She made her way to the kitchen, her mind reeling. Was he playing pool by himself? And if so, why would that room be forbidden?
After she grabbed a glass of water, she scanned the bookshelf in the dining room for something that might interest her. Jane Eyre. She'd read it in high school English class, she was fairly certain. But she couldn't remember a thing about it. She grabbed it, tucking it under her arm, and turned to go back to her bedroom.
She gasped. There, at the edge of the table, watching her, was Drake Webber, dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. His hair was disheveled, sticking up in several places.
He put his hands up, almost like one might if they expected to catch someone in their arms. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.”
“Well, you did.” She felt angry—the kind of anger that comes after a scare. “What're you doing?”
“I heard footsteps. I came to investigate. To make sure everything was all right, I guess.” He cocked his head to the side. “Is it?”
She shivered, pulling her pajama top tighter with her free hand. “I had a nightmare. And I was thirsty. Then I thought I might try a book to help take my mind off it.”
“Jane Eyre?”
“What? Oh, yes. Right. Jane Eyre.”
He continued to watch her. She couldn't think what to do next. Moving towards him and subsequently passing him seemed impossible just then. So she simply returned his gaze, trying desperately to think of something to say. A dance of sorts, she thought. Neither could move without the other.
“I'm sorry I scared you,” he said, finally. “It's just I don't sleep much.”
“I know.”
He flinched, his eyes registering understanding. He knew she knew of his wanderings in the dark night.
“Your nightmares are bad, aren't they?” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “I hear you scream out. Every night now for a week.”
She flushed, feeling miserable. How could he hear her from all the way down in his room? Unless he was up every night in the rooms close to her own. “Yes. Since the phone call.”
“I have them, too.”
Shocked, she stared at him. A piece of personal information?
“It gets to where I almost hate to go to sleep for fear of having one,” he continued.
“Yes. Exactly. Do you always have the same nightmare?”
“No.” He said it without expression, staring at his hands. “When I wake from one it takes me hours to recover.”
As if he asked the question, she said, “Mine are mostly the same. Just a replay of the night he almost killed me.”
“How do they let a piece of shit like that out of jail?”
“He served his time, I guess.” She glanced towards the window, thinking of the coyote. “If I wasn't here I don't know what I'd do. Honestly. I'm scared out of my mind but at least I know he can't get us while we're here.”
“You'll stay until this thing gets solved. End of story.”
“Thank you. It's all I can think to say.”
“You're welcome.” He gestured towards the couches. “Do you want to stay here, in the front room and read? I'll stay with you. Maybe you'll fall asleep.”
I'll stay with you.
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
She followed him into the front room. There was an open paperback book on the coffee table. Some kind of spy novel, she suspected, given the title and cover.
“Wait here,” he said. “I'll fetch some blankets. In case you fall asleep.”
Sinking onto the smaller couch, she curled into a semi-circle with her head on one of the soft throw pillows. She opened the book to page one and began to read. A few minutes later Drake came back, his arms full of blankets, placing a soft blue one over her. It smelled of fabric softener. He picked up his book and plopped on the other couch, his feet on the coffee table.
Right away, her eyes felt heavy. She let the book fall to the couch and closed her eyes.
The next thing she knew, it was morning and Alder was standing over her, looking perplexed. “What're you doing out here, Mom?”
“I fell asleep reading.”
“Oh. Okay, well, that's weird.”
Yes, indeed. Falling asleep in the same room with a man she barely knew, while reading a book. Perhaps she should read Alice in Wonderland instead of Jane Eyre. Because apparently she'd fallen down a rabbit hole right into Drake Webber's world.
Chapter Eleven
THE NEXT NIGHT, after work, Billy drove her home. By now he knew the code, 0336, and punched it in without Annie having to say a word. They didn't talk, both tired after a long shift, as he drove her up to the house. Once there, he waited until she was safely inside before turning the car around and heading down the long driveway. Drake was asleep on the couch. Not wanting to wake him, Annie locked the door as quietly as she could and then tiptoed across the front room. She was almost to the hallway when he called out to her. “Everything all right tonight?”
She turned towards him. He was upright now, his arm hanging over the back of the couch. “Nothing unusual. Other than Billy was jumpy all night. Kept glancing at the back door every couple of minutes.” There was an empty wineglass on the coffee table. Had he been drinking? Her jaw clenched, and she retreated back a few steps towards the hallway. “Did Alder behave himself?”
Drake rubbed under his right eye with his index finger and yawned. “He was great. I took him down to the river this afternoon. After dinner, we played checkers and then read. Here on the couch, actually. He's a great kid, Annie.”
“Thank you.”
He glanced towards the window. “The stars shine so brightly here. It's the first thing we noticed when we came here.”
We?
“You want a glass of wine?” he asked, indicating the bottle on the table. “I've already had one. Put me to sleep, as you can see.” Just one glass. Of course, it was just one glass. This man was not like Marco.
