The Wall: A Vintage Contemporary Romance

by Thea Harrison

  “What?” she gasped, astounded. It was so close to what she had been thinking that she sagged from the shock. Then she remembered. She had been acting oddly, and if Greg was involved with something illegal like she suspected then he wouldn’t want reporters around any more than she would. Of course he’d be suspicious. “No, I’m not a reporter. I just want to go home.”

  “Then I’ll walk you.” In spite of all her protests, he did accompany her on her walk with a pleasantness she didn’t find at all relaxing. Never had that five-minute walk from the beach to her back door seemed so long or so uncomfortable. He asked her all sorts of searching questions, and she fumbled through most of them like a first-grade girl caught lying. Thrown off balance and feeling immeasurably shaken up by his curiously menacing attitude, she couldn’t think how to answer some of his more pressing questions. She finally flared up at him in anger, telling him to leave her alone, and whirled away to sweep into her house and lock the door behind her with a trembling hand.

  Chapter Three

  Inside the door, Sara leaned up weakly against the wall, listening for sounds from outside. She couldn’t hear any, and moving to the curtained window, she twitched it aside to peer from the darkened kitchen into the equally dark night. There was nobody there, and that was why she felt so shocked when she glanced casually out the front window before retiring to bed and saw a tall dark shadow just off the road and under the trees. He appeared to be staring at the cabin, and she backed away from the door in a panic, in spite of knowing that he couldn’t see her.

  Just knowing that Greg was watching the house made her rush around, bolting the front and back doors in addition to locking them, and she made sure that every window was closed and latched. Then, sitting on her couch in an empty, cold living room, she stared into space, shivering.

  She finally went to bed late that night and as a result slept heavily and deeply into the morning. It was eleven o’clock before she even opened her eyes. A depression settled over her when she realised the time. What did she have to get up for? Where did she have to go? Whom did she get to look forward to meeting? These questions and others plagued her throughout the small remainder of the morning. She didn’t bother to get dressed; she wasn’t going to get out of the house, and no one would be seeing her.

  After feeling so good about herself for a long stretch of time, this depression hit her hard. She listlessly made herself a cup of tea and took it into the living room. Setting the cup down on the coffee table, she took the time to belt her dressing gown more firmly around her small waist before sitting down. Just as she was sinking into a curled-up position on the couch, a firm knock sounded at the front door, making her nearly jump out of her skin. She stared at the rectangular frame of wood, as if expecting someone to bash down the door and force an entry into the house. Who in the world could be wanting to see her? Perhaps it was someone who had taken a wrong turn off the nearby highway, and wanted to know directions. Sara considered this possibility for a moment with her head cocked to one side, as the knocking turned to imperative pounding, and she decided that it couldn’t be that. The road was little more than a hard-packed dirt path, and was obscure. It was impossible to mistake the way, and impossible not to find the way back to the highway. All one had to do was turn around.

  She slipped quietly up to the door and peered through the peephole with curiosity—then recoiled as if stung. Greg’s tall commanding frame fully filled the small magnifying glass, his dark face looking sombre, even stern. She didn’t like that look. It frightened her. She backed away from the door and climbed on to the couch slowly, watching her front curtained windows as if she expected him to crash into the room. He didn’t, but the pounding continued for some minutes, along with his deep voice calling her.

  “Sara? Sara!” he shouted through the door. “I know you’re in there, because your car is in the garage. Let me in, please! I want to talk to you. Sara? Are you all right?”

  She picked up her cup of tea and sipped it carefully, listening to his calling. Finally, seemingly to take ages in her mind, the calling stopped and footsteps sounded on the small wooden porch. She sighed and began to relax, only just then realising how tensely she had been holding herself. That was why when she heard hard knocking at her back door, and the rattle of her door knob, she jumped like a startled colt. Unable to help herself, she crept into the kitchen to listen to Greg calling to her, a thread of impatience running through his deep voice. Eventually he stopped, and she went about the small routine of fixing herself another cup of tea. After staring at the wall opposite the couch for quite some time and consuming several cups of tea, she finally managed to rouse herself enough to take a shower. Leaving her hair wet and hanging limply down her back, with the dressing gown belted once more about her waist, she padded into the living room, seating herself at the old upright piano, and stared at the keys with sadness.

