by C F Dunn
I let my body sink a little further into the water and pressed my lips together as if preparing to whistle, and blew steadily across its surface, creating regular ripples that broke up the superficial appearance of calm. Matthew had been correct in that his fraud went far beyond deceiving me. Guy sought an affair at the expense of both his wife and me, fulfilling his own pleasure, careless of whom it hurt – until it nearly destroyed him. He had been cavalier in the truest sense of the word and his lies were self-serving. But Matthew created an illusion meant to protect those to whom it belonged, and not harm those beyond it. I felt the sting because I had been drawn to the perimeter of the circle that the artifice was intended to protect. Now that I stood at its edge, my choice lay in stepping within the circle, or staying outside it.
And if I decided on the latter?
I would then be in a similar position as Monica found herself, except I knew far more than she ever did – I knew everything. My knowledge would make me a permanent threat to the security of the family for as long as I existed, and how far were they willing to go to protect that? “I could snap your spine,” Matthew had said in the depths of anger. “I could crush the life out of you and no one would know.”
The shifting shape of my body beneath the mirrored surface of the water became deception, the cooling water no longer comforting. I slid quickly out of the bath, hurriedly winding the moss-soft towel around me. If I truly believed Matthew capable of killing me, would I still be in the cabin with him? Would I let him near me; would I be contemplating a life with him? The trouble with obsession, I concluded, is that perception is warped, and nothing is what it appears.
Sleep seemed pointless. I brushed my teeth and dressed as if ready for the day, creeping downstairs, using the moon to light my way. Padding softly in thick socks across the cold floor, I went to feed the stove more fuel, dropping the pieces of chopped wood into the mouth and, one by one, watching them ignite and burn. I placed the kettle quietly on the metal surface – it would have been a crime to disturb the peace of the moon – and turned around to wait for it to boil.
He sat on one of the ladder-back chairs by the broken window. Through dark orbs he watched me as I started and froze. He neither moved nor spoke, and it was only in the reflected light in his eyes as he followed my hand to my throat that he showed any sign of life.
“I… I didn’t see you there,” I stammered when my heart settled into a trot rather than a gallop. His mouth twitched in amusement and his eyes widened, losing their predatory look.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” he replied, his smile broadening as he rose to join me. Adjusting the kettle on the stove, I avoided the invitation to look at him, fixing my gaze on his throat instead, which I thought a safer area of focus.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
The moon bled through the fractured glass, casting his hair pale gold in its broken light and shining upon his neck – smooth, supple, strong.
“What are you doing down here?” My question sounded blunter than I meant it to. The sardonic lift to his mouth mildly mocked me.
“Even ‘monsters’ need some downtime. I was writing when you disturbed me.”
A gentle sssss as drops of water evaporated on hot metal.
“I didn’t mean it – calling you a monster – I was angry. I’m sorry I said it.”
I checked to see if he looked annoyed, then rapidly down again as he moved closer, blocking out the light. Even in the dusk that his silhouette cast, his eyes glittered.
“We both said things we didn’t mean, but we said many more we did,” he said.
I lifted my face to look at him. “Matthew, what did you mean when you said you wouldn’t let me go?”
“What do you think I meant?”
Used to his prevarication, I countered, “I’m asking the questions here.”
He lightly touched my cheek with his fingers, setting off a shimmer of warmth in my blood. I backed away.
“Matthew…” I warned.
“I only meant that I would use every device in my power to persuade you to stay.” He moved forward a step, raising his hand and tracing along the length of my jaw with his thumb, making it difficult to concentrate. I stayed still this time.
“Such as?”
He stroked down the side of my neck with the back of his hand, setting the fine hairs on edge. Lips slightly parted, he bent cautiously towards me as my pulse quickened, waiting to see if I would reject him and push him away. Reaching the base of my neck where my spine joined my skull, he curled his fingers around the back of it, using a slight pressure to pull me towards him. I didn’t resist, smelling the fresh-air scent that closeness to him always brought, the skin of his throat only a faint gleam in the shadow-light.
“This is taking unfair advantage,” I breathed into the hollow at the base of his neck.
“Do you want me stop?” His lips brushed my cheekbone, the late-night stubble softly grazing my skin.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
His hand moved up the nape of my neck into my hair, wrapping his fingers through it and pulling gently so that my face tipped willingly towards his.
“Do you need persuading?”
I was losing myself in his touch, no longer able to fight him on any level. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing.
“Yes, please.”
He hesitated and I opened my eyes to see him searching my face, before his smile intensified.
A breathless whistle rose to a high-pitched scream as the kettle came to the boil.
“God’s teeth!” he exclaimed, killing the kettle with a look that would have had me squirming.
“Matthew!” I reprimanded his blasphemy, made no better by the antiquity of the oath.
“Sorry.” He smiled down at me apologetically. “It’s probably just as well.” He twisted off the sofa and went to remove the protesting kettle from the stove. I sat up, feeling a little dazed. His voice came from the denser form his body made in the unlit kitchen.
