“What makes you think I wanted you to save me?” I spit fire with my words. “Maybe I wanted the car to hit me.” No I didn't. I just wasn’t paying attention, but I don’t want to admit that to him.
He takes a step back and gawks at me. “Do you value your life that little?”
“No,” I tell him. But sometimes I do. Sometimes I think everything would be easier if I were dead.
“Come.” Dr. Watson holds out his hand, but I refuse to take it. He waits for a few more minutes and when I still refuse his hand he grabs me the forearm and pulls me a long instead.
“Let go of me,” I protest. “Where are we going?”
He simply says, “Home.”
Home?
Home?
I want to tell him I don't have one. I don't have a home. I don't have a family. I don't have anything. I wish I could tell him about my life and why I'm so fucked up. But I can't. Maybe someday, but not right now. Instead I snarl, “I'm not going anywhere with you.”
Then he laughs.
He actually laughs.
I wonder which one of us is the ex-crazy person. “I happen to know Adelaide, that you have nowhere to go and it just so happens that I have a guest wing in my house where you can stay until you get on your feet.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, trying to wiggle free from his grasp. “Why do you care what happens to me?” There’s a part of me, deep down inside that really wants him to care. Mainly because I want to know that he’s capable of feeling for something or someone other than himself.
“I just do, okay. Listen, it's not in the way you think. Not like that,” his eyes do a quick sweep from my feet up to my face and he goes on, “trust me. I'm not your type in that way.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I’m not the knight and shining armor type. I’m more like the corrupt king.”
“What makes you think I want a knight in shining armor?” I used to think that was all I wanted because Damien was that type. He’d rescue me from the burning tower and whisk me away on his white horse. But that was the old, Adelaide.
And I don’t think the new Adelaide—the new me—knows what I want yet. I think I’d like the corrupt king, if I could redeem him from his wicked ways and get him to lighten up a bit.
Dr. Watson licks his bottom lip and I have to drop my gaze the ground. Urges. Passionate urges that I haven’t experienced in a long time rise to the surface when I notice his tongue gliding across his lower lip. I exhale and stay focused on the pavement. I study the ridges in the grated concrete. Truth is, his words, I’m not your type in that way, made my heart feel like it was a brick, sinking to the bottom of a watering hole. Then I have to ask, “How do you know what my type is?”
“I know about your…your…” He runs a hand through his hair. He’s trying to figure out how to say it without hurting me.
So I say it for him, “You know about Damien.” My voice comes out so low, I wonder if he can actually hear me.
A nod. “I do.”
I can’t muster up more than one word. “How?” Then I find two more. “The cops?”
“Yes,” he says. “Look Adelaide, you need a start. I’d like to give you one.”
“Still don’t understand,” I say. “Why?
“Why, what?”
“Why do you want to give me a start? What are you interested in helping me?”
“Because,” he says, coming to a halt in front of a black, Lincoln sedan. “You remind me of myself.”
That makes no sense to me. “What?” How could I possibly remind him of himself? I am the hot to his cold. The happy to his sad. He’s always brooding and mysterious. I am nothing like him. We are opposites in every way.
He opens my car door for me and I get in. He closes the door and I fasten the seat belt, waiting for him to get into the driver's side door. Once he gets in, closes his door, and fastens his seat belt, he twists himself in my direction. His eyes centered on my face. “Don't get me wrong, Adelaide. You're a beautiful woman.” His eyes penetrate into mine and he reaches out, caressing my cheek with his forefinger. “And I've never seen eyes like yours.” Not a lot of people have. Violet eyes are hard to come by. There's only one other person I know of that has them aside from my deceased mother and she's a Hollywood film star. I heard a few of the nurses talking about her while I was recovering. I haven't had the chance to see any of her films yet, but I intend to. “And you're also a good woman with a good heart. I promise you, I can't offer you any of the things I feel you deserve. I'm not faithful. I don't get attached. I can't offer you love and devotion because I'm not sure that I have it in me.” He lets out a long winded sigh. “But for some reason, I'm drawn to you. I'm enthralled by you. And I just can't let you walk away without trying to help you in some way. I don't think I'd ever forgive myself if I did.”
My eyes wander over his eye cheekbones and a new question comes to mind. “Did you pay for me?”
“What?”
“Did you pay my bill?”
He starts the car and backs out of the diner parking lot without another glance in my direction. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you might be short on money. I want to make sure you’re taken care of. And…” He hesitates for a moment. It’s like he’s trying to regurgitate he words. “I own that diner. I actually own all of those buildings in that little village. So I knew it wouldn’t be a big deal. I eat there almost every day. I just told Peg to put it on my tab.”
“I thought you were a doctor?” There’s confusion in my tone. I give him an odd look.
“I am. I am, “ he insists with a wave of his hand. “It’s too complicated to explain right now.”
