by Hayley White
“I don’t normally work this way...”
“You don’t?”
“I usually begin with pencil and paper. I’ve come to enjoy the terrace...”
He glanced at the French doors. It was a bright, temperate day outside. The view of the garden would be pleasant and soothing from her terrace. And, two stories up, where was she likely to flee?
“Alright,” he said and watched as Ever gathered up pencil, paper, clipboard, coffee and cigarettes. She also took a stack of about ten pages of the newly printed manuscript. “To help me get a run in,” she explained and withdrew to the terrace where she settled down at the table.
He observed her through the window a number of minutes, smiling quietly to himself when he saw her finally pick up the pencil and bow over the page.
Within the hour, she returned to the desk and worked at the computer for another hour. Brooke had hoped the ‘block’ was truly broken, but the clicking of computer keys was sporadic and punctuated by pauses, sighs and the angry whispering of her eraser across the handwritten pages. He wondered if the writing process was always fraught with so much passive frustration.
Ever broke off suddenly, startling him. “Did you do my dishes the other night?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I can’t figure out your game.”
“Go back to work.”
Ever turned back to the computer then paused again.
“You must be horribly bored.”
“Not really,” he admitted, “but I am hungry.”
“Me too!” she agreed.
“Oh – you haven’t eaten, have you?”
“It’s okay. I don’t eat breakfast. But I do eat lunch. We could go out for something!”
Brooke got up and approached the desk. He studied the computer screen a moment. There were five lines of text there. Five lines. What a truly agonizing process this must be, he thought grimly.
“‘We’ aren’t going anywhere. I will go out and get something. You will work.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I can chain you to the desk by the ankle, if necessary.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Try me.”
Ever scowled.
“Will you work?”
“Yes,” Ever hissed angrily.
“Good. Where are your keys?”
“My keys?”
He spotted them on the dresser and picked them up on his way to the stairs. “So I can get back in,” he said, dangling them for her to see. Her car key was on that ring and something in his eyes reflected the knowledge.
“You think I would actually run away?”
“Work. I’ll be back soon,” he said, disappearing down the stairs. “And don’t try to cheat! I know exactly where you are in the text.”
“And what are you going to do, whip me?” she called after him.
“I might,” he called back and she heard the front door close.
“The bloody arrogance!” Ever muttered and turned back to the keyboard.
***
Tonight another man present. Something new. Now not just one, but two. To be shared, notes compared. She’d been used, abused, tossed away and forgotten, but not this. Never this.
Now Garrison and Leland. No options, no outs, no choices but to shed blood, sweat and tears for two.
But – he was not the boor Garrison was. Leland. Tall, lean, soft spoken, handsome. Quite handsome. She could pretend he loved her. Maybe that was all, but she could pretend...
***
Lunch was a selection of favorites from the gourmet deli – boxes of melba toast and waterhouse crackers, muenster and blue cheeses, smoked oysters and artichoke hearts, to which Ever added sliced tomatoes, peeled green onions, and two glasses of white wine.
Ever was still in her night clothes, but she’d taken a moment to brush her hair before coming down to eat.
“How’s it going?” Brooke asked.
“It’s slow,” Ever confessed, “but some ideas are taking shape.”
“That’s good. You seem to be, well, struggling. Is it always like that?”
“It can be. It sure can. But sometimes it all comes in a hot rush, almost like a fever.”
“That must be wonderful.”
“Oh, it is. Those are the moments when you know. You must write. Nothing else will...fill the void. