they might as well wipe my ass with the thousands I'm sinking into their retirement funds."
She giggles. "Oh, please. You're too cheap to spend that kind of money on anything other than yourself. Now, quit evading. How are you two getting along?"
"I am trying to think of something sma
rt and witty to come back with, but all I'm getting is like peas and carrots."
"You don't like your vegetables mixed. Try again."
"I'm trying. Okay? Is that what you want to hear ... that I'm trying?"
"Yes. So long as you're nice to her, she'll be nice to you. You're like a barnacle."
I snarl at her remark. "A barnacle? What the hell, Abbi?"
She laughs, and I can't help but smile. Her easygoing laughter is such a refreshing sound to the silence that I'm used to hearing when I come home. "Yeah, a barnacle. You grow on people. It just takes time for them to get to know the real you."
"Gee, thanks."
"Quit pouting and make yourself something to eat. I have a patient to see before I get to head home to my family. I've missed my little terrors all day."
"I'm sure they've missed you as well. Talk to you later."
"Love you," she calls out before I can end the call.
"Love you too," I respond and then hang up.
I reach for the takeout menus and place a quick order for some pizza. I'll have to run an extra mile to work off the carbs in the morning, but after the day I've had, a pizza and a beer would be great.
Chapter Twelve
Kara
It's Saturday.
I stare up at the white tray ceiling and watch the ceiling fan spin round and round. Saturdays used to consist of me rising early enough to fix the asshole’s breakfast, clean the house, do laundry, and run to town to get groceries for the week. It was the one day he allowed me to leave the house without questioning where I was going or when I would be back. That's because on Saturdays he always went to her house. Jay had been having an affair since our second year of marriage. The first and last time I confronted him about it, I didn't wake up for two days and found myself at the county hospital. Apparently, I "tripped" down the porch steps, and my concerned husband rushed me to the hospital when he came home from work and found me lying on the sidewalk unconscious.
They bought it. They always did. No one ever questioned him. No one ever would. It's why I had to run away. Jay was Mr. Popularity, and I was the poor trailer trash he married out of guilt when he thought he'd knocked me up our senior year of high school. When we discovered I wasn't pregnant, he told me he'd marry me anyway because I needed someone to protect me from my father.
I don't know why I let him convince me that I needed protecting from a grief-stricken drunkard. My dad wasn't a violent man. He just couldn't look at me without seeing my mother’s mismatched eyes staring back at him. I think every time I made eye contact with him, it broke his heart a little more. When she was diagnosed, my father went into denial. He denied anything was wrong with her. He denied he had a daughter who needed his attention because his ailing wife could no longer muster the energy to even give her a bath. He denied ... denied ... denied. And then––she died.
There was no denying death. It was the most irrevocable outcome. And finally, he was forced to accept that his wife was gone. She had fought a brave fight, but the outcome shattered his very soul.
The day we spread my mother’s ashes in the mountain breeze, my father broke down. He cried so hard that his entire body shook with the pain he had held in since her diagnosis. All that time, I thought he had been in denial, but I finally realized that he had hoped she would beat it. So, in all reality, I guess he was in hope ... not denial.
No matter, though. She still died and left her only child with a man who could no longer perform the basic functions of life. He quit bathing. Quit working. Quit eating. He withered away to a shell of his former self. I didn't have any living grandparents, and my father’s sister was so drugged out most of the time that she wasn't fit to raise her own children, much less his. My mother was adopted and an only child. Her parents were elderly when they adopted her and passed away long before my birth. My father’s parents died within a month of each other when I was two years old. My grandfather died of a stroke, and a month later, his wife of fifty-six years followed him.
If it weren't so tragic, it might be romantic. But I was the child trying to cook her own dinners and clean up her father’s vomit when he drank just a little too much, which was most nights. I was the child who was doing her laundry with just the cold water in the washing machine because her dad forgot to buy laundry detergent or didn't have the money to. I was the kid who ate breakfast and lunch at school because after a while, there was never dinner to come home to. My friend’s parents took pity on me and invited me over for dinner and sleepovers. Those nights quickly became my favorite days of the week. I was away from my dad and had a hot meal in my belly.
