by Syrie James
Is this all there is to live on for the next four days? she wondered, alarmed. What a weird guy. He must really like carrots and apples. Well, it looked like she was eating the casserole—whatever it was. Nicole took out the container, set it on the counter, and lifted the lid. It was enchiladas, topped with red sauce, cheese, and sliced olives—and it looked really good. Finding a plate and a serving spoon, Nicole dished herself up a nice-size portion, then put the plate in the microwave.
As the food heated, it filled the air with an appetizing aroma. To familiarize herself with the kitchen, Nicole glanced through all the drawers and cabinets. She found only the barest minimum of pots, dishes, and cooking and eating utensils, which all looked shiny and new, as if they’d never been used. There were wine glasses but no bottles of wine. The whole
Typical bachelor, Nicole thought. He never cooks for himself and probably lives on frozen dinners. When she checked the freezer, however, it was completely bare—not a frozen dinner in sight. She was still puzzling over that as she checked out the stove and dishwasher. They were in pristine condition—the dishwasher was empty—and she couldn’t find a dish rack anywhere. What does he do? she wondered. Wash his dishes by hand, dry them immediately, and put them away after every meal? How anal retentive could you get?
That one casserole wasn’t going to last very long between two people, Nicole realized. She was going to have to get creative over the next few days to figure out something to eat.
When the microwave dinged, she brought her plate and a glass of water to the kitchen table and sat down. She took a forkful. It was delicious. For the next few minutes, Nicole ignored the oddness of her situation and surroundings and devoured the enchiladas, enjoying every bite. For dessert, she ate an apple. When she’d finished, she took two Tylenol, then found a sponge and dishwashing liquid under the sink and washed her dishes by hand. Feeling obligated to follow his strict routine, she dried everything and put it back where it belonged, carefully replacing the dish towel on the oven door handle so that the kitchen looked as pristine as it had when she entered.
Nicole checked her watch and glanced out the kitchen window. It was 5:30 PM and pitch-dark outside. The wind
She decided to take a few minutes to get the lay of the land and to do her laundry. On the opposite side of the main living area from the master bedroom was a closed door. She didn’t explore it, presuming it to be his study. Following the polished oak staircase downstairs, she found the laundry room, where her stained scarf was soaking in a tub of blood-tinged, soapy water. Her parka lay on the counter beside it. There were spots of blood on it that appeared to have been treated with a spray-on stain remover.
That was nice of him, she thought.
While her clothes were in the washing machine, Nicole hand-washed her scarf and a few other items. A diligent scrubbing of her jacket removed almost all traces of blood. After hanging it up to dry and putting her clothes in the dryer, she moved on to investigate the next two rooms—a bathroom and a gym filled with top of the line exercise equipment. Framed movie posters decorated the walls, and she couldn’t help but smile. Two of the posters were from movies adapted from novels by Patrick Spencer, one of her favorite authors. It looked as though she and her host shared the same taste in film.
At the back of the house was a mud room. Coats and parkas hung on pegs, alongside a pair of snowshoes. Knee-high leather boots, cowboy boots, thick-soled insulated rubber boots, sneakers, and sheepskin-lined slippers stood in a neat row beneath a bench next to a door leading outside. Another door led to a chilly, three-car garage that was lined with cabinets and housed a Range Rover. The remainder of the cavernous
Leaving the garage and mud room, Nicole returned to the hall where she found another door. It was locked. She wondered if he always kept it locked, or only did it because she was here. What’s the room for? she mused. His private wine reserve? His weapons collection? His store of gold bullion?
A row of old framed photos hung on the wall in the corridor. One of them—a sepia tone print of a bearded old man standing in front of a rustic cabin—looked like it dated back to the 1800s. Was this Michael’s ancestor? Nicole wondered. The one he said had homesteaded this property? If so—except for the heavy beard and mustache—he looked just like him. The other photos were mostly black-and-whites of various horses or people standing proudly with horses, and looked like they dated from the 1930s through the 1970s. It was an unusual and curious collection.
Heading back upstairs, Nicole tried to decide what to do with herself. Thankfully, her headache was gone. She wasn’t tired and she didn’t feel like watching a movie. If her cell phone was working, she’d happily spend a couple of hours catching up on her email—but that option was out. She briefly wondered if Michael owned a computer—but he’d made it clear that his study was off-limits—and in any case, his Internet connection relied on a satellite dish that was covered with snow.
It felt weird to be so out of touch with the rest of the world. But, Nicole realized, it was the perfect time to read. Reading had been one of Nicole’s most treasured pastimes ever since she was four years old. Her parents had made reading a
The house was a bit chillier than she liked, so after Nicole retrieved her book she grabbed a couple of logs from the wood bin in the living room and added them to the fire. Sitting down in a comfortable chair facing the hearth, she wrapped herself up in a soft blanket, turned on a nearby lamp, and began to read.
