A Hidden Fire

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “Not many. But the friends that do come by seem very nice. There are two other young ladies, and a young man I see.”

  He paused. “Are they dating? Beatrice and the young man?”

  The woman tugged on her cardigan, but leaned toward him, as if telling a secret. “I asked her if she had a boyfriend, but she just looked sad. I think she left someone behind in Texas.”

  “I think she did, too,” he murmured, before he cleared his throat. “Do you have a key to her apartment, Mrs. …”

  “I’m Mrs. Hanson, dear. You seem like a nice young man. Are you a friend of Beatrice’s?”

  He smiled softly. “Something like that, yes.”

  “That’s lovely. You’re very handsome.”

  He smiled, his green eyes lit in amusement. “Thank you.”

  “You should take Beatrice on a date. She’s very pretty, you know.”

  “Yes, she is.” He smiled. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Are you going to wait for her? Would you like some hot chocolate?”

  He reached over to pet the cat the old woman held. It purred under his hands and made Mrs. Hanson smile.

  “I can’t stay, but I was hoping to leave something for Beatrice. Do you have a key to her apartment?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes. Do you want to wait here?”

  Planting the suggestion for her to bring him the key and then go to bed, forgetting his presence entirely, he let her go. She took the cat inside her small apartment, and returned a few minutes later bearing a small brass key.

  “I’ll leave this under your door before I go.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Standing, he took her hand again. “Thank you, Mrs. Hanson. Time for you to go to sleep.”

  She waved absently and walked to her door. He watched her walk inside, before he turned to Beatrice’s apartment, noticing the familiar fragrance that lingered near the entrance. He opened the door and slipped inside, making sure to leave the lights off.

  He almost staggered when he entered the small room. Her scent infused the air, and he took a deep breath as his gaze traveled around the living area. There was a small armchair, a plush sofa, and stack of books piled on the coffee table. Following the honeysuckle trail, he lowered himself onto the opposite the end of the sofa where she must have sat.

  He sank into the couch, imagining her across from him and lifting her small feet into his lap as she had so many months ago. He lingered only a few minutes before he peeked into the bedroom, smiling when he saw the tall, black boots that stood by the closet doors.

  There was an old dressing table in the corner, and he walked to it, taking special note of the pictures tucked into the frame of the mirror.

  A postcard from Dublin.

  A picture of her grandmother from the previous Christmas.

  A blurry shot of Beatrice with a group of girls at what looked like a night club.

  A small picture of her sitting on a horse in a damp meadow, the sun glinting off her dark brown hair as she smiled.

  In a corner of the mirror, he saw a small phrase written on a worn index card.

  Ubi amo, ibi patria—Where I love, there is my homeland.

  The man touched the card tucked into the mirror, noting its worn edges and smudged letters. He traced the edges for a moment before he stepped away.

  He took the picture of her on the horse and tucked it into his pocket before he walked to her bed and sat on the side where he knew she rested. Hesitating for only a moment, he reached into his coat and withdrew two items. The man looked at the small, leather-bound volume of sonnets in his hand, and gently traced the gold lettering on the front.

  I sonetti di Giuliana

  Tucking the plane ticket to Santiago under the small book, he placed both on her pillow where she would find them. He looked longingly around the room for a moment, before he stood and walked out the front door, carefully locking it behind him.

  He tucked the brass key under Mrs. Hanson’s doormat and walked over to the fountain. Sitting on the bench, he looked around the old courtyard, trying to imagine her laughter echoing off the walls.

  The man lingered for a few moments, letting her faint scent swirl around him along with his memories. Then he stood, walked back under the arch, and disappeared into the night.

  The End

  A first look at Book Two in the

  Elemental Mysteries series:

  THIS SAME EARTH

  Coming in December 2011

  ElementalMysteries.wordpress.com

  Chapter One

  Los Angeles, California

  October 2009

  “B?”

  “Hmph.”

  “Baby, the alarm already went off.”

  She looked over her shoulder at Mano, who appeared to be wearing nothing more than a lazy grin.

  “It went off already?” she croaked, shutting her eyes against the morning sun.

  He nodded. “Yep. I let you sleep in a little, but I knew you’d kick me if I let you miss work.”

  The morning sun streamed through the small window in the bedroom. Mano must have propped it open the night before, and she could smell the Meyer lemon tree blossoming on the patio.

  “Why am I so tired?”

  “Apparently, it was a scotch night last night,” he snickered. “I came over and let myself in, but you were already asleep.”

  Beatrice rolled over and blinked at her gorgeous boyfriend. “You came over and crawled in my bed looking like that, and I missed it?”

  “Your loss.”

  She groaned and burrowed into his warm chest. “Why did I drink the Laphroaig? It was not my friend last night. And I have to work late because Dr. Stevens asked me to help her close.”

  His chest rumbled when she held her cheek to it. “How late? You want me to come over and cook dinner?”

  She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “We’ve got that group visiting from USC right now and they’ve been staying as late as she’ll let them, so…I don’t know, probably not till eight-thirty or so.”

  “So you won’t be home till after nine?”

