David's Epiphany

by DawnMarie Richards

  Lexi tipped her head.

  “And when you’re not with him?”

  Ephie dropped her gaze.

  “I’m like this.”

  “Which is?”

  She lifted her head.

  “Riddled with guilt. Second-guessing every instant I’ve spent with him.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I’ve got this terrible feeling—”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re already in love with him.”

  “Actually, no. I seem to be doing fine on that front, believe it or not. But I can’t shake the feeling he’s the one who’s going to end up hurt.”

  Lexi laughed.

  “I’m sorry, honey, but that’s crazy. It seems to me the P of D has no intention of getting anywhere near emotionally involved enough with anyone to get hurt. You do know that’s what all those rules are for, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, but he’s already broken some of those rules for me. And when I asked him, he said he didn’t know why. I can’t explain it, exactly, Lexi, but I can feel it. He’s”—Ephie paused, searching for the right word—“wounded, somehow. It’s in his writing, in the way he talks about people, about life. I asked him a little bit about his family, and it was like I was torturing him. Telling me he has a brother was like some great confession.” She shook her head. “He says he wants to keep it simple because he’s only interested in sex. But it’s more than that. He’s terrified of anyone getting the tiniest bit close to him.”

  “Lots of guys are like that.”

  “No, Lexi.” She shook her head. “Not like this.”

  She sighed and then lifted her coffee cup.

  “My opinion?”

  Ephie smiled.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course not.” Lexi tipped her head back, emptying her mug before setting it down on the table between them. “First of all, the man is quite obviously extremely capable of taking care of himself. I’m far more worried about you, my gushy friend.” She held up a hand when Ephie opened her mouth, staying her objection. “But if you’re determined to see it through—” Lexi pursed her lips at Ephie’s nod. “Then I think you should know, in my vast experience, it’s a rare thing for two people to be in synch, even on a physical level. I happen to believe it’s as extraordinary as love at first sight. So, from what you’ve said, it seems to me you should ditch the guilt, fasten your seat belt, and enjoy the ride. It could very well be the only one you ever get.”

  Chapter 12

  THE basement is set well into the ground, making windows impossible. Twin tables dominate the center of the room. Set at a subtle angle, troughs rim their stainless steel surfaces, drains at each base. The poured concrete floor slopes in from the sides, funneling to a large round grate. The ceiling is made up of aged floor joists, untold layers of stain and sealant giving the wood a mellow patina.

  Each of the four walls has a distinct purpose. To the left of the entryway is a long sink, convenient for mixing solutions and cleaning instruments. Cabinetry lines the adjacent wall where frosted-glass doors reveal rows of the chemicals and compounds necessary for embalming and reconstruction. The lower drawers are lined with the multitude of tools required for preservation as well as restoration. And at the back wall, a row of chairs sit sentry on either side of the door to the refrigeration unit, content to guard the dead until called into service.

  The Preparation Room is a place of striking duality where techniques founded in ancient ritual are performed using computer-monitored machinery and newly developed chemicals. A hundred-year-old fieldstone foundation keeps the temperature low, while state-of-the-art LED lights provide austere illumination. And in that glaring frost, the illusion of life is given to the dead.

  * * * *

  Striking duality. The description could as easily be applied to the man standing in front of her, as at ease reading to a classroom full of people as at the side of a grave. A model of confident, unassuming competence, it was no wonder David had so ably filled his father’s place as a well-respected, trusted member of the community. And for most, it would be the extent of what they’d know of the soft-spoken, sympathetic man who’d handled their loved one’s funeral. But Ephie knew he had another side.

  She’d begun to think of him as two people: Downstairs David, refined, eloquent, unfailingly well-mannered and polite, and Upstairs David, ferocious, curt, driven by deep and burning passions his work demanded he keep constrained. A delicate veil existed between the two, maintained by sheer force of will and the span of a creaky staircase.

  Ephie knew no such division. Instead, it seemed as if she were being reinvented. Hair pulling had been only the beginning. She’d progressed to drawing blood. And beneath David’s impeccably tailored suit, he bore the signs of her transformation. Gouges covered his back and shoulders. And, in a particularly frenzied exchange, she’d bitten him, leaving behind a perfect dental impression on the inside of his right thigh.

  Vivid images flooded her mind, and Ephie squeezed her eyes shut, squirming in her seat as she fought for control. When she looked next, she found David had finished and returned to his seat. He studied her over his shoulder, his head tipped in inquiry. Pressing her hands to her heated cheeks, she warned him off with a subtle shake of her head. Not until he turned around was she able to catch up with the conversation.

  “…but I need an image like that as much as another hole in my head.” Mr. Finch grumbled from behind her.

  “As usual, George, you bring up a good point.”

  Ephie couldn’t help smiling as she looked to their instructor, Evan Chase. As well as being an effective teacher, the man was a polished diplomat. She enjoyed his deft handling of a room full of diverse personalities almost as much as his insights on the craft of writing.

