Closed Doors

by Nancy Radke

  CLOSED DOORS

  by Nancy Radke

  MAIN MENU

  Table of Contents

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  *1*

  For the fifth time Ellen Craig knocked on the double entrance doors, then, doubting herself, rechecked the address. It was correct, this was Jared Steel’s house. And four-thirty; the time they had arranged to meet. Maybe he had been held up in Seattle’s rush-hour traffic.

  Or maybe he was around back and couldn’t hear. His home was large, imposing, but looked deserted with all the curtains pulled, the doors locked. It stood surrounded by tall Douglas fir, which scented the air with a strong aroma.

  Switching her briefcase from one hand to the other, Ellen stepped off the wide porch into the warm June sun and followed the graveled path around the house. The back yard swept like a driving range down to Lake Washington, ending with a long wooden dock, a boathouse, and a small sailboat.

  “Hello. Anyone here?” she called.

  No answer except the roar of motorboats on the lake. From her position she could see the I-90 floating bridge carrying traffic from Seattle across Mercer Island.

  “Hello,” she called again.

  Still no answer.

  Uncertain, she retraced her steps and rapped on the massive front doors again, and again pushed the buzzer. The one-way spyglass set in the center of the door stared blankly back at her, hiding what lay behind. When she had first arrived, she could have sworn she heard footsteps; saw the doorknob turn, then stop. She must have been mistaken.

  Ellen checked her watch. She’d been here twenty minutes; it was time to give up and go home. She started up to leave, realized Mr. Steel wouldn’t know she had come, so wrote a quick “Sorry I missed you” note, added the time to it, and stuck it under the door knocker.

  She climbed up the steps to the parking level and opened the door to her old Honda Civic. She needed a newer car, she thought as she smoothed an old towel over the hole in the seat cushion; this one was no longer dependable. She looked back down at the house, regretting the wasted trip.

  Below her the doors were suddenly thrown open with enough force they rebounded off their stoppers. A tall man rushed out.

  “Wait! Don't go,” he called, taking the steps three at a time. “Are you Ellen Craig?”

  It was the same strong, masculine voice she had found so appealing during their phone conversation. Now, looking at the rugged physique of the man as he reached her, she was not disappointed. Probably around six, six-one. His height was deceptive; his broad chest and shoulders tapering into narrow waist and hips.

  “Yes, I am,” she replied. “I figured no one was home.”

  “Sorry. I was in the... uh, weight room. I'm Jared Steel.”

  Perspiration beaded his wide forehead and spots of moisture darkened his blue polo shirt. Yet he didn’t look like he had been working out—he wore white slacks and loafers—and as he extended his hand, her mind questioned his excuse.

  He had a firm grip, but icy cold. And damp. Nervous. Definitely nervous... yet he was interviewing her, not the other way around.

  "Have you... uh... brought anyone with you?” His words were well enunciated, but hesitant. When she shook her head, he glanced inside her car at the boxes of household supplies. "Moving?"

  "Yes.”

  “Far?”

  "No." Her move was mainly an excuse to put a little distance between herself and her demanding family.

  "Are you qualified to tutor?" He frowned, his thick brows almost meeting as he rubbed his finger along the metal rim of the car’s side window—as sharply defined and angular as the planes of his face.

  "Yes,” she assured him. "I've tutored for over ten years.”

  "You don't seem that old.” He looked her up and down like an overprotective father checking out his son's first date.

  She grimaced, knowing how young she appeared. "I'm twenty-five. I started as a peer tutor in grade school, then picked up extra training in college. I’ve had teachers recommend me from eighth grade on.”

  Trying to quiet the churning nervousness within, she waited, knowing she ought to pass inspection. She always wore the same trim, two-piece navy suit and white silk blouse at an interview. It made her look more professional even when she didn’t feel that way.

  He was not so old himself, probably in his early thirties. The bright sunlight revealed pools of fatigue—or stress—deep within his heavily lidded eyes, and his long nose ended abruptly above a deep "V" in his upper lip. A face strikingly different, yet handsome. One not easily forgotten. In fact, she had a strong sense of having seen him before.

  "You’ll keep your work confidential,” he stressed.

  "Yes.” He had asked that on the phone, first off.

  He shifted his weight, motioned downhill. "Then we can finish this inside. If you don’t mind?”

  "Of course not. I need to meet your son.”

  He stood aside and Ellen proceeded him down the steps, eager to begin.

  Inside she was instantly impressed. The spacious entrance area contained an antique porcelain temple vase that could probably pay her salary for the next three years. A showcase-perfect living room lay on the left, complete with white carpet, traditional furniture, and an oval mirror edged in sculptured brass. A hint of lemon—probably furniture polish—scented the air. Two halls stretched away from the entrance, the shorter one ending in a stairway, the longer one leading eventually to a grandfather clock.

  The walnut-paneled entrance contained some original oil paintings—a good selection of Northwest artists. Very beautiful, but the quiet perfection made her wonder.

  This was no kind of house for a child. No toys appeared on the hall’s marble floor; no dropped books, no smelly tennis shoes. No scuff marks on the wall or melted chocolate sticky on the doorknobs. No laughter. No noise. No pets.