  She wanted to play but couldn’t seem to find it within herself. She wanted to be creative and work out a new, strange melody to adequately describe just what she was feeling inside, but she couldn’t seem to pick up her heavy hands and play. She wanted to sing, to pour out her guts and to fill the room with her voice, to release all that was inside and aching to get out, but the music just wasn’t there. For the first time in her life, Sara couldn’t play.

  She sat looking down at her hands, and tears slid down her face. What had she done to herself? Had she really damaged her own music beyond repair? She couldn’t accept that. Her music would always be with her. It was as much a part of herself as her breathing and thinking. She would only lose her music when she laid down her head and died. Somewhere, deep down inside, it was still living.

  One hand tentatively reached out to caress the keyboard with a reverent, loving finger. She loved it so. She would never, ever sacrifice her own desires to play what others wanted to hear. She would make music only for her own fulfillment, and offer that to the public. She would play now, only for herself. Both hands came to rest on the keys, and she flexed her fingers, once, twice. Then a resounding crash filled the room as she played a half-forgotten melody that she had written years ago. It had never gone beyond the stage of pure sound and personal satisfaction, and she was suddenly very glad for it. It was her own song, nobody else’s. She had not sold it for money; it belonged only to her.

  She faltered through the execution of the melody, stopping several times to go back over certain parts of it again, refreshing her memory and reviving the song. She had written it in a furious burst of anger when she was barely twenty. Her mother had just died, and all Sara’s pain, grief, and anguish had spilled into the song. Playing it now was like some kind of purge to her soul. It cleaned her out and filled her up again with something new.

  Afterwards, feeling hungry for the first time that day, she went to the kitchen and ate a hearty meal. The afternoon was fast disappearing, and she turned on a table lamp in the living room and prepared to settle down with a good book.

  She had just barely begun to read when a knocking sounded again at her door. Should she answer? She didn’t particularly want to see anyone. Greg’s voice sounded through the door, and she detected a note of anxiety. “Sara? I hoped to see you on the beach today. Are you not feeling well? Can I help you in any way? Do you need a doctor?”

  As she listened, strangely touched by his concern, slow tears filled her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them overflow. She had to blink rapidly to make her vision clear. Why should he care? Was this just a ruse to get her to open the door?

  Footsteps sounded on the front porch like they had this morning when Greg had gone away, but she began to hear funny noises, things being pounded against the outside wall just back from the porch. It sounded as if he was hitting something in between the back door and the stone fireplace, to the left of the house. Eventually overcome by curiosity, Sara slipped into the kitchen and tried to peep out of the curtained window, but she couldn’t see anything. The footsteps were making regular, short trips back and forth
, and it sounded as if there was something metal outside.

  She slowly slid back the bolt and turned the lock in the doorknob, still listening intently. Grasping the handle and turning it, she pulled the door open quietly to peer outside, her half wet hair hanging around her in a tumbled mess and her large eyes uncertain, wary. She saw Greg approaching her way from a pick-up truck, his powerful arms filled with neatly cut firewood. He already had a nice amount carefully stacked against the house. He in turn saw her head and one shoulder peek around the half-opened door, and he took in the large, startled look in her eyes, the pale skin, and the slight circles underneath those huge questioning orbs. She looked like a small, puzzled child.

  Setting down the firewood in a careful movement, he made no immediate attempt to come nearer to her, for she looked as if she might bolt and slam the door shut at any sudden action. “Hello,” he said calmly, as if talking to an unsettled horse. “I remembered that you said you needed firewood, and I had a few trees I’ve been planning to get rid of for some time. Is it all right stacked here, or do you want it someplace else?”

