Stone Silence (Sound of Silence #1)

by Taylor Dean

  When a man has a framed picture of himself and his girlfriend sitting next to his bed, he’s obviously taken. I wonder how his girlfriend will react when she finds out he’s taken in an abandoned woman like a child takes in a stray dog. For all I know, this woman is his wife. But there are no signs of a feminine touch in the motorhome and I did notice he isn’t wearing a ring.

  I notice too much.

  I’ve entered a world where I don’t belong. I need to get home before I lose my heart to a silent man named Stony.

  It scares me that I already think it’s even a possibility.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  AFTER A WARNING knock on the bedroom door, Stony walks in and I quickly sit up.

  “I’m sorry. I felt a little off, so I laid down while talking to my friend. I hope you don’t mind.”

  His presence fills the doorway as he stares me down and I feel as though I’ve taken liberties I shouldn’t have. He’s quiet for several heartbeats, like he’s not sure what to say. I have a feeling I surprised him. I’ve surprised myself too. I’ve put myself in a vulnerable situation and if I had any remaining fears left, they were just squashed like a bug. I know I can trust this man.

  Then he says, “Just not used to seeing a woman in my bedroom.” He leans against the doorway and folds his arms.

  I know he says it in jest. Again, the comment feels weird when not accompanied by a smile.

  While he’s a good-looking guy, his serious nature strikes me as someone who doesn’t take relationships lightly. I’m sure it’s too soon to make such a judgment, but after being with Finn, it’s the type of man I’m hoping for.

  I’m not used to being in a man’s bedroom either. I don’t voice that thought. The situation is already awkward as it is.

  Then he says, “Would’ve given you my bed, but I don’t fit in the sleeping compartments. I’m too tall.”

  “No problem. They’re surprisingly soft and comfortable.” In my effort to reassure him, I hate that my response is so effusive.

  “Good. Worried about it all night.” His eyes wander to the frame still clutched in my hands.

  “It’s a really nice picture of you,” I say as I replace the frame on his nightstand. I’m trying to play it cool, even though I feel like a thief caught red-handed. “Did you know our facial expressions can influence our mood? The muscles in our face show a direct correlation to our inner feelings. Even if we fake a smile, our mood will try to align with that emotion.” There I go again. I’m babbling and I know it’s because I’m nervous. “You know what? I’m gonna stop talking now.”

  Stony remains still, watching me.

  I just sounded like I read a line out of my psychology textbook. My brother would’ve thrown the truly-you-have-a-dizzying-intellect line at me. I hope I haven’t offended my host. I might as well have just flat-out asked him why he never smiles. Although I doubt he would’ve answered my presumptuous question. Besides, I’ve known him for about two seconds. How do I know he never smiles just because he hasn’t smiled at me?

  How indeed.

  “Sorry. I tend to overanalyze everything.”

  He shrugs. “I was a quiet baby. Never smiled. My father nicknamed me Stony. My mom refuses to use it and has always called me by my given name.”

  “Which is?” He’s taken me off guard with his forthrightness.

  “Just leave it at Stony.”

  And the walls are back up again. It takes effort to hide all your emotions from other people. This guy has got it down to an art form. I want to know his real name, but I’m certainly not going to pester him. Clearly, he doesn’t want to share it. “I guess you don’t like your given name.” It’s not a question.

  “Don’t mind it. Just prefer Stony. It’s what I’m used to.”

  “All right. But we’re not that different, you and I.”

  “How so?”

  “You never smiled as a child and I never cried as a child. Although no one gave me a nickname for it. When I was upset, I would say to my mother, ‘Mom, waa, waa.’ I knew crying expressed something, but I spoke it instead of actually doing it.”

  Stony shakes his head back and forth and exhales in a weak attempt at a laugh. It’s close enough, even though his mouth remains in a firm line. “That’s really funny.”

  “I was a funny kid. Guess I still am.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  True. We all have our quirks and idiosyncrasies. Me, a little more than others. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “Did it work?”

  I laugh. “Yep.” Truth be told, just his presence makes me feel better. “So . . . if you don’t smile, how will I know when you’re happy?”

  He shrugs. “I’ll tell you.”

  “What will you say?” I think of Caitlyn’s idea for a code word. “Maybe we need a code word.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Code word?”

  “Yeah, so I’ll know when you’re happy.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  He shakes his head. “Not offended. I’ll go along with it.”

  I often use code words in my work to help psychiatric patients learn to express themselves. Not that he behaves anything like a psychiatric patient, but the concept does work. After all, he could be filled with joy and jumping up and down on the inside and I’d never know it.

  “Tell you what, I’ll just say happy, okay?”

  He’s humoring me and I know it. “Deal.” At the same time, I wonder if he’ll ever really use our code word. I doubt it. It’s a silly idea anyway and I wish I hadn’t suggested it. I hardly know the man. My nerves are doing the talking for me and I need to quit while I’m ahead.

  “Not much to do while we’re rained-in, Spencer Elliott. Wanna watch TV?” he asks.

  I’m a little taken back. Yet, I’m thankful for the distraction. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself next. I feel like we’re both going to go stir crazy being cooped up in the motorhome.