  She cuddled closer to him and reached up to brush the long black hair out of his eyes. “Probably not. Can you come over anyway?”

  “I can tonight, but not tomorrow night. We’ve got a group leaving early for an all-day dive, so I’ll have to be at the boat by six.”

  She moved to lay kisses along his chin, which was lightly covered with stubble. “You know, we should be environmentally conscious this morning. There’s a water shortage.”

  “Oh yeah?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow. He pulled her closer and hooked her leg over his hip. “Shower together, huh? You up for being environmentally responsible after last night?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “Are you?”

  Mano hugged her to his chest and rolled them out of bed before he stood and walked to the bathroom, his strong arms supporting her as she clung to him. “I’m always up for you, baby.”

  Beatrice giggled as he carried her to the bathroom, glancing at the bottle of scotch and the small book bound in red leather that lay on her desk in the corner. She hugged Mano closer and breathed in the scent of sun and ocean that clung to him.

  She waved as he stood on her front porch, still shirtless and wearing a lazy smile while he held a cup of coffee as she sped away on her motorcycle. She hopped onto Interstate 5 and gunned the engine, cutting lanes on her way to the 110 Freeway.

  She’d bought the new Triumph Scrambler after Carwyn convinced her a motorcycle with a British pedigree was superior to an American bike. Since the Welshman had been the one to teach her to ride, and she liked the look of the matte black bike, she’d relented and had it customized for her short frame.

  She loved the freedom of being on the back of the Scrambler, along with the ability to cut quickly through the Southern California traffic. While some moaned about their daily commute, for Beatrice, it was one of her favorite parts of the day.

  By the time s
he arrived in San Marino—a small, wealthy enclave in the middle of South Pasadena—she’d made up for her late start that morning. She didn’t know why she’d given in to the temptation to read Giuliana’s sonnets the night before, but going down that road never led to a happy night.

  She pulled off her helmet as she walked through the alley of jacaranda trees leading to the entrance of the library.

  “Mornin’, B!”

  Beatrice waved at one of the guards as she climbed the white stone stairs leading to the grand entrance.

  “Hey, Art. How are you today?”

  The middle-aged man grinned and gave her a wink. “Oh, you know…just hangin’,” he laughed. “Get it? Hangin’? ‘Cause my name is Art?”

  She snorted and shook her head. “Yeah, good one.”

  “You closing with Dr. Stevens tonight?”

  “Yup. You going to be here?”

  He nodded and smiled, his brown eyes crinkling in the corners. “You betcha, I’ll see you later then.”

  “See you.”

  “Hey, B?”

  She turned before she reached the black glass of the library doors. “Yeah?”

  “This is probably out of left field, but do you know a kid around twelve or thirteen named Ben?”

  “Ben?” She frowned. “I don’t think so, why?”

  He shrugged. “Just a kid poking around the front of the gardens the other day. He was riding a bike and asked if I knew a librarian named Beatrice. That’s your name, right?”

  Beatrice’s mouth dropped open. “Yeah, that’s my name, but I don’t know any kids that age. I don’t really know any kids, period. I mean…maybe one of the school groups? That take the public tour of the exhibits? I’ve led a few of those.”

  Art nodded. “Yeah, that’s probably it. Maybe he came last year with his class and remembered you or something.”

  “Huh,” she frowned. “I guess. That’s the only thing I can figure. Did he look…I don’t know, what did he look like?”

  “Just a kid. Hispanic, I think. Kinda skinny. He seemed smart, you know? He said his name was Ben, but didn’t say anything else.”

  She paused, searching her memory for any hint of recognition. There wasn’t one. “Well, if you see him again, let me know, okay?”

  He nodded and gave her a small salute before he turned to help a guest that was signaling for attention. “You got it.”

  Walking into the cool of the library, Beatrice tucked her helmet under her arm, smoothed back her hair and thought about what classes she might have led for that age last spring. She couldn’t remember any that stood out.

  “Weird.”

  The Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens was given to the city of San Marino by railroad magnate Henry Huntington when he passed away. While the gardens and house of the former estate were open to the public, the library, containing over six million rare books, manuscripts, and archived materials, was restricted and only open to special guests and Ph.D.s with recommendations. Beatrice had been more than fortunate her adviser at UCLA was willing to recommend her to Dr. Karen Stevens, a friend and colleague who happened to be the curator of the Western American archives.

  The assistant’s job didn’t pay all that much, but it had decent benefits, and since Beatrice was independently—if quietly—wealthy, money wasn’t her chief concern.

  “Hey, B!”

  “Morning.”

  “How’s it going?”

  She waved and smiled at the quiet morning greetings of her coworkers as she made her way to the small office where she spent her days. She was currently using her rather extensive knowledge of Spanish and Latin to translate early documents from the California missions. Many of the old papers were just storage records or letters between priests, but occasionally, she came upon something in the jumbled records that gave insight into the complicated political workings of California’s early Spanish settlements.

  “Good morning, Beatrice.” An attractive blonde woman in her mid-fifties poked her head into Beatrice’s small office and smiled. She wore a heather gray suit and a pair of stylish black glasses that framed her blue eyes. “Can you still help me close tonight?”

