Captivated by The Beast

by Lindsey Hart

  “Yes.” He didn’t look up. Didn’t even see her.

  Charity let out a breath. The room looked much like the rest. The same wallpaper and wainscoting and floorboards. The only difference was the strange circle molded to the cracked ceiling. It looked like there had once been a sort of chandelier like the one in the living room, but it was long gone.

  “I’m ready now.” Joe’s deep voice snapped her out of her trance. She whipped her head away from the ceiling and looked right at him. He hesitated, his lips parting slightly, those blue eyes of his leveling her with a compelling direct gaze. Those orbs were utterly unreadable, carefully shuttered. “Can you turn your face towards the wall? I think that would be most comfortable. If you need to, you can move from time to time, as long as you return to that position eventually. It won’t disturb me once I’ve painted your outline.”

  “Will you tell me? When you’ve done that part?”

  “Yes. I will give you breaks. I know you’re a live person, not a mannequin.”

  The way he said the words, live person, was strange. The words held a bizarre tenderness that was almost intimate, like a caress.

  Charity quickly turned her face, blushing yet again. She couldn’t ever remember her face feeling so heated. What was it about Joe that brought it out? It was almost like from the first time she’d seen him she knew she couldn’t leave. She’d wanted to. Thought about it all that first night and the entire way home from town. She didn’t have to talk herself out of it and it wasn’t the money or the fact that she’d already given her word that she’d stay. She couldn’t figure out what exactly it was and that disturbed her more than anything.

  She’d slept restlessly the night before and was surprised when she woke without black smears under her eyes.

  “Can you part your mouth? Just a little? Like you’re taking a breath?” Heat rose to her face yet again. Charity did as he asked. She inhaled through her mouth. “Yes, just like that.” Joe’s encouragement was so unlike the rest of his words, his excitement growing, his brush moving, flowing.

  She waited for what felt like hours before she finally turned her head to observe Joe. He was completely engrossed in his work, a look of rapture twisting his features. Oddly enough, he looked younger, serene, at peace. The years faded away, the sorrow and grief that etched lines around his eyes and lips eased.

  He looked as he would have looked, she thought, before the tragedy. She could see, in that moment, why Ginny had fallen in love with him. He wasn’t at all intimidating. He was completely unguarded and utterly vulnerable. His forehead creased in concentration, the bridge of his nose slightly crinkled.

  He was so utterly handsome it was heartwarming and breathtaking at the same time. Charity nearly gasped as she sucked in air so quickly.

  Joe looked up and Charity shifted. She glanced down at her arm, which she unfolded from the settee. “I’m sorry. It’s numb.”

  “That’s fine. Go ahead, stretch your legs. I finished the outline a few minutes ago. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

  “It’s alright,” she mumbled. Charity stood, her legs as numb as her arms. It was true, they had all gone to sleep. The pins and needles were so all-encompassing she could have cried out. She stepped tenuously around the room until the feeling returned.

  Eventually, she turned at the corner, whirled and faced Joe. He was still engrossed in his painting. She couldn’t see the canvas, but she watched and as far as she could tell, Joe dipped his brush in different colors, swirling, mixing combining, and none of it seemed to be black.

  Her shoulders drooped with relief. She was unprepared for him to glance up, his eyes to find hers questioningly.

  “Sorry. Would you like me to sit again?”

  “Please. Would you be so kind as to slide your dress off your shoulders?”

  Charity froze. “I…” He said he didn’t want that kind of work…

  “I know it’s likely to fall down. Lean against the settee’s arm. I have actually painted you that way, even though you weren’t quite in the pose. It would hold the dress up. The column of your neck is like the purest porcelain. I want to paint you that way, with your shoulder glowing in the sunlight, that column completely undisturbed by the annoyance of clothing.” He spoke with a clinical detachment that assuaged her fears. The earlier heat in his eyes had vanished, given way to allow the artist to emerge.