  “It’s actually the reason I asked David to share this particular piece with the entire group. As writers, we obviously have the responsibility of deciding what we write about. But what we don’t always consider is how important what we choose not to include can be. Now, because of the nature of David’s work, much of his subject matter might be uncomfortable for a reader. Discomfort, however, should not automatically disqualify inclusion. Making your reader uncomfortable might be integral to your story. Specific to David’s piece, the unease has a purpose. It isn’t simply a physical description. It’s also a window”—he nodded in David’s direction before continuing—“into the experiences of the people who work there, what they might see and smell and experience within those four walls. It’s also an excellent example of creating drama in setting the scene. Well done, David. Thank you.”

  A small round of applause broke out which Mr. Chase had to speak over. “And that’s all we’ll have time for tonight. Next week we’ll be discussing the finer points of developing a good character sketch and going over the themes of your works. Try to stay warm out there.”

  The room got noisy, conversations breaking out among the students packing up their things. Ephie stayed in her chair, peering around people as they walked by, anxious to catch David’s eye. But he had his back to her, his attention on the woman sitting next to him.

  Tall, blonde, busty, and recently divorced, Melanie Price certainly met David’s exacting standards. Undeniably, they made a striking couple, his darkness the perfect foil to Melanie’s light. But Ephie simply couldn’t imagine him spending more than six minutes with such a vapid creature, never mind as many weeks. No matter how good the sex might be.

  It was unlike Ephie to be so uncharitable. After all, Melanie’s husband had—according to her, without warning or provocation—run off with their housekeeper. A tale which should have elicited sympathy, though Ephie couldn’t help thinking it was more suited to a sappy movie of the week than an actual person’s life. It certainly didn’t help when Melanie, with an unseemly amount of glee, outlined for the class a rather elaborate and convoluted plan to financially ruin “the bastard and the whore,” as she unabashe
dly referred to her ex and his new wife. It was all a bit too melodramatic for Ephie, and she found it increasingly difficult not to roll her eyes every time the woman opened her perfectly-lined and lipsticked mouth.

  But David appeared to have no such trouble, apparently content to chat while Ephie waited, unable to tear her gaze from the spectacle unfolding just a few feet away.

  His low tones drew a laugh from Melanie. She reached across the aisle, her hand coming to rest on his forearm, flawless skin standing out on the sleeve of his navy jacket. Ephie expected David to move away, subtly reject the obvious advance. Instead he shifted toward Melanie, their heads bending close together. Several statically charged blonde wisps wound his head, threading his short hair. And as Melanie continued to clutch at him, fluorescent light flashing off her blood red manicure, Ephie had the most terrible thought.

  A bubble of nausea rose from her belly to lodge in the base of her throat as the full implications of the phrase “no strings” came to bear. Was she looking at the specter of a relationship which might have been, or had her eyes been opened to the reality of the present? She knew she had no right to object. More disturbing, she’d forfeited the simple privilege of asking.

  Ephie got to her feet. Clutching her notebook and tucking her chin to her chest, she rushed down the aisle, eager to escape the far too bright and bustling room. If only her indignity could be left behind as easily.

  Chapter 13

  DAVID paced the length of the flagstone landing, engaged in a vigorous internal debate over whether he should knock or walk away.

  There’d been no such uncertainty when he’d seen Ephie hustle by, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. In fact, there’d been no thought at all. He’d been drawn to his feet as if caught in the wake of her hurried exit. If not for Melanie’s huff of objection, he knew he would have followed without a word. As it was, he’d muttered some already forgotten excuse, succeeding only in changing Melanie’s expression of confusion to one of displeasure. Worse yet, the ineffective effort at courtesy had delayed him. He’d arrived outside the building just in time to watch Ephie’s silver sedan exit the parking lot.

  Still on autopilot, he’d jogged to his car, making the forty-five minute ride to the Bennett estate in a little over thirty. So focused on finding out what had happened he hadn’t considered the wisdom of chasing after the imp seemingly hell-bent on undermining the very foundation of his tidy life.

  He’d known from the start Ephie was too naive, utterly ill-equipped for the kind of relationship he offered. But he’d handled the situation poorly, wounding her pride when he’d tried to warn her off. And she’d retaliated. Sharing that damned fantasy of hers, her face a study in ecstasy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so thoroughly provoked, as annoyed as he’d been excited. Then she’d giggled, and he’d been lost ever since.

  The winter wind stung his cheeks. His eyes watered from the cold. But David barely noticed. True to her name, Epiphany Jones had been a revelation. Time and again, she matched him wickedness for wickedness, as shocked as he at the breadth and depth of her own sexual appetite. But it wasn’t the fierce and fiery foreplay which captivated him. No. It was the sweet purity of her ultimate surrender. Unlike anything he’d ever experienced, it stunned and humbled him, rendered him desperate for more. He simply couldn’t walk away.

  Stalking toward the door, he announced his presence with three quick raps. He stepped back, shoulders squared, anticipating the heat of Ephie’s passion. But as the seconds passed, his confidence waned. He leaned forward, turning an ear toward the cold and indifferent wood.