I take that as my cue to keep quiet so I look out the window, watching the colors whirl around me. All the greens, whites, and browns from the outdoor scenery fill my gaze. I think of Dr. Watson’s earlier explanation. Most people would think that his explanation would just be a nice way of him rejecting me so that I wouldn't feel bad. But I know better. I have deep dark, colorful secrets from my past too. And I know Dr. Watson doesn’t know all of them. Or does he? Whether he knows all of my secrets or not, I know his long, drawn out explanation of wanting g to help me is just his way of keeping his secrets covered up.
Hidden.
Locked away in some black closet so I'll never find them.
So as he drives down a long stretch of highway and everything starts to blur together I ask in a small voice, “What happened to you?” I’m hoping that maybe he’ll give me something. Anything. So that maybe…just maybe I can admit to myself that I am right about him. That all he needs is a little coaxing and he’ll open right up.
He replies with, “I thought we went over this. That's not something I like to talk about.”
And I hate the sinking feeling in my gut when I have to admit to myself that I am wrong.
Chapter Twenty One
~After~
Dr. Watson's home reminds me of something out of a fairy-tale book.
The widespread mansion is tucked behind a row of evergreens that almost touch the sky and the house is at least two miles back from the road. The giant trees conceal the structure almost making one believe that there is nothing beyond the trees except for more trees.
As we travel up the winding drive, I stare out the window in awe. There is green green grass that rolls on as far as the eye can see and positioned in the corner of the property is a barn. Horses graze in the fenced in area surrounding the brown, wooden building.
But it's the house itself that's truly spectacular.
The large yellow brick mansion has to be at least twenty thousand square feet. It's complete with white columns that support balconies off of what I assume is a few bedrooms. There is a black, cast iron lantern light dangling in the center of the wrap around porch. And there's even a matching black cast iron porch swing. The windows are wide and stained glass. A few of the larger ones even have little colorful designs on top.
Dr. Watson parks
the car in the circular concrete driveway and I step out, taking in the beauty of this place. There's a fountain behind me encased by some shrubbery cut into different shapes. Triangles. Circles. And there's an ivory statue in the center of a cherub on its toes with water trickling down from the flute in his mouth. The sound of the water soothes me and puts a calming vibe over the entire area. I can't even fathom that I'm really here. That I'm really going to live in a house like this. Even if it’s only for a short time.
This feels like a dream.
A cruel one where in a second everything will fade to black and I'll wake up screaming.
I close my eyes and pinch my arm. Then I open my eyes abruptly.
Nope. I'm still here.
I am not dreaming.
Dr. Watson gets out of the car and walks around the side, standing next to me. He leans back against the shiny, black paint job and watches me. I turn my head toward him and my eyes sweep over his casual pose, admiring the way the muscles bulge in his biceps when his arms are crossed. Heat blazes in my cheeks and I look away, as my excitement and nerves jumble together. I walk in front of him and gaze up at the house. “I can't believe you live here,” I say. “I didn't know doctors made this much money.” I assume to live in a house—no—a castle like this he has to make an exemplary living.
I hear him chuckle behind me, but keep my eyes on the house. “Doctors don't make this much money,” he replies. “And besides, I'm not even a doctor yet. I'm still in my residency.”
I peek at him over my shoulder. “Residency?”
He gives me a soft smile. “It's like training, well, in a way. Almost like hands-on school. You have to do a certain number of years before you actually become a doctor.”
“Oh.” I walk up the porch steps, trailing my fingers over the rough bricks and sit down on the porch swing. Dr. Watson doesn't move from his spot. He's still propped up against the car, watching me. “So if you don't make money, how are you able to afford this place?”
He pushes off the car and joins me on the porch. “It was my parents’ house.”
“Was?”
“They're both deceased.”
“I'm sorry,” I say with sincerity. “I know how it feels to lose your parents.” Well, technically, I've only lost one parent, but after Daddy's trial I swore from that moment on he'd be dead in my eyes.
“I know you do.” He takes the empty seat next to me on the swing then uses his feet to push off and we start swinging. My legs aren't long enough. They remain suspended in the air.
“I find it funny that you know so much about me and I know hardly anything about you,” I mention with a roll of my eyes. It's true though and part of me wonders how he knows so much about me. “Are you a detective too?”
My comment earns me a throaty laugh and I smile in return, watching the dimples rise in Dr. Watson's cheeks. He really does have an infectious laugh. Every time I hear it I either smile or laugh as well. “I am not a detective,” he answers. “But I did make some phone calls to find out the things I needed to know about you.”
“What things?” In a way it bothers me that he called around to find out what he needed to know instead of asking me himself.
“Medical history. Home life. School. Those sort of things.” My limbs stiffen and I swear my heart stops beating when he says home life. I wonder what Oakhill told him. The last thing I want is for him to bring up why I was brought to Oakhill in the first place. Without another word he stands and offers me his hand.
I hesitate, glancing back and forth between his hand and his face. “What?”
“Don't you want to see where you'll be staying?”
“Yes.” But I'd like to protest. I'd like to tell him I'd much rather sit out here until the sun goes down. I look at his hand again and remind myself that I am a free woman and that I can swing out here every day if I want to. With that, I take his hand, glance one more time at the miles of green surrounding the front yard, and follow Dr. Watson through the front door.