  Charity stepped across, back to the settee and the discomfort of sitting stock still. She arranged herself in the pose that he described before she pulled down the thin, gauzy straps of her dress. The neckline was low and flowy and as Joe stated, the dress would have fallen down to her waist had she not leaned into her arm. He was right. It held it up perfectly. It gave the dress the illusion of a cloak, red gauze draped over her pale skin, or at least she imagined it did.

  She thought again about that heat in his eyes, the vanished heat. She didn’t like the disappointment that battled with reason inside of her head, her chest, her belly. The heady weight that pooled in her stomach spread lower, turning into a tingle in her upper thighs. A rush of wetness moistened the secret spot between her legs. Charity shook herself. She didn’t physically move, but she gave herself a mental chastisement.

  What the hell is wrong with me? She’d been with guys. Mostly college guys and she’d had high school boyfriends. They’d never looked at her like that, with the heat of a man’s gaze. A gaze that had loved so very deeply and lost and found a shocking moment of redemption he never expected and probably thought he had no right to feel.

  I have no right to feel it either. How pathetic am I that one look turns me into a puddle?

  She wanted, more than anything, to peek at the painting. She was extremely disappointed when after another few hours, Joe stood up and stretched. He carefully gripped the edges of the painting and left the room abruptly, taking it with him.

  Charity sighed hard. She slowly unfolded her once again numb limbs. She stretched her arms out over her head and forced herself to stand. White hot pain flooded her feet and hands as the blood rushed back. It was more than curiosity that made her want to stare at Joe’s work. She wanted to see what kind of artist he was, but more than that, she needed to know how he saw her.

  She expected to have the rest of the afternoon to herself, long hours to kill. She was surprised when Joe’s heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. A minute later he stepped back into the room.

  “Change your clothes. Put on something you don’t mind getting dirty. I have a feeling you’re going to ask me to bathe tonight and I’m not about to do the work after that. It’s a hell of a lot of work to fill up that tub.”

  It was a strange thing to say and Charity just gawked at him. She slowly slid the straps of her dress back up onto her shoulders.

  “What- uh- what do you mean, get dirty?”

  “I’ve decided to clean up the backyard. Take care of some of that mess. Find those roses that are growing out there, battling the odds.”

  She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d strode across the room and slapped her. “Are you sure?” She stammered.

  He nodded once. “Today I’ve ripped the plywood off this window and painted again. Truly painted. I’ve found something of my soul, a piece I didn’t think was left. I want to paint outside, but not with the yard the way it is. I’m going to clean out that damn garden before I change my mind. I know I’ll feel differently tomorrow. After the night. The nights are always so damn hard. If you help me, maybe we can get it done.”

  “Yah… alright.” She didn’t protest that it wasn’t what she’d been paid for. She didn’t ask him what the hell was going on behind those sea tossed eyes. She didn’t tell him it wasn’t a good idea or that touching that garden would probably bring him pain. She didn’t remind him of the canvas covered in black. Joe’s face was different. He stared at her, but she had the odd idea he was seeing through her, to whatever awaited on the other side. The other side of the wall or the other side of the world, she couldn’t be sure
.

  CHAPTER 8

  Joe

  After scouring the dilapidated garden shed at the side of the house, Joe found a threadbare pair of garden gloves and a rusty hoe. The handle was all splinters, and being the gentleman he was, he handed the gloves off to Charity and gave her the luxury of the implement. He figured his hands were tough enough to withstand most of the weeds.

  He went to work under the hot sun and cloudless blue sky. He was like a man possessed. For five years, he’d rarely set foot in the yard. His garden where he grew what little sustenance he required, was positioned at the side of the house where he didn’t have to see the spot Ginny loved so very much.

  Sometime in the three odd hours it had taken to produce the painting of Charity, a woman who was neither his wife nor his muse, he’d made up his mind he was going to clean it up. He had the sudden inspiration that letting such a beautiful area become choked with weeds was a disserve to Ginny’s memory.

  While Charity tackled the area near the crumbled patio bricks, hacking away at weeds with the hoe, Joe worked like a man possessed.