  “What?” she asked, feeling stupid. She felt stunned at this uncalled-for gesture of goodwill, and edged a little further from behind the door. Greg saw that she was in a quilted dressing gown that fell nearly to the floor. Bare toes peeped from underneath.

  He took an involuntary step forward. “You’ve been sick? Are you all right?” His voice sounded sharp from anxiety.

  Sara took a hasty step backwards, shaking her head until her hair tumbled about. “No, I’m fine,” she murmured uneasily. “Really I am.”

  Her eyes watched him with that same puzzlement, as if she expected him to sprout four legs and a tail right there on the spot. He looked very good to her. His faded and tight jeans were streaked here and there, and his plaid flannel shirt strained across broad shoulders and was rolled up at the sleeves to past his elbows. She could just imagine him wielding a heavy axe with ease. He would be good at it, she thought. His hard face held a strange expression, almost forbidding, with that dark searching gaze, the hard mouth held firm, the jaw strong.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” he said abruptly, taking another experimental step forward. She didn’t back away this time.

  “Like what?” Why was she acting so stupidly this afternoon? She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his face; it seemed too important.

  “Like you expect me to hit you in the face!” he uttered forcefully. “I was worried when you didn’t answer the door.”

  “Why?” she asked him baldly. She wanted to take his words at face value so badly, and she didn’t know if she dared.

  “Because you’re so isolated here and so vulnerable, I—” He took a deep breath. “You’d been ill, and I was worried that you’d had a relapse.”

  “I didn’t want to see you!” she burst out, and suddenly felt as if she had gone mute. She couldn’t for the life of her think of something else to say.

  “I know.” His own reply was low. He had winced when she had blurted out her confession, and she felt absolutely terrible. The day was grey and dreary and a nippy wind blew about her feet, making her shiver. Greg took a quick comprehensive glance at her bare feet, her damp hair and her shivers, and told her quickly, “Go on inside and I’ll finish stacking the wood against the house. I’ll knock and let you know when I’m done, and bring in some wood to stack by the fireplace, if you like.”

  “Why,” she asked impulsively, shaking as a wind hit her exposed head, “are you being so nice to me? Why are you doing this?”

  He merely shook his head with a faint smile, and told her, “Shut that door before you catch your death. Hurry now, we’ll talk later.”

  Feeling more and more chilled by the second, Sara hastened to do as he said. Funny, she thought, shutting the door behind her and rushing through the kitchen with the sudden desire to get dressed and dry her hair, how the day had suddenly turned into a nice one after all. She pulled on a black pair of jeans and drew on a pretty blouse with a high collar and an edge of lace around the neck and wrists, and pulled on a pale peach sweater over it. Brushing her hair briskly, she held a hand dryer to her head for a few minutes, then threw it down in disgust. She didn’t have the patience for that. She picked up her blusher and stroked a little colour over her cheekbones, then touched her eyelids with a dark blue shadow that made her eyes appear as a vivid blue. After looking at herself closely in the mirror, she rubbed off a little of the eye-shadow. She wanted to look good, but she didn’t want him to think that she had put on make-up for his sake, even though she had. She touched her lashes with a brown mascara so that they looked longer but still natural, then hurried outside.

  Greg was nearing the end of the huge stack of wood in the back of the truck, and he turned when he heard the back door open to smile down at her. He was standing in the bed of the truck, and his feet were spread wide apart for balance. His brown hair fell across his forehead and his big hands were dusty. Sara blinked up at him; when he smiled it changed his entire aspect and made that stern, almost menacing image fade completely away. It eased the hardness from an already harsh visage.

  “How old are you?” she asked irrelevantly.

  His firm lips quirked into a wider smile. “Thirty-three.”

  “You seem older,” she told him, cocking her head to one side in an attitude of perusal, appraisal. “It’s not exactly your features, but that look you wear when you aren’t aware of being watched. You—look more mature, as if you’ve lived a lot.” Suddenly aware of how personal she had become, she flushed quickly and said, “But it’s none of my business, I shouldn’t have made such a comment.”