  Instead of climbing the walls, Stony just invited me to watch TV with him. I think I’m more pleased than I should be at the invitation.

  “Sure. That sounds relaxing.” Even though I feel better, I can tell I don’t have much strength. Yesterday sapped me of any and all energy and I’m more tired than I thought. “Do you mind if I use your shower first? I’d really like to clean up a bit.” The fact that I feel comfortable enough to take a shower in Stony’s motorhome tells me I’m warming up to this situation.

  “You bet.” He opens his closet door and pulls out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. “Too big for you, but they’re clean.”

  Touched by his kindness, I simply say, “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  “I’ll throw your clothes in the washer. Just leave ‘em outside the bathroom door.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I mean, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like that. Thank you.” I nod and escape to the bathroom. When I’m securely wrapped in a towel, I peek out the door and ensure the coast is clear. Then I toss my clothes on the floor of the hallway and quickly close and lock the door. I decide to wash my unmentionables myself in the sink because I have my limits. I hang them to drip dry on a corner hook where they are hidden by cabinetry and not immediately noticeable. Once in the shower, I bask under the steaming hot water as it washes away all my aches and pains. Even though I hated the heat of the day yesterday, the hot shower makes me feel restored in ways I can’t explain and I spend a little too much time in there.

  After drying off, I tighten the drawstring on Stony’s sweats and even though they are much too big for me as anticipated, they’re comfy and wrap around me like a warm blanket on a freezing cold day. When I emerge, my clothes are gone and I can hear the swishing of the small washing machine at work. Motorhomes have sure become a lot fancier over the years.

  Stony greets me and says, “Feeling better?”

  “Yes.” It comes out as a whisper because I’m feeling
a little overwhelmed by his attention.

  He directs me to one of the recliners. Then he promptly pulls the adjustment lever, slowly placing me in a reclining position. Next he meticulously places a blanket over me, tucking it around me without actually touching me. I’m wide-eyed, shocked at the way he’s pampering me. The odd thing is, I kind of wish he would touch me. I want to see what my response will be. Will I like his touch or will I feel my usual response and draw away from him? The earlier warm feeling from his hand on my arm while he was helping me walk doesn’t really count. He was helping me in a weak moment. Of course I felt warmth toward him. It was just gratitude.

  “Good?” he asks.

  “Perfect, thank you.” I’m a little embarrassed by my breathy voice. I feel like it gives my thoughts away.

  He settles into the opposite recliner and says, “What do ya wanna watch?”

  “I’m fine with anything,” I lie. It’s his home, after all.

  “The baseball game?”

  “Um . . . sure.”

  He looks at me. “Really?”

  That. Deep. Voice. It does something to me. It’s as if shock waves are bouncing around my body and wreaking havoc. “Uh . . .”

  “Didn’t think so.” His expression tells me he’s messing with me.

  “Was that a test?” I ask with a smile.

  “Yep. You failed.”

  So there’s a little humor underneath his stern façade. Now I’m thoroughly intrigued—as if I wasn’t already.

  “You like home improvement?” he asks.

  “I love it. But let’s pick something we both like.”

  “Let’s rock, paper, scissors it.”

  “Excuse me?” I say, surprised at his suggestion. Again, the levity feels a little odd without an accompanying smile.

  He holds out his hand. “Ready? If I win, it’s the baseball game, if you win, it’s home improvement.”

  I’m still a little stunned and stare at him open-mouthed.

  “You do know how to play rock, paper, scissors, right?”

  Flustered, I say, “Yes, of course.”

  “Okay then, let’s do this.”

  I hold out my hand and he counts, “1, 2, 3 . . .”

  He does paper and I do scissors. I win.

  “Home improvement it is,” he says.

  He flips to HGTV where an episode of House Hunters is playing. He settles into the recliner and seems content.

  “You like this?” I ask. “I mean, really, we can watch whatever you’d like.”

  “Used to be in the business. Now I just own several rentals.”

  “What was your business?”

  “Flipping houses. Selling them.”

  Okay, that explains why he’s fine with watching HGTV. “You don’t mind watching this?”

  “Don’t make me admit it.”

  I laugh aloud at this funny man. His deadpan expression makes everything seem funnier than it really is. I can’t hide my smile as I stare at the TV. He’s an enigma and I want to solve the mystery. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Might not answer.”

  “Can I ask anyway?” I say.

  “Ask away.”

  “How much time do you save in your life by never speaking in full sentences?”

  He looks over at me with narrowed eyes, but I don’t back down.

  “Eons,” he retorts. Then he mumbles, “Smart aleck.”

  I laugh, but he remains . . . well, Stony.

  CHAPTER

  Seven

  “I SAY NUMBER three. It’s the best choice.”

  “No way. Number one,” Stony says.

  “House number three has the most charm.”

  “House number one is renovated.”

  “They’re going to renovate house number three.”

  Stony shakes his head. “Too far gone. Not worth it.”

  I smile to myself once again. I’m enjoying watching a marathon of House Hunters with Stony. We have a little competition going, trying to see who can guess which house the future homeowners will choose. He’s been right every single time. He has a good eye, I’ll give him that.