  Not a welcoming house at all... at least not to her. Ellen's childhood home had been cluttered with toys and sports equipment. With five children and two dogs growing up inside, it had glowed with life and laughter.

  The phone rang, but Mr. Steel didn’t answer; just waited for the message: Angelique, trying to catch him at home. She didn’t leave a number and he made no move to pick it up.

  Shaking his head, he stalked down the long hall past a kitchen entrance and into a dining room. "We can talk in here,” he said, motioning Ellen inside.

  Ellen hesitated to let her eyes adjust to the lack of light before she entered. It contained a table long enough to seat fourteen. Dark wood paneling and heavy, full-length drapes kept things cool... and dark.

  This home unsettled her, as if a brooding presence lived within—a dark frustration lurking in the dim corners. It might have been a result of reading too many gothic novels, but she didn't think so. She disliked dark houses, and this one had an atmosphere that intensified the darkness.

  Or was she picking up these vibes from the man himself, who paced restlessly around, clasping and unclasping his hands, finding nowhere to put them?

  “Could we have a little more light?” she asked, patting the French twist that kept her fine hair under control.

  "Oh. Uh...sure.” Jerking around, he separated the drapes a crack. "I don’t like the glare."

  The shaft of light brought out the deep tones of the wood and the glitter of the overhead chandelier, chasing away her fanciful emotions. He probably didn’t use this room much and left the curtains drawn to prevent fading.

  He pulled out a chair for her and Ellen sat down, feeling dwarfed by the table. Definitely not a family gathering place. Come to think of it, most of their lives were probably lived in another part of this big house; hence the silent perfection of this area. She wondered how Mr. Steel would
react to some of the teaching games she used, which tended to get rambunctious. Her students didn’t exactly swing from the chandeliers, but she had found that relaxed students, having fun, learned faster.

  "Where’s your son?" she asked, dismissing the visual image of a child turning somersaults on this huge table. They could find a friendlier room for their lessons.

  "Later. I need to know a few things first," he declared, plunking himself down opposite. "Like what kind of reading problems you've handled." Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the highly polished table, as if closing the gap between them would help him examine her qualifications. His rigid soldier-stiff pose implied he required more assurance than usual.

  Having dealt with distraught parents before, Ellen's nervousness fled. She smiled. "Each child is unique. I tailor my teaching to their problem. I need to—"

  "You said you had references. May I see them?"

  Like ice water on hot skin, his interruption jarred the progress of her thoughts and she stopped, regrouped.

  “Well?”

  "Uh... yes." She removed the documents from her briefcase, handed them over. "Here's my diploma, transcript, and teaching certificate."

  Taking the papers with a frown, he glanced over their fancy scrolled words as she continued.

  "I graduated with a MA in education from Virginia Tech, but my tutoring has given me a lot of experience apart from that. I teach fifty to seventy students a year."

  "In your ad you said you guarantee your work."

  "Yes. You must be satisfied with your son’s progress."

  "Hmm." He examined her papers with great care, then handed them back. "Have you any other jobs this summer?"

  "Not yet. Yours was the first call."

  "Good. I'd like to hire you exclusively."

  Ellen’s smile flattened. "Oh, I can’t do that. I need more than one tutoring job. You see, a session should never last over two hours. More, and we will just be wasting time. A child's attention span isn't that great."

  "I'm willing to pay four hundred a day."

  "For two hours?" She sat up straighter. “My fee is fifty dollars an hour. If you want to pay me more, that’s fine, but I don’t ask for it."

  "Six hundred. You won't need another job."

  "Mr. Steel!"

  "Seven hundred... a day."

  Ellen stared at him. Crazy as well as rich? No; his level gaze told her he was sane... and proud. Serious... and desperate. His eyes glowed with almost hypnotic intensity. In them she could read a cry for understanding.

  She recognized that hidden cry. She had seen it before in the eyes of children hurt and bewildered by the education process... and in parents who did not know where to turn. As much as her heart reached out to answer his unspoken plea, she could not answer it... yet. For some unknown reason his child might be unteachable—at least by her.

  "I can't agree to anything without some testing."

  "How professional are you?" he demanded.

  Ellen hastily placed a tight hold on her simmering emotions. Her features might be dainty, but her temper was not. "I consider myself very professional."

  "You do?" He sounded doubtful.

  For the first time in her life, Ellen considered turning down a job. There was a hardness to his eyes as he questioned her. Also pain, and in the far recesses... the wariness of an injured animal.

  "Here are my references." She lifted out a stack of letters filled with praise. Whether they would be good enough for “Mr. Perfect,” she had no way of knowing. "I’ve never met anyone I can’t teach. I always test my students first to find out where they're at and what th—."

  "Can you keep your mouth shut? Let me rephrase that. Can you keep a secret?"

  Clamping tight the mouth in question, she glared at him.

  "No one is to know who you’re tutoring, or where you’re at," he said.

  "I do not talk about my students."

  "Not even to your husband?"

  "I'm not married."

  "Your boyfriend, then?”

  "There's no need—"

  "He won't wonder where you're working?"