  “I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing,” he lied.

  Her heavy sigh confirmed his suspicion.

  “Please, open the door.”

  “No, David. Call me tomorrow.”

  He pressed his forehead and flattened palms to the door, willing her to feel his presence.

  “I want to see you.”

  “Not tonight. Call me. Tomorrow.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I need to know you’re all right,” he insisted. “I’m not leaving until I see you.”

  He straightened at the rasp of the deadbolt, shocked she’d given in so easily. A cozy scene emerged in the widening gap between the door and its frame. Logs crackled in an enormous fieldstone fireplace. On the coffee table in front of it, a cup of tea sat steeping next to an e-reader, its leather cover folded back to reveal rows of black letters stuttering across a sepia screen. A colorful blanket, flung in haste before being abandoned, draped a rustic sofa. It, in turn, was flanked by a pair of matching chairs.

  And then Ephie appeared, blocking his view. She wore an oversized Revenge of the Sith T-shirt, arms and legs bare. Her lips pressed into twin lines of impatience.

  “There. You’ve seen me. Now, please, go home.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Hugging herself, she held the door in place with her shoulder.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Why did you leave like that, without saying anything?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well, and I—” A violent shiver made it impossible for her to continue, goose bumps rising over her skin.

  “Jesus, Eph, you’re freezing.” He pressed on the door, but it didn’t give. “Let me in.”

  “No.”

  Her gaze shifted to the side, and for a horrible half-second, David considered the possibility she might not be alone. Reflexively, his fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I don’t want to have sex with you.”

  “Ephie.” He sighed. “I just want to make sure you’re all right. I promise. I won’t touch you.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “You’re not the one I’m worried about.”

  He opened his mouth, but her naked honesty rendered him speechless. A gust buffeted around him, and she shuddered helplessly. Patience spent, he reached forward, intending to move her out of the way. She recoiled from his touch. Ignoring the affront, he grabbed hold of the edge of the door, easing it back enough to twist by her.

  “You get out of my house, David Briar. You get out right now.”

  Hands up, she marched toward him, delivering a mighty shove which utterly failed to move him. He glanced down at the delicate fingers splayed in the middle of his chest and then at her face, drawn with righteous indignation. Firelight flashed in her eyes. He’d have a hell of a time keeping his promise not to touch her if he didn’t calm her down in a hurry.

  On a whim, he gathered her hands into one of his. Loosening his tie, he pulled it over his head. He kissed her fingertips before dropping the loop of silk over them. And then he cinched it tight around her wrists.

  Ephie went very still.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Making sure you control yourself.”

  The flame of anger faded from her cheeks, replaced by a flush of desire. David took advantage, lifting her into his arms. Nudging the front door closed with his knee, he carried her toward the fire, smiling as he rounded the side of the couch and saw the white sheepskin rug in front of the hearth.

  Settling Ephie on top of it, he straightened, shrugging out of his topcoat and suit jacket in turn and draping them, one atop the other, over the back of the chair closest to him. She offered no objection, watching him as she absently caressed her lips with the tips of her steepled fingers. For her benefit, he took his time unbuttoning and rolling up his cuffs. And then—keeping her between him and the fire—he stretched out beside her, bending his elbow and propping his head on his fist.

  She turned toward him, gathering his shirt between her bound hands for balance. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her trembling body closer to his heat.

  “What were you thinking,” he scolded gently. “Answering the door on a night like this in that poor excuse for a shirt?”
/>
  She looked up at him, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  “I was thinking I wouldn’t be opening it.”

  “I see. So you thought I’d go quietly…just like that.”

  “I guess I’d hoped—”

  “You really don’t know me at all. Do you?”

  The amusement faded from her expression, and he wanted to kick himself. His flippant comment struck at the heart of her insecurity. Of course she didn’t know him and his rules had been designed to make sure she never did. At least not in the way she was used to knowing the men with whom she became intimate.

  “Ephie, I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t need to be sorry. You’re right. I don’t know you. I guess I assumed…”

  She looked away.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to waste your time with an irrational woman.”

  “What are you talking about? You said you weren’t feeling well.”

  She peeped up at him through the shield of her lashes.

  “I wasn’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “It’s too embarrassing.”

  “Enough.” His stern tone got her attention. “Just tell me what the hell happened to you tonight.”

  “What happened to me is I ran away like some hysterical teenager because I saw you talking to another girl!”

  “Melanie?” He shook his head at the absurdity. “Ephie, you don’t have anything to worry about as far as Melanie Price is concerned.”

  “I’m not worried about Melanie Price. I’m worried about me. When I saw the two of you together…” She looked at him, the space between her brows creased. “I can’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Keep it simple between us.” She blew out a shaky breath. “I have questions, David. Messy, personal questions I know I’ve got no right to ask. But they’re there, and I just don’t know how to ignore them.”

  He leaned toward her, encouraged when she didn’t pull away.