The foyer alone of the house is as big as two of the houses I grew up in. All of the walls are painted a dark crimson and trimmed with cherry stained wood. The floor is made up of black and white marble tile that reminds me of a checkerboard. But, the upside down pear shaped chandelier is by far this room’s most stunning attribute.
Sunlight bleed in from the window and when the light catches the ornate crystals dangling from the chandelier, it creates a mood of ambiance as the little crystals reflect against the walls. I do a spin and throw my head back, taking in the sight of the biblical designs in tiny, chipped out mosaic tiles adorning the ceiling.
“Follow me,” Dr. Watson calls from the wide staircase as he starts up the steps slowly. I abandon my assessment of the foyer and follow him up the red carpeted stairs. We come to another set of staircases. One on the right, another on the left. Dr. Watson turns right and stops at the very top of the steps. He pushes a large wooden door open and says, “Go Ahead.”
“Is this where I'll be staying?”
He nods.
I walk into the room and my eyes nearly pop out of my skull.
This isn't like a room.
It's like a house all in its own.
The bed is big enough to fit at least five people. Violet draperies hang from the cast iron canopy and the bed is piled high with pillows. I trail my fingers along the satin curtains on the canopy and let out a sigh. I feel like royalty. Not some poor, crazy woman from the slums. I have dressers, a vanity. A sitting room. Even a closet big enough to walk into. Finally I find the bathroom. There's black marble covering floors and even half of the walls. My bathtub is wide and round and could comfortable fit at least three people. As I take in my surroundings for the umpteenth time in awe, I realize something. I can't do this.
I turn on my heel, walking to the door and smack into Dr. Watson. He must have been behind me watching. Studying. Observing. It's typical. “I'm sorry, Dr. Watson,” I gush. “I didn't see you there.” My hands press into his chest and I can feel the lean muscle beneath his white button up. Sliding my fingers across the ridges of definition, I don't want to stop touching him, but I do.
And I can't bring myself to look at him either.
I drop my hands and look around again. This situation is too good to be true. Something about it feels wrong even though deep down inside I know it’s not. I can't live here with him. For one thing, I've developed some kind of feelings for him and to watch him date countless women, bring them home, and make love to them will rip my heart in half. Secondly, he must expect some sort of repayment for this generosity and I have nothing to give.
In that moment I think of something Marlena Allen had said about me once. She said, Girls like you. What she meant by that was that I was different from normal girls because in her eyes I would always be trash. My eyes wander over to Dr. Watson who is staring at me intently, his thumb pressed against his plump lips. I wonder if he thinks of me the same way sometimes. I wonder if deep down inside that he's aiding me out of pity. Because if that's why he's doing this for me, I don't want it.
I don't want anyone's pity.
When a person is born nobody stands in the delivery room with a sign that says life is easy. You're welcomed into the world with tears, possibly smiles, and a slap on your rear. It's like you're here kid, go make something of yourself. Also, when you're born no one can prepare you for what kind of life you'll lead. No one could have prepared me for my father to snap, murder my mother, beat me bloody for eight years straight, and then try to shoot me, killing the only boy I'd ever loved instead.
No one could have prepared me for that.
No one.
The one, vital thing I've learned through everything I've gone through is my life is what I make of it.
And I can't make anything of it being a charity case for someone else.
“I'm sorry Dr. Watson,” I say breathless, trying to suck back my oncoming tears. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I can't live here with you.”
/>
The smile on his face falters.
He frowns.
And my heart breaks because I love it when he smiles.
He clears his throat. “You don't like your room?” He's trying to read me again. “If that's the case we can have it changed to however you'd like it.”
“No,” I say. “That's not it.”
I don't understand why he's being so nice to me. I don't understand why he thinks I deserve so much when I know I don't deserve anything at all.
I push past him, ignoring him as he calls my name. I run down the wide stair case and out the front door. I stop only for a sliver of a second to gaze longingly at the porch swing then sprint through the miles of endless green grass.
The sound of huffing is added to the sound of my own raspy breathing. Dr. Watson comes up beside me and grips onto my arm. He jerks me the slightest bit and I come to a halt, leaning over to catch my breath. “Why do you always do that?” he asks, trying to steady his breathing as well.
“Do what?” My breaths almost come out even. “Run?”
“Yes.”
“I don't want to be your burden. I don't want your pity.”
He stares at me incredulously. “Why would you think that?”
“Why else would you ask me to come and stay with you? You feel sorry for me, I know it.”
I try to walk away, but he places both hands on my shoulders, staring directly into my eyes.
“I don't pity you. That's not it at all.”
“Then why?” I ask, confused. “Are you some kind of saint?”
He howls with laughter and his eyes are dark. “Hardly.” He releases my shoulders and I collapse onto the ground, lying back, looking up into the powder blue sky. Dr. Watson follows my lead and lies down next to me. “I told you earlier you remind me of myself. There was a point in my life where I would have given anything just to have someone. Someone who knew what I was going through. Someone to talk to. Someone who could ease the pain.”
WHITE WALLS FINAL Ebook Page 11