“Emma…”
“I know.”
I could hear him pouring water into a mug.
“We don’t possess a teapot – not here, anyway.”
The significance lay in what he didn’t say. I rearranged my clothing to cover the gap my jumper made as he had lifted me, and flopped back against the cushions, putting an arm over my eyes as if the darkness were too intrusive.
His voice sounded suddenly closer. “It’s not that I don’t want to – goodness only knows I do.”
I lifted my arm away from my face and stared at the ceiling. “I know, Matthew; you don’t have to explain.”
Placing the mug on the floor next to me, he raised my legs like a barrier and, putting them across his thighs, sat down.
“I know what Ellen said, but I still made a promise to her when we married.”
“I understand.”
He rubbed my legs for a moment, rapidly at first, then slowing to the rhythm of his thoughts.
“Does this mean that you’ll stay with me?”
He continued to rub up and down the length of my shin but the movement was just a vehicle for the tension he felt.
“Oh, I think you’ve managed to persuade me,” I said lightly.
He frowned. “I’m being serious.”
I pushed myself up on my elbows and regarded him.
“I didn’t need you to persuade me, Matthew, I just needed to work things through. I’m not sure how this is going to work between us, and heaven only knows it’s complicated enough without all the additional stuff thrown in; but as you said, we are tied to each other. There are still things I’m not sure about…” He raised his eyebrows, but I carried on. “… But I’m not going to let them prevent me from being with you – not now, not any more. So, you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”
His hand stopped moving and became still and he hung his head, his eyes closed. Light from the log burner, orange and low, glowed in fits and starts on his face and
only a fine line that developed between his eyes acknowledged that he had heard what I said. I tried to sit up further and my legs shifted against his. He sighed a long, slow exhalation of breath held for an eternity. Deliberately, and with words articulated with great care, he asked, “Are you saying that despite everything, despite what you know and how I have behaved, you are willing to join with me?”
I thought “join” an odd choice of word.
“Through thick and thin, hell or high water, yes – I think so.”
He seemed pensive still. “It may yet come to that,” he muttered.
“Matthew, this is what you want, isn’t it?”
Hearing the anxiety in my voice, he lifted my legs from him and, taking my face between his hands, cradled it, piercing the veil of apprehension that lay between us.
“I have waited for this… for you… all my lifetime, and there is nothing – nothing – I want more than for us to be together.” He did not smile and the words came not from his mouth but from a place deep inside that I had only glimpsed in the past. “I cannot say when that will be and I can offer you nothing more than hope, Emma, and I have no right to ask you to wait. But I do. I need to know with certainty – will you wait with me?”
This unforeseen path had led to a door that stood open and waiting. Beyond lay a road I could not divine. To step through it and tie my life to this man would commit me to an uncertain future. But I had spent the last ten years hiding from life, and felt compelled to cross the threshold. So – without hesitation, without a backward glimpse at what I left behind – I took a deep breath, uttered a silent word of prayer and strode forward.
“Yes, Matthew, I will wait.”
CHAPTER
19
Dangerous Liaisons
“Tell me one thing,” he murmured into my hair as I curled up to him, my head against his chest, sleepy at last.
“Mmm?”
“Tell me that I didn’t bruise you this time.”
I pulled at the neck of my shirt and squinted down as far as I could.
“Don’t think so, no – do you want to check?” I offered innocently, opening the shirt a little more than I needed to.
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll have to take your word for it. I think it had better be time for your breakfast.”
I laid my head back against him. “It’s too early,” I protested, feeling the muscles of his chest move delightfully beneath my cheek as he raised his arm to look at his watch.
He chuckled ruefully. “Lead me not into temptation…” And easing me away from him, he stood up.
“Ow-h,” I grumbled, and over the back of the sofa, I watched longingly the supple ease with which he moved to the kitchen area. The moon had set and he travelled from the light of the fire into darkness. A sudden flare lit his face as he opened the lid of the stove and threw in more wood; it blazed greedily.
I rose, and followed to where I could watch him from a chair, my feet resting on the stretcher to keep them off the chilly floor.
“Can you see, Matthew? It’s awfully dark.”
“Better than you can, but I’ll light the lamp anyway.”
“S’okay, I’ll do that.” I lit it, trimming the wick inexpertly so that it nearly went out. By the time I conquered the flame, Matthew was preparing something and I peered curiously to see what it might be. It looked liquidy, gooey and unfamiliar, so I let him get on with it.
“Did Ellen like cooking?”
He whisked the liquid in a large bowl, bubbles rising and popping in the mixture. He added salt, the grains making little dimples on the surface.
“Yes, she was renowned for it. Henry used to bring hordes of friends home from school; I think we used to feed half the town’s children sometimes. There wasn’t enough room around the kitchen table and they used to sprawl all over the porch.” He smiled as he remembered.
“Uh huh.” Oh, happy families and she could cook. How could I ever compete with a Domestic Goddess?