  "No. Not at all." She looked away, not bothering to add that her boy friend at Virginia Tech—whom she had expected to marry—had let her help put him through school, then dropped her when he landed a high-salaried job. His refusal to repay had forced her to take out a student loan.

  Jared scrutinized her letters of reference. "Hmm. These are fine."

  "Those are very good," she corrected him, feeling peevish. She was through trying to appease the beast.

  A quick smile kicked up one corner of his mouth. "I stand corrected. They are excellent." He spoke soothingly, as if becoming aware of her anger, and at the same time unleashed a charm that could dazzle a star from the sky.

  She felt herself succumb, while wanting to resist. Drat the man. He had read her like a book, and was now shifting gears to persuade her. Angry at herself, she replied, "That top one—their son had been diagnosed as mentally retarded."

  Not bothering to re-read the letter, he asked, "So what was wrong?"

  "A high fever had made him hard of hearing; just enough to miss words. His mother got him a hearing aid and I brought him up to grade level."

  He nodded, actually looking impressed. It was the most positive sign she had received yet.

  "So you've never, ever found anyone you couldn't teach?"

  "No. Not as long as they’re intelligent. Some take—"

  "How intelligent?"

  Disconcerted by his interruptions, she forced herself to change thoughts. "It depends. You see, the older a child is, the harder it is for him to learn; but basic intelligence is all that's needed. It’s just that you can teach a young child to read much faster than an adult."

  "I see."

  "A child with mental difficulties just takes longer, that’s all. Anyway, where’s your son? I can’t work with an invisible student."

  "He’s not invisible," he muttered.

  It felt like that to her. "I have to hear him read before I guarantee my work."

  "In time," her interviewer replied brusquely, waving off her request once more. "When I'm completely satisfied you're the teacher I want."

  The way he was progressing, that could take all day.

  He spread his hands on the table, his deeply set eyes regarding her warily. "You won't be able to say anything about your situation here... even vaguely."

  "I can live with that."

  "I need your promise."

  "You've got it."

  "Even afterwards... years later. If I hear a rumor of it, or if it hits the papers, I'll...." He stopped and rubbed his eyes, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

  "You'll what?"

  "Nothing. I'd like it in writing, though."

  The old clock struck a note, making her jump. It was time to terminate the interview. She had had enough. "I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you. You’re going to have to find another teacher." Picking up her case, she stood to leave as the clock chimed the hour.

  Just as quickly, Jared Steel knocked back his chair and rounded the end of the table, blocking her path to the open door. "You can't leave. Not now!"

  Her heart skipped, then accelerated. "I most certainly can." Throwing her head back, she looked up from her five-foot-two disadvantage, acutely aware of being alone and vulnerable.

  "You already know too much."

  He was not an overly big man, but he had a presence which accompanied him, making him seem larger. Fear dried her mouth and left a taste of copper. "I assure you, I know noth—"

  "You know more than you think!" He brooded silently for a moment. "If you can hold your tongue, you won't have any problem. It's the boy friend who bothers me."

  "He—"

  "Does he live in?"

  "Certainly not!" Indignation sharpened her words.

  A flicker of disillusionment crossed his lips. "You say that very decidedly—but women change their minds overn
ight."

  "This one doesn't. I believe in marriage. I don't play around, Mr. Steel—if it's any of your business." Her hair was almost carrot-colored, with just enough auburn in it to make it her crowning joy and not her enemy. Her temper matched the flame. This aggravating man had worked hard to ignite it ever since she arrived, and had finally succeeded.

  "Then you're hired."

  "No!"

  "No?"

  “No. I can't work for someone who doesn’t trust me.”

  He shrugged, unperturbed. "Tell me, Miss Craig, what will change your mind? More money?”

  "Nothing."

  "Even if I eat humble pie?"

  His gaze captured hers, but there was no begging in it. Humble pie was unknown to this man. Instead she saw his challenge as he sized her up, trying to figure out how he could get around her. As a result, she felt no sympathy.

  "I've done it before." His voice was as smooth as the ripple of a harp, but his eyes still denied his words. His calculated look was the same one her ex-boyfriend had used while he talked her out of her college savings.

  "Save it. I am not... taking... the job."

  "I'd need you to work at night, say five to midnight."

  “Those hours are impossible."

  "Can't you do it?"

  "I could, but no—"

  "Five to midnight. On weekends, eight to five."

  "How old is—”

  "Are you available those hours?"

  "I am, but no child can learn—"

  "We aren't talking about a child."

  "We aren't?" She stared at him, open mouthed.

  "I'm not married, Miss Craig. I have no children. I never said I did."

  Her mind raced to make sense of this. No children. "Then who...?"

  His eyes answered her question before he spoke. In them were pride, anguish... and a terrible burden.

  "Me."

  *2*

  Jared fought his emotions as his confession ended years of silence. No sound entered the room except for the muffled tick-tock of the grandfather in the hall. The steady beat counted off the seconds as Ellen stared at him, hands over her mouth.

  He lifted his chin, his eyes challenging her, even as she shook her head, denying his situation. He knew what she was thinking. It could not be. She had watched him read her references.