Did she want a glass? It sounded good. She hadn't had one with Billy and Cindi after the kitchen closed. She hadn't felt like it, just wanting to get home. Well, not home, but here, back to Alder. “I guess. If you'll have one with me,” she added.
“Sure. Wait here, I'll get you a glass.”
“I can get it.”
But he was already up, heading for the kitchen.
“I'll just change if you don't mind.” She noticed he was in his standard sleepwear: sweats and a T-shirt. Even the simplest of clothes looked great on him. This was unfortunate. Because there it was again: desire. Her nemesis. The antithesis to rational thought. Get yourself together, she told herself.
“No problem,” he said, as he disappeared into the kitchen.
In her room, she took off her chef pants and T-shirt, tossing them into the dirty laundry bin. She always smelled like butter and garlic after a shift. No wonder she didn't have a boyfriend. Looking in the mirror, she took out the fastener that held her hair. The unruly mess immediately went big, like six inches big, all around her head. Scrutinizing herself, she despaired. Her hair was terrible and her skin pink and flushed from a hot kitchen. She sniffed under her arms before reaching for the deodorant. Should she really be in the company of a man in close proximity smelling the way she did? But if not, she'd miss the opportunity to be with him. With that thought in mind, she pulled on a pair of shorts and a Riversong T-shirt before peeking in on Alder, who was asleep, his face angelic in the dim light. After brushing her lips against his cheek, she headed back to the front room. Drake was already there, pouring a generous portion of wine into a glass. She settled onto the opposite couch, tucking her legs under her as he handed her the glass. It smelled of cherries and tobacco. What was it? She glanced at the label. Quilceda Creek Cabernet, 2007?
“Wow, how'd you get this?” she asked, knowing their distribution list was tight; one had to practically inherit a place on their customer list. “This is like gold. No, more like diamonds.”
“I've been on their li
st since almost the beginning of the winery. One of my buddies at work asked if I wanted to go in on a case every year and I said yes. That was back in ’96. He dropped off so now I get the whole case. No reason to keep it in the cellar anymore.”
Unsure what he meant, she kept the obvious question to herself. She could do this. Just keep the conversation benign. Don't ask questions. Don't tell him inane details about your life. She took a first sip of the wine, holding it in her mouth for a moment. “This is so good. What a treat. Thank you. Tommy would love this. He's always on the hunt for the best bottle of wine for ten dollars but he appreciates the higher end, too.”
Drake watched her over the rim of his glass without comment.
She went on, his gaze making her nervous, which in turn made her talk more. Apparently her tongue was not connected to her brain in any way. “Tommy's the best. So is Lee. Actually, the whole gang. Cindi's a little rough around the edges but she has a heart of gold. And Mike, well, he loves this town like it's his child, I swear. You can't believe how hard he works to try and make it better here. All he wants is for jobs to come here so families will stay and maybe the meth makers will leave. It's so hard, though, especially with the economy the last several years. This resort they're building is taking a long time. Some of the investors dropped out because they've come on hard times or are skittish. That kind of thing. But we never give up. None of them can believe what you offered to do.” She paused, taking another sip of wine. Goodness, it was impossible to be anything other than a complete goof around this man. Stop talking. Please, just shut your mouth.
“Ah, well, it pleases me to do it. This is the nature of philanthropy. The giver always gets more than the receiver.”
“I wouldn't know. I've never had anything to give.”
“It's not always money, you know. You give plenty. You wouldn't have so many loyal friends and such a good boy if that weren't the case.”
She gazed at him for a moment, a feeling like warm bread pudding on a cold night in her stomach. “That was a nice thing to say.”
He shrugged, sitting back and putting his feet on the coffee table. His socks were thick with reinforced toes, the kind athletes wore. “Just an observation, that's all.”
They were quiet for a moment. All the unasked questions were perched precariously on her lips but she knew not to pry into his personal life. She thought again of the noises coming from the forbidden room. What demons kept him awake at night?
The wine in her glass was nearing the bottom. How had she finished it so fast? She felt warm and bold and suddenly had the urge to tell him everything about herself. She had a dozen thoughts all at once. Her mother. Culinary school. How they opened Riversong. Stay quiet, she ordered herself. No good can come from running your mouth, her mother had told her a thousand times when she was little and exuberant at the breakfast table and after school and at dinner. But she'd had so much to say as a child, and like tonight, no one to listen. Embarrassment flooded over her, thinking of her mother and then of this nice man who probably found her to be this short of idiotic. The familiar urge to stifle all feelings and thoughts with something sweet to eat flooded her. That hadn't happened for a while now. She'd trained herself out of it. Now she did the opposite. When she felt bad or out of control, she opened the application on her smart phone that tracked calories and started adding everything she'd eaten that day. She could do this right now, just in her head. Yes. Breakfast had been a boiled egg and one piece of dry toast, 210 calories.
Drake, shifting on the couch, chuckled. “What's going on in that head of yours right now? Your thoughts are a mile a minute.”
She stared at him. “How did you know that?”
“You have one of those faces that gives everything away.”
“I'm trying really hard not to talk too much. I have a lot of questions all the time. And a lot to say. I don't know what's wrong with me.”