  That rose, that one beautiful, yellow rose which had survived the long years of neglect, the choking weeds, scorching sun and lack of love, remained burned into his mind.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead and slicked down his face. He was vaguely aware that his t-shirt was just as sweat-soaked. It clung to his body, but he barely felt it.

  His hands too were numb. The thick weeds were ripped out easily under his forceful tugs and pulls. He cast them aside, the physical pain almost a blessing after so many years of feeling pain that no one else could see. It was all locked inside, inside his heart, his chest, his mind, his limbs.

  He plowed through the thick weeds and went right on, ripping at brambles and thorny thistles.

  Joe saw nothing. His vision swam, blackening and changing. All of a sudden it wasn’t weeds in his hands. He wasn’t moving. He was standing on the back porch, having just woken. It was early, hardly even dawn. The sky was painted with the red and purple hues that marked the start of a new day. He’d come out of a sleepy stupor to find himself alone. He’d crept through the darkened house and found Ginny outside in a red sundress, her beautiful dark hair spilling over her shoulders. She was bent near her rose bed. It was something she’d planned for ages. She’d wanted it more than anything. She was mounding up dirt, digging holes and planning spaces for her new roses. She’d bought several pots of yellow and reds from the greenhouse in the neighboring town. They’d driven an hour to get them, but it had been worth every second and every penny to see the precious happiness on Ginny’s face.

  She turned and spotted him. Her smile was instant, her large, honey eyes radiant with love. She straightened and beckoned to him with her hand. Her sweet, slim, dainty, dirt covered hand. He stepped forward, expecting to feel the earth beneath his feet, but the world swayed and tilted. He blinked hard, willing away the dizziness. When he opened his eyes again, Ginny was still there, but something wasn’t right. He tried to get to her. He took a halting step forward and cried out as the wind came up. He watched in horror as Ginny’s image changed. Her beautiful, creamy skin turned a horrible grey. With the next breath of wind, he realized she was ash. The ashes flew up, scattering all over the yard.

  “Noooooo!” His cry couldn’t save her. There was nothing he could do to save her. She vanished right before his eyes. All her roses, one by one, all those planted with loving care and kindness, slowly changed color, their petals drooping and falling, brown and ashen.

  “Joe!” A voice, not Ginny’s, but soft and lyrical and sweet, was calling him. He wanted so badly to run to that voice, to find the comfort and succor it promised. “Joe!” She called his name again and this time, he stopped.

  The world rushed up in a blinding blaze of color. His head swam and spun and pounded violently. His vision cleared, and he realized with shock, that he was no longer standing. He’d fallen to his knees, his hands stained with blood. Her blood.

  “Joe!” Charity rushed up beside him. She fell to her knees in the dirt and took his hands in hers. He wanted to pull them away, to save her from soiling herself with his sins. Until he realized it wasn’t Ginny’s blood at all. It was his… his blood. Bright red. So much of it.

  The pressure of Charity’s hands on his torn, aching skin sent a fierce burning pulsing electrical current racing up his arms. He ground his teeth together against the onslaught of pain.

  “What are you doing? You’re going to kill yourself out here. You’ve shredded your hands and forearms on those brambles. I thought you were wearing gloves. I was hoeing away, thinking I was going to melt under this sun and then I finally looked up to check on your progress and I saw you, hacking and pulling away at those brambles like you’d been possessed. Some of those are thick as tree limbs!” She turned his hands over, none too gently, as though to show him she spoke the truth. “Good lord, there are thorns everywhere. Come on. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  “There isn’t a hospital for hours. The nearest doctor is in Riverbend, an hour and a half down the road. I don’t need a doctor to pull out a couple thistles.”

  “Look at yourself! Your skin is shredded to pulp. Your poor hands!”

  He realized then, as though cotton had been lifted from his brain, what it would truly mean if he damaged his hands beyond proper use. Or at least, regular use. He’d never paint again. For the first time in five years, he’d found a moment of true, honest joy up in that room. He’d experienced a moment of redemption. If he could never pick up a brush again…

  “Let me take you inside. We should clean these out at least and disinfect them. I can try to pull out the thorns. What if you’ve shredded nerves or something?”