He set the bowl to one side and removed a piece of delicate pink gammon from its wrapper, laying it in the griddle, where it began to hiss hot.
“And then there were the birthday and celebration cakes she used to make. Some of them veritable works of art; she won prizes. She even made cakes for the fourth of July and Thanksgiving; have you ever seen a cake in the shape of a turkey?”
I shook my head doubtfully, and then saw him laughing.
“Don’t tease; I don’t know what weird customs the Americans have. So, Ellen was a good cook, was she?”
“Undoubtedly.” He turned the slice of gammon over so that where its edges had crisped and curled a little, it now stood proud of the pan until it sighed and settled back onto the hot surface. “Yes, she was a good cook…” I could see him trying not to smile at my envy. “It’s a shame that it was wasted on me.”
I giggled. “Well, you won’t have that problem where I’m concerned.”
He grinned back. “Indeed not.”
It turned out that he had been cooking waffles which were to accompany the smoked gammon, and he trickled them with maple syrup before I could stop him.
“Try it first before you object.”
I pulled a face but did as he asked. It tasted fabulous – the balance between sweet and savoury intensely satisfying.
“Not as bad as you thought?” he asked as I finished.
“Ghastly, thanks,” I said, sliding my finger across the plate as he took it from me, licking the aromatic juice from my finger.
“Glad to hear it.”
“Matthew,” I said as I started to clear up, “do you remember things such as what you ate for breakfast when you were, er – young?”
“Ah hah!” he exclaimed, slipping my plate into the sink of hot water.
I looked at him in surprise “Ah hah, what?”
“I wondered how long it would take you to get around to asking me to fill in the gaps in your historical knowledge.” He sank his hands into the soapy water, and cleaned the plate with the sort of old-fashioned string mop my grandmother used to favour. I pretended to huff as I wiped the kitchen surfaces, deliberately reaching in front of him to rinse my cloth in the hot, sudsy water.
“I think I have been very restrained, and it’s really no different from asking what music you liked in the eighties.”
“That would depend on whether it was the sixteen eighties or nineteen eighties.”
I sidled up to him and put my arms around his waist, looking coyly at him.
“You don’t really mind, do you?” I nuzzled against him and he groaned. “Only it would be a little bit like keeping a dog and…”
“Wagging my own tail. How very daintily put; most apposite, thank you – how could I possibly resist such a request?”
I danced away, laughing at the mock chagrin on his face. He caught me before I moved more than a few feet, one arm encircling my waist. I had forgotten how fast he could move.
“Everything comes at a price, Emma.” His mouth caressed my ear but his hands were not where they were supposed to be.
“What’s the currency?” I breathed.
“Payment in kind.”
I arched my back as he kissed down my throat but he let go of me suddenly.
“No, no, no – you’ll be the undoing of me, wench; get thee gone.” He drew a hand across his forehead, his eyes tight shut until he felt more in control. I leaned against the kitchen table, reviewing the results of my wanton behaviour.
“Aw, I’m sorry…”
“No you’re not,” he said adamantly, looking at me again.
“No, I’m not,” I agreed, smirking.
He glanced out of the window where the sky began to lighten subtly.
“Come on, get your gear on and I’ll show you what’s out there; I think it’s time you went out to play, young lady.”
“That’s what I thought I was doing,” I said soulfully, allowing myself to be ushered towards the stairs nonetheless.
By the time I had struggled in
to the heavy winter boots that gripped my calves like cramp, donned several more layers of clothing topped by my winter coat, and found my gloves from where I had left them to dry when we arrived, the sun had breached the horizon. Matthew waited with barely restrained impatience by the door to the porch, checking the progress of the sun every few seconds. He didn’t make any pretence of needing outdoor clothes, and he wore the same T-shirt I had happily investigated earlier in the morning.
He had cleared the porch. Remaining ice-dust lay strewn like sand across the wooden boards and he held on to me as I gingerly stepped out into the dawn air. Across the horizon where the snow-smoothed ridges of the mountains touched the sky, the remnants of cloud were no longer a threat to the oncoming brilliance of the day. The beauty of the landscape was as yet unmarked. It was both compelling and intimidating, and I longed to step into it, but the thought of disturbing its tranquillity held me back. Matthew didn’t seem in a hurry to move either.
“I never grow tired of the mountains, although I have seen countless ranges over the centuries. I can lose myself in them; there’s nothing here to measure the minutes of my existence.”
“Are you happiest here, Matthew?”
He looked down at me and took my hand in his. “Sometimes.”
The lack of wind made the air beguiling. He pulled the zip of my jacket right up over my chin and mouth, encasing me in the softly quilted material.
“Ready?” he asked.
Like a sheet on an unmade bed, the swell of snow rose and fell in gentle undulations. I tottered tentatively on the icy platform and took a wide step out on to the snow. It held my weight for all of about five seconds before the crust of wind-compacted ice gave way and I sank to my hips. I stood stock still like a toddler in new boots, and twisted around. Matthew grinned at me from his vantage point of the porch.