“Nothing's wrong with you. Matter of fact, curiosity about other people is a nice quality. And, you're adorable.” He reached for her glass, his fingers almost brushing hers, before emptying the rest of the bottle into it.
Adorable? Had he really just said that?
“I shouldn't drink any more of this.” She took another sip. “But it's so good.”
“Life has few pleasures, this wine being one of them. Seize it while you can.”
No good can come from running your mouth. There was her mother's voice in her head. Again. How long before this destructive voice in her head left? Perhaps never. “My mother always told me I yammered away all day about nothing.”
“All little girls talk a lot. That's what they do. You shouldn't have been made to feel shame about it. You deserve better.”
“Me? Deserve better? Is that what you just said?”
“It is.” He cocked his head to the side, studying her. “Is that a foreign concept to you?”
“Kind of,” she admitted in nothing more than a mumble.
“That makes me sad for you.”
She shrugged, taking in more wine in a gulp, fighting tears. What was it about this man that made her feel so emotional? Kindness, that's what. He's kind to me. And it makes me feel cared for and loved and wanted.
“My mother didn't really believe in the whole build you up type of parenting. More of the boot camp style. Criticize you until you break.”
“My mother was the opposite. Almost zealot-like in her defense and encouragement of us.”
“That must have been wonderful.”
“It was. You have no idea how much Bella and I missed that when she died. Bella needs her now, more than ever.”
“Bella?”
“My baby sister. She was only sixteen when my mother died. Almost the worst time for a girl.”
“I'm sorry.” Thinking of her own mother at that age, around but useless to help her or guide her, regardless of her physical presence or not.
“Thank you,” he said, his face in its usual position of resigned sadness. “This is a hard life, here on earth. For most of us.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“I suppose.” His eyes skirted to a space on the wall behind her, his expression wary.
“Why, if you're committed to becoming a recluse, did you just invite me to have wine?”
He gazed into his glass. “I don't know.”
“Have you always lived alone?”
He shifted his focus to the large windows. “No, not always.” His voice was so quiet she felt the urge to lean forward to hear him better.
“How long?”
“Three years.”
“Is that the same time you sold your company?”
He nodded, finishing the last of his wine. “Yes. A year after that I had them start building this house.”
“Why here?”
He put his hand on his chest, directly over his heart, his eyes still directed towards the windows. “Please, Annie, don't ask anything else. I can't, I can't talk about it.” His voice sounded dry and strangled now.
She put down her glass and uncurled her legs. “I'm sorry. I told you I talk too much and ask too many questions.”
“You didn't say you asked too many questions,” he said, softly. “You said you have a lot of questions. There's a difference.”
“I should go to bed.” Standing, feeling slightly light-headed from the wine, the rug pleasurable between her bare toes, she peered at him, wishing as she so often did in this life of pain and uncertainty that things were different. “I'm sorry I pried.”
He shifted so that he looked directly into her eyes. “No, I'm sorry. I wish I wasn't this way. Truly, I do. But I'm damaged beyond repair.”
There it was again, the urge to reach for him, take him into her arms and hold him. “We all are. You know that, right?”
“Not like this.”
Marco's knife glimmered in the light as he brought it to her neck. Tag, I found you. Annie awakened right at that moment, screaming. The clock read 2:12 a.m. She lay there for a
moment, staring into the darkness. Then, breaking through the silent night was the sound of the coyote's howl. In the next moment, it was silent, not even a cricket chirping or a breeze rustling pine needles. She went to the window, pulling back the shade. In silhouette, near the rose garden, under a full moon, stood the coyote. The summer night was still, the stars close. As she had before, she put her hand upon the window. The coyote turned and looked at her for a moment. She met his gaze, her other hand over her heart, before he loped into the trees, disappearing into the purple forest.
She crossed the sitting area and opened the door to the hallway. Alder's room was dark, as was the one with the music. But a light shone through the crack between the floor and the door of what she now thought of as the billiard room. She stood, listening, but heard nothing. After a moment, she crossed the hallway and let herself quietly inside Alder's room. He was asleep, his face peaceful in the moonlight that filtered through the window.
In the hallway once again, she hesitated. Unable to explain why, she moved towards the strip of light. Once there, she put her palm on the door, just as she'd done on the window only moments before. She heard footsteps coming towards her but she remained, despite all the reasons to flee.
“Annie,” came Drake's voice behind the door. “Are you all right?” She heard what sounded like him sitting down on the floor—a plopping sound and a sigh. The door shook slightly. Perhaps he was sitting against it?
“Yes.” She hesitated, tugging at the collar of her damp pajamas. “No. Another nightmare.” She slid to the floor as well, leaning against the door with her back. Could she feel the warmth from his body through the wood? Pure imagination, of course, but still she could not shake the image of him on the floor with his legs spread out before him instead of cross-legged as she was. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Some, yes.” Silence, before the door moved slightly. Perhaps he was adjusting his position? “Then a nightmare. I hope I didn't wake Alder.”
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