  His eyes focused and he saw the damage he’d done to his hands. His heart stopped beating. His stomach lurched and bile rose in the back of his throat. The things that used to be his hands looked like a bloody pulp. Thick gashes, swollen welts and black thorns stuck out. Bright red blood welled all over the place. He watched, as though watching someone else, as the blood welled up and spilled over one of the deeper cuts. It fell, landing in silent drops in the dry earth at his feet.

  “Come on, Joe, let me help you inside,” Charity repeated softly, her voice more of a plea than anything.

  He gave the briefest of nods. Her small, sweet hand on his shoulder burned through his sweat-soaked t-shirt. His lungs were on fire, as though he hadn’t taken a proper breath of air the entire time they’d been outside. His heart ached and bled. It was in far worse condition than his damn hands. If only Charity could see that. If only she could pick out the wounded shards and bandage it up, he might stand a chance of healing.

  “Okay, here we go.” Charity coached him softly all the way back to the house. They really hadn’t made it that far. He looked back and laughed sharply at the pathetic path he’d hewn out. Obviously, he hadn’t been acting on reason. “I don’t find anything funny,” Charity muttered under her breath and Joe snapped his mouth shut.

  “You must think I’m insane,” he said thickly before he even realized he’d spoken.

  “No,” she said breathlessly as she opened the back door. It gave with a rusty squeal of hinges. They stepped back inside the musty confines of the house. It wasn’t at all cold, but the relief Joe felt at being out of the scorching sun was instantaneous. “But I do think that you’re crazy. Driven crazy. Not insane.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  Charity propelled him over to the damn hand pump and metal basin in the kitchen. “No. I think one involves a temporary lack of judgment. It looked to me like you’d gone somewhere else completely. Whatever you were doing out there, you weren’t feeling it.”

  Very perceptive. Too perceptive.

  He realized then, as she left his side and tried in vain to work the hand pump to get clean water flowing, that she knew. She knew everything.

  “How,” he said hoarsely, his voice hardly sounding like his own. “How
do you know what happened?”

  “I…” Charity whirled. A guilty blush was more than apparent on her high cheekbones. “In town. Someone told me.”

  He nodded slowly. “Ah, yes, even after all these years I still find myself the center of gossip.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Charity protested. Her eyes flickered to the floor. “She told me because she thought I could help you somehow.”

  He snorted at the idea though his heart ached. It felt heavier than normal, like someone had opened it up and poured in lead. “Help? How can you help?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t even get the fucking hand pump to work.” Charity’s voice was choked, even thicker than his. She finally lifted her head and he was shocked and appalled to see tears on her cheeks. Tears. For me.

  “Don’t waste your time.” He stalked past her, far too gruff, undone and unnerved by the sight of those glistening tears. He wrapped one wounded, bleeding hand around the metal arm of the pump. He exerted enough downward force to rip his shoulder out of its socket and the pump squeaked to life. It was easier after that. The handle moved freely, the crystal-clear water shooting into the metal washtub below.

  “I’m sorry,” Charity stammered. She stepped back up beside him and stared at the wounded wasteland of his hands. “Jesus. Joe, I’m sorry.”

  “Yah?” He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to hurt her. She was, in her own way, trying to be kind to him. It was a kindness he’d done nothing to deserve. She’d showed him compassion, even that first day she’d arrived. She’d never looked at him the way the people did in town. Even after she knew, there was only compassion in her eyes. Not pity. Never pity. She didn’t look at him or the house like they were cursed. No, she’d willingly sat for his painting then helped him outside.

  Her hand on his arm was cool and comforting. He hated it all the more for it. She gently guided his hands to the metal tub of water. He plunged them in all at once and let out a hiss of pain as the bracingly cold water hit his wounded flesh. His hands were like fire and he shuddered violently, until the numbness set in.