Her attention was so riveted to the novel that the next hour passed in the blink of an eye. The book—the story of a British doctor in Victorian England and the woman he loved—was so good that she didn’t want it to be over. The ending, although bittersweet, was real, heartfelt, and satisfying, and left her in tears. She lay back and closed her eyes, her head filled with vivid images from the novel, the warmth of the fire so relaxing that she drifted off.
When Nicole next opened her eyes, to her surprise, it was after nine o’clock. She stood up, stretching, wondering where Michael was. The muted sound of classical music emanated from behind the door that she guessed to be Michael’s study. Book in hand, she started in that direction, then stopped. He’d been so aloof and unfriendly when they last spoke, she hesitated at the thought of disturbing him—but she’d welcome another book to read, and he had offered to lend her one.
She rapped on the door. “Michael?”
Half a minute passed. The door opened halfway and Michael looked out, his hand on the knob, his lean frame filling the gap. “Yes?”
He was so very attractive, and standing so close, that Nicole’s thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, and she almost forgot what she was going to say. “I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
“How’s the headache?” he interrupted.
“Better, thanks.”
His glance fell on the novel in her hand and his eyes widened, but he didn’t comment. “I saw you napping and didn’t want to wake you. Did you find something to eat?”
“Yes. Your cleaning lady’s an excellent cook.”
“So she tells me.” He spoke quickly, impassively. Whatever he was thinking, he was a master at hiding it.
“So she tells you?” Nicole repeated. “Haven’t you ever tried any of the food she brings over?”
“Of course. I just meant . . . that she’s proud of her culinary skills, and constantly reminds me of them.”
“Oh.” She waited for him to invite her into the room, but he clearly had no such aim in mind. “I thought I might read,” she continued, mustering her resolve, “and you said I could borrow a book. So . . .”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He hesitated as if this somehow presented a problem. “What kind of books do you like? I’ll bring one out for you.”
“Can I just see what you’ve got?”
He didn’t reply, obviously reluctant.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Nicole said, losing patience. “I won’t take up too much of your precious time. I’ll just pick a book and be out of here.�
�� Without further ado, she gave the door a shove, pushed past Michael, and swept into the room.
Three steps inside the door she stopped, captivated. He had called it a study. Nicole had expected a cozy retreat with a
It was an expansive gentleman’s retreat and a library. A fire blazed in another grand stone fireplace, and three walls were filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with books. A comfortable-looking black leather couch and easy chair faced each other on one side of the room, opposite a mahogany coffee table and end tables that held small, elegant collectibles. On the other side stood a huge, L-shaped mahogany desk, on top of which rested stacks of papers and a state-of-the-art computer system.
“Oh. Wow. This is really . . . nice.”
“Thank you,” he said simply. He lowered the volume on the stereo with a remote.
Nicole saw what looked like a document open on his computer. Noting the direction of her gaze, Michael quickly crossed to his desk and put the computer to sleep. The screen went blank.
Nicole silently reminded herself not to be offended. He was a privacy freak; she already knew that. He dined alone, he worked alone, he didn’t want her to see what he was working on. Whatever.
“I’ll just grab a book.” Nicole moved straight for one of the bookcases and studied the titles on the shelves. All the classics of British and American literature seemed to be represented: Daniel Defoe, Jane Austen, Charlotte and Emily Brontë, Edgar Allan Poe, Lewis Carroll, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Louisa May Alcott, Bram Stoker, Arthur Conan Doyle. Many of the books looked very old and were beautifully bound in leather.
“You have all my favorites,” she said with delight. Taking out and examining a stately edition of The Complete Adventures, Nicole quoted in her best Holmes impression, “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’” Smiling, Nicole replaced it on the shelf. “Some of these look like collector’s items. Can I really borrow one?”
“Whatever you like, Miss Whitcomb.”
She heard something different in his voice—a quieter, mellower tone than he’d yet exhibited—and she turned to look at him. He was leaning up against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his long legs stretched out before him. His guard was down, and he was studying her with an expression that resembled something like tentative delight. It was the first time he’d looked at her that way—as if she might prove to be an interesting human being after all and not just an inconvenience. It wasn’t the most flattering look in the world, and yet the newfound warmth in his blue eyes made her heart skitter.
“This isn’t Pride and Prejudice. You can call me Nicole.”
“Nicole, then. Choose away.”
“It’s not going to be so easy to choose.”
“That’s all right. It’s a big library. Take your time.”
The ice wall he’d built around himself was visibly thawing. Nicole wasn’t quite prepared for this new, relaxed attitude, but she was grateful for it. “Are you sure? I know you’re busy.”
“For a true literary enthusiast, I’m happy to take a break.”
Nicole continued her study of the books on the shelves. “David Copperfield! May I?”
Michael nodded slowly. “Just be careful with it.”
Nicole removed the book from the shelf, marveling at the dark green half leather binding with its gilt-embossed title and the marbled board covers and edges. It looked very old,
To Malcolm Taylor,
With many thanks,
Charles Dickens
Nicole stared, hardly able to believe her eyes. “Is this really Charles Dickens’ signature?”
“It is.”
On the facing page, Nicole saw the imprint announcing the publication date:
London: Bradbury & Evans, 11, Bouverie Street. 1850.