  She was looking down, afraid of a rebuff and worrying that perhaps she had earned it, when a large hand came to her small chin and tilted her face up. There was a gentle look in his eyes as he told her, “You don’t look as if you could be twenty-one, let alone twenty eight. Are you pulling my leg?”

  Again she flushed, but this time it was with pleasure, and she gave a little laugh. “No, unfortunately not, I am twenty-eight. I used to wear a lot of make-up so that I looked older, because I’ve always looked more immature than everyone else my age, and it made me self-conscious. Now I don’t care any more.”

  Greg let his eyes travel over Sara’s face, and a look of puzzlement crossed his. “I can’t figure out why you look so familiar to me,” he said almost to himself. “It keeps coming to mind. Who are you, Sara Carmichael?”

  She dropped her eyes, at once happy and yet unhappy. If he was being truthful right now, then her suspicions of last night were invalid. She so hoped that he was being truthful. “Who are you, Greg Pierson?” she countered lightly.

  The hand at her chin moved in a caressing gesture. It felt so good that she swallowed, afraid to move and break the contact. “Why did you run away last night?” he asked gently.

  A frown creased the smooth wide expanse of her forehead, and her eyes fluttered up to touch on his quizzical gaze, then fell away. Then, with an honesty that sounded so totally real and unfaked, she shrugged and said, “You scared me. I don’t know, I might have scared myself a little. You seemed so—big and menacing all of a sudden, and I just ran away.” Then, with a hint of desperation colouring her voice, she whispered, “I only met you yesterday!”

  “I know,” he murmured, his hand still at her throat and almost encircling it, and yet she felt no uneasiness at her own vulnerability, for his touch was so gentle and light, the thumb moving in a small circle on the pulse at the base of her throat. “I’m sorry for being so nasty to you last night. I’ve been off balance for a while and took out my uncharitable feelings for mankind on you.” The hand was lifted away abruptly and her eyes flew to his at the sudden movement. “My hands are so dirty, I’ve just made your neck all smudged.”

  She suspected that, in that small apology and confession, Greg had told her a great deal about himself, and she realised that it couldn’t have been easy for him. Not easy at all, if he had to climb
over that great wall he had around himself that excluded the world. He must have been badly hurt at one time, so badly hurt that he’d had to defend himself with hostility, lashing out to avoid ever being that badly hurt again. It was all conjecture on her part, based on a two sentence speech and a certain look of pain in his eyes, but it made her voice soften to him as she replied, “I’ll wash clean, don’t worry. Can I help you?”

  “Not in that pretty sweater,” he told her. “If you could go and open that door to the living room, I’ll carry in some wood for you. Do you have a wood box?”

  “Yes.” She moved away as she spoke. “And it’s probably totally empty except for a few spiders. I’ll go and get the door.”

  She ran lightly inside and passed through the cabin to unlock the front door. Then she cast a quick glance around her as she did so; the living room looked charming, though small, and there wasn’t anything she needed to tidy up. She called out to Greg, then went to see if there was anything in the box that was positioned by the fireplace. She had lifted up the lid and was peering doubtfully into its depths when heavy footsteps sounded on the porch and Greg came inside with a load of wood.

  “Does it look all right?” he asked her, a little thread of amusement running through his pleasant voice as he surveyed her stooping figure and uncertain expression.

  She looked up, grinning. How could I have ever imagined that voice hard and cold? she asked herself. “There doesn’t seem to be a family nesting inside, so I guess it’s safe enough.”

  Stepping nimbly back, she watched him dump his load into the box. As he straightened and headed out of the door for more, she called after him, “How would you like something hot to drink after you finish?”

  A brief glance over broad shoulders had dark eyes sparkling at her. “That would be very nice, thank you. It’ll take me about two more trips to get this box full, so I’ll be about five minutes.”