  Beatrice nodded at her boss and grabbed her coffee cup, prepared to get a refill in the lunch room. A headache from the night before started to gnaw at the space between her eyes.

  “Morning. And yes, I can. I was wondering if I could take an extra hour at lunch today since I’m staying late. I’m supposed to meet a friend downtown, and if I had some extra time I’d appreciate it.”

  Dr. Stevens thought for a moment then shrugged. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I really just need an extra body here to meet staff requirements, so you should be able to work while you’re in the reading room. The group from USC doesn’t need much help, and we’ve just got one other late appointment who’s looking at some of the Lincoln archives.”

  She snorted as she turned on her computer. “Lincoln, huh?”

  “Have you worked with those at all? The bodyguard’s papers are particularly fascinating. Some of the letters—”

  “Yeah, I did a whole project on some Lincoln documents as an undergrad. Not really relevant to what I’m doing now.”

  Dr. Stevens cocked her head. Beatrice immediately regretted her curt tone and looked up at her boss with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I’m feeling rotten this morning. Please excuse me. I appreciate the information.”

  The curator smirked. “Late night with the boyfriend?”

  “I wish. No, just some…stupid stuff. And I think I might be getting sick.” ...of thinking about a man I’m never going to see again and regretting words in a journal he’ll probably never read.

  “I hope not. Just remember, flu season is coming up and the last thing we need is people coming in only to infect all of us. If you feel like you’re coming down with something? Stay home.”

  Beatrice offered her a tight smile and stood, brushing her hands along her slim cut, black slacks. She picked up her empty mug and walked toward the doorway.

  “I’m going to grab some coffee, can I get you anything?”

  “No,” Dr. Stevens said. “I’m fine. I’m supposed to be giving a talk with a visiting lecturer at ten, so I’m going to go prepare, and I’ll let you get back to work. Take the extra hour at lunch, and I’ll see you this evening.”

  Beatrice nodded and walked down to get more coffee, glancing at the framed art along the walls.

  “Hangin’ around, Art,” she snorted. “Just hangin’ around.”

  When she finally broke for lunch and sped down to Colorado Street to meet Dez at their favorite Spanish restaurant, she had moved past headache and into starving. She sat at one of the sidewalk tables and ordered a small plate of oil-roasted almonds to nibble on until her friend arrived.

  Desiree Riley, or Dez as her friends called her, was the quintessential California girl. She’d grown up in Santa Monica and—if not for her parents insisting she leave for a few months to tour Europe after she graduated—would have happily stayed in Southern California her entire life. She’d gone to UCLA for both undergraduate and graduate work, completing her Masters in Information Science the same year as Beatrice.

  They had become unexpected friends, the blonde surfer girl and the quiet Texan in black boots and even blacker eyeliner; but as the years passed, they found their own friendly equilibrium. Beatrice stopped dying her hair pitch black in favor of her natural, dark chocolate brown, and Dez had learned how to ride a motorcycle and even had a few piercings that mom and dad didn’t know about.

  “B!”

  She heard her name shouted from a passing car, and looked up to see Dez’s silver Jetta slowing as cars honked behind her.

  “Dez, stop blocking the road!”

  “Oh,” she waved a careless hand. “I will, but parking is crazy today. Order that sangria pitcher for two, okay?”

  “I’m working today, you lush.”

  The honking behind the Jetta only got more persistent.r />
  “Who says I’m sharing? I’ll be there as soon as I find a spot.” She lifted her hand to daintily flip off the driver behind her, who was shouting out his window.

  “Red wine sangria for two, please,” Beatrice said to the waiter, who had been staring at the commotion. He nodded with an amused smile and walked back inside. Dez huffed up the sidewalk a few minutes later and plopped down in the chair across from her friend, blowing a kiss to the waiter who dropped off the drinks.

  “Okay, I’m drinking and so are you.”

  “Dez—”

  “No ‘buts.’ You have been in a mood ever since you got back from Chile, and it’s irritating. This is the first chance we’ve had to talk without Mano around, so spill. Everything.”

  Beatrice sighed in defeat, and poured herself a glass.

  An hour later, Dez was leaning on the table and staring raptly as Beatrice finished the story. Her best friend knew a very carefully edited version of the tale of Beatrice and Giovanni, as Dez liked to call it. But she knew that Beatrice went to Chile every summer only to return weeks later, alone and usually in a bad mood.

  “So you think he was there? Watching the house?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw him.” And smelled him. She didn’t really feel like explaining that part.

  Dez sat back and frowned as she took another bite of her tortilla española. “Don’t you think that’s kind of creepy?”

  Beatrice had never told Dez that Giovanni broke into her house at least once a year to leave plane tickets and occasionally grab a photograph. “Um…no, it’s not really. I mean, it is his house. It’s not creepy to me. I was mostly just pissed off that he didn’t come to the door.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” Dez took another sip of the sangria and munched on an olive.

  “What?”

  “What what?” Dez asked, the picture of innocence.

  “You have something to say, I can tell.”

  She didn’t deny it, but folded her hands on her lap and sighed a little as she looked across the table.