I know I shouldn't harbor so much hatred toward him. Life dealt him a blow that he never recovered from. Much like Mr. Scott. The similarities in the two haven't escaped my notice. While Mr. Scott closes himself off from those around him, I can still see the pain in his eyes and the darkness that was once lit with a soul eager for what life had to offer. I haven't known him for more than twenty-four hours, but his eyes tell his story. They're so black ... not in color, but in spirit.
I wonder if I looked in the mirror hard enough if I'd find that same blackness staring back at me? Would I see a dark abyss where my soul once thrived? Is it ever really too late to reclaim yourself and live your life with all that you have to give?
Round and round and round the fan spins. I twirl a strand of hair around my finger as I contemplate all this on a Saturday morning. No errands to run. No chores to be done. No asshole to cook for so he can go and fuck his whore.
Just me ... and my thoughts.
Bliss!
Chapter Thirteen
Will
The soft padding of bare feet draw my attention to the woman treading across my kitchen and into the dining room.
"Is that pancakes?"
I lower my latest read, a magazine on cardiology intervention techniques and technologies, and look at her over the top of my reading glasses. "Yes. Pancakes." I raise my magazine back up and proceed to finish reading the article.
"I love pancakes. Did you make them?" Her voice sounds oddly excited, but for the life of me, I can't place why a simple plate of pancakes would excite someone so much.
"No." I don't bother lowering my magazine, but I catch a glimpse of the crestfallen expression that passes over her pillow lined face. My chest tightens in response, and an odd sense of guilt surges through my body.
"Oh," she deadpans.
I read a few more lines before the tone of dejection in her voice halts my reading and causes me to take notice of her.
Slowly, I lower the magazine and set it to the side so I can focus my attention on my guest. With narrowed eyes, I watch her pull two pancakes from the heap Abigail cooked before she left this morning.
"You'll probably need to warm them up in the microwave. Abbi stopped by this morning to cook breakfast for you, but you were still asleep and she didn't want to wake you," I explain, hoping to ease the hurt I can plainly see etched on her delicate features.
I watch her as she takes her plate to the kitchen and proceeds to warm them up. While the microwave zaps her food, she hums a song that I've never heard before and dances a childlike dance as if she were the only one in the room. Even though I know she can feel my gaze on her, she dances and giggles like she doesn't have a care in the world.
I cock my head to the left and take in the creature before me. She's young, carefree, and at this moment in time ... so beautiful. Before I can think to mask my thoughts, her eyes flash to mine, and she freezes in place. Like a deer caught in the headlights, she doesn't flinch a muscle.
My eyes trace a path over her high rounded cheeks that are slightly pink from her exertions. Her upper lip that's a little fuller than the bottom one and trembles a little as she takes in a short breath before letting it out on a long, slow, exhale. Her angular jaw that forms an adorably strong chin ... a chin that's jutting out just the tiniest bit with indignation at my perusal.
My eyes slide down her neck which has
a sexy slope that flows like silk into her narrow shoulders. The top of her collarbone, exposed by the low cut of her pajama top, rises and falls with her quickened breaths ...
What am I doing?
I scowl and shake my head, jerking my magazine up from the table and pretending to read until she takes her plate and goes out to the sun room. Her need to get away from me seemingly as great as mine for her to leave.
My focus is nonexistent.
I don't even know what damn page I'm on and it's staring back at me in twelve-point font. I don't understand what just happened between us. One minute, I was agitated that she had interrupted my morning ritual, and the next ... I was checking her out.
I throw down my magazine and storm from the room. Pissed at myself for acting like a horny teenager. Pissed at her for being so damn appealing.
I don't know what it is about her, but as much as she annoys me, she intrigues me. Alarmingly so.
Chapter Fourteen
Kara
What in the heck just happened?
My pulse is still running away with itself. Mr. Scott was plainly checking me out, and while that should freak me out a little, it didn't. Quite the opposite. It excited me.
I shake my head and drink my orange juice while looking out over the massive backyard from the sunroom. It's a little after nine, and the morning fog is just beginning to lift. Birds are chirping and several squirrels are running amuck through the lawn and scurrying up the trees lining the property.
Even though it's not quite spring, the lawn is starting to turn green. I don't know who tends to the yard and landscaping, but it's beautiful. I've never seen a yard so well maintained. Even the barren shrubs are neatly trimmed. Every tree perfectly spaced from one to the next. A small concrete fountain sits in the middle of a covered patio with a large grill built into sculpted rock.
A Whisper Of Solace Page 5