She knew enough about Dickens to guess what that meant. “This is a first edition, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
Nicole gingerly shut the book and carefully returned it to its place. “You have a signed first edition of David Copperfield,” she said in wonder, “and you just keep it sitting on a bookshelf? Why don’t you keep it in a glass case?”
“I don’t believe in putting the things I value behind glass. It belongs on a shelf where it can be read and enjoyed.”
“Well, I wouldn’t dare read something so valuable, rare, and precious. Do you have any other first editions in here that I might find accidentally?”
“A few. Most of them are in that book case.”
“Would you show me?”
He strode over and let her examine another extraordinary book: The Old Curiosity Shop, signed by Charles Dickens to the same Malcolm Taylor. He even had an early, unsigned edition of Ivanhoe with the byline Author of Waverley, which he said was even more rare.
“Of course this one couldn’t be signed,” Michael said.
“Why not?”
“Because Sir Walter Scott was so mindful of his reputation as a poet, he published all his books anonymously. A facade he continued even when it became clear that there’d be no harm in coming out into the open.”
“Interesting.” Nicole studied the old book, enthralled. “What a beautiful edition. I read Ivanhoe the first time when I was twelve. I loved it so much, I wished it were true—especially the parts about Robin Hood.”
“Even legend is founded in a kernel of truth. Robin Hood has been around since medieval times in ballads and such, so perhaps he did exist. Did you know that Ivanhoe is the precursor of the modern Robin Hood story?”
“In what way?”
“The character Scott gave to Robin Hood in Ivanhoe established everything we know and love today about that cheery, noble outlaw and his band of merry men. And it’s the first time Robin was depicted as a contemporary of Richard I and given ‘Locksley’ as his title.”
“I didn’t realize that. What an impact Sir Walter Scott had on literature and film!” They exchanged a smile, warmed by this shared interest and connection. “Where did you get such rare books?”
“Auctions,” he replied smoothly. “You can find anything if you’re willing to pay for it.”
And if you have the money, Nicole thought. Michael was standing barely a foot away from her now and his nearness caused her heart rate to quicken again. “Well, they’re incredible. Thank you for showing them to me.” She handed him back Ivanhoe, careful not to let her fingers come into contact with his, lest she experience a repeat of his earlier, adverse response. “I’ll pick out something published a little more recently.”
As Michael replaced the book on the shelf, she moved on to the next case. It was full of books and biographies that seemed to cover the gamut of world history, from ancient Greece up through the present day. There was an especially large concentration of works on Regency and Victorian England and the American Civil War. “So you’re also a history buff. Do you have any . . . Oh! Here it is.”
Two other bookcases were filled from top to bottom with historical fiction. To Nicole’s surprise, five entire shelves were devoted to the works of Patrick Spencer, the world-famous writer who’d penned fifteen historical novels, every one a New York Times bestseller, and three of which had been made into films.
“I see you like Patrick Spencer. He’s one of my favorite authors, too.”
“Is he?” Michael returned with interest.
“Yes. I love his Dr. Barclay series. I just finished the latest one a few minutes ago.” She indicated the book she’d brought with her, now lying on the coffee table, then turned back to run her fingers over the familiar spines of the books on the shelves. “And the Dr. Robinson series—it’s fascinating and so well researched, don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer, instead asking quietly, “What do you like best about his work?”
“Well, I love the way he weaves actual historical events into his story lines. Like the books about the Civil War—I always learn something and it brings the period to life for me. And the
ones that take place in that little country village in Victorian England—he writes with such exquisite period detail and evocative language, I always feel like I’m being transported back in time.”
“Do you like the characters?”
“I love them. They’re all so memorable and true to life. Even though they lived hundreds of years ago, their problems are still relatable—and he always includes such a haunting love story. Once I start reading one of his books I can never put it down, and at some point I always end up in tears.”
Although Michael didn’t respond, Nicole noticed a strange glint in his eyes and suddenly felt self-conscious. She sighed. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry, I get like this when I talk about Spencer’s books. I can’t help myself. I’ve read every novel he’s ever written, some of them three times.” She glanced back at the shelves. “But you must feel the same way. I mean, look at this. You’re even more of a die-hard fan than I am! You have every single one of his books, in hardcover and paperback! And multiple copies of some.”
For some reason Michael looked peculiarly uncomfortable.
Studying the books in the case more carefully, Nicole realized that he didn’t just have Patrick Spencer’s entire collection in English; he had many dozens of foreign editions as well, which she’d never seen before. “You must have a copy of every foreign language title Spencer ever published. Where’d you get all these?”
Michael seemed to be struggling to hold back a smile. “I . . . collect them.”
Nicole pulled out one volume, which—judging by the artwork on the cover—clearly was from the Dr. Robinson series, but the alphabet was foreign to her. “Is this Russian?”
“Bulgarian.”
“Wow. You put my collection to shame.”
The look on his face was such an odd mixture of guarded pleasure and unease that Nicole didn’t know what to make of it. What was going on? Why couldn’t he look her in the eye?