  “Popcorn?”

  It takes me a moment to realize he’s asking if I want popcorn. His manner of speech takes some getting used to. More often than not, he uses the least amount of words necessary to get his point across.

  “That would be nice.”

  He gets to his feet and I watch him walk to the kitchen area. If I didn’t know he had a prosthetic leg, I wouldn’t be able to tell. He walks with an ever so slight limp, but it’s hardly noticeable—unless you’re totally checking him out like I’m doing. I guess it’s not really a limp, just a slightly different way of walking—perhaps a blip in his gait describes it the best. He’s tall and lithe. In spite of the difference in his step, he moves with precision and there’s nothing clumsy about him. It must’ve taken some serious practice to learn to walk with a prosthetic leg. Many years ago, he probably would’ve been stuck in a wheel chair. With the miracle of modern medicine, he can go and do just like anyone else. I’m sure he wouldn’t agree per se, but I’m impressed with his ability to function as a normal man—and even build his own home. It’s quite remarkable.

  I want to say it to his face, but I fear anything I say will just come out as patronizing.

  While the popcorn is popping, his cell phone rings. “Hey Mom . . . yep, I’m fine . . . roads are closed . . . yes, I have everything I need . . . I missed our Sunday dinner too . . . Love you too. Bye.”

  After he hangs up he says, “If I miss Sunday dinner with my mom, she’s positive I’ll suffer from malnutrition and possibly die during the week.”

  I smile as he hands me a bowl of popcorn and sits back down. Clearly he can speak like a normal person when he wants to. Which means he just doesn’t want to.

  Regardless, I like sitting here with him like this. It’s how I’ve always pictured married life. I love the idea of simply watching TV together with my hubby, feeling the closeness between us without touching, feeling so comfortable with each other that we don’t have to keep up a steady flow of conversation. Of course, that appears to be a guarantee with Stony.

  Regardless, it’s a nice safe feeling.

  I want it. I want it all the time.

  I feel a glimpse of it today with Stony. I like the feel of companionship it evokes in me. Instead of announcing my thoughts, I say, “This is nice, Stony. Very relaxing.”

  “Feeling better?”

  The rain continues to pour off and on outside, yet we are warm and cozy in his tiny home. It makes me thankful for shelter, something I always take for granted. “A lot better.”

  He makes tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, the perfect rainy day meal. He refuses to let me get up and help, no matter how many times I offer.

  “You rest,” he keeps saying.

  I admit that he’s making me feel like a queen and I’m enjoying every minute. I remind myself that he’s taking care of me after I fainted on his property and I’m sure he looks upon it as his duty. It’s not personal.

  It’s just that being with him in his motorhome feels intimate and I’m taking his attention personally.

  I shouldn’t be.

  As we begin to eat he says, “Wanna talk about what happened?”

  “Not much to tell. When Finn didn’t get what he wanted from me, he dumped me.”

  “Serious relationship?”

  “No, we’d been group dating off and on for about a month. Until I had to spend seven annoying hours in a car with him, I really liked him.”

  “Ought to be a requirement for all couples before marriage.”

  I laugh aloud. “It’s very telling.” Stony may not smile, but that dry sense of humor gets me every time. I like it.

  So far, I don’t think Stony and I are annoying each other. At least, I know he’s not irritating me. I can’t speak for him. After all, I’m completely invading his privacy. I wonder if he’s just being polite t
o his unexpected guest.

  Of course he is.

  One thing I know for sure, I like that he’s easy and laid back. I could do this for several days and feel sad when it’s over.

  I need to rein in my emotions. I’m letting my imagination wander to forbidden territory. It’s not something I usually do. When it comes to men, it’s always been all or nothing for me, with an emphasis on the NOTHING. Suddenly I’m feeling the ALL and I’m a little breathless. And completely overwhelmed. These feelings have taken me by surprise.

  I’ve wanted to ask him about his leg all day, so I finally muster the courage and ask, “How’d you hurt your leg, Stony?” I figure that’s the most polite way to ask about a missing leg.

  He’s quiet for so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer.

  Then he says, “Afghanistan. RPG hit our vehicle.”

  “You were a soldier,” I say, a statement not a question.

  “Was. Not anymore.”

  “Active duty?”

  “Reserves. Didn’t expect to go.”

  My mind wanders to the whole gamut of PTSD issues relating to returning veterans. I’m probably dealing with a troubled man who’s hiding out from the world by isolating himself. Perhaps he’s clinically depressed. “My big brother, Grayson, is in the Army. He’s stationed in Korea and he loves it. It’s not a combat zone, though. I guess . . . I guess your experience was pretty awful.”

  “Proud to fight for our country. I’d do it again. Getting hurt was the awful part.”

  “I noticed you were awarded a Purple Heart.”

  “Yep.” He doesn’t elaborate.

  My assumptions were rash. I find myself reevaluating my initial impressions of Stony. Bad things have happened to him, but now he’s at peace. His actions may not seem normal to the general public, but he’s found a way to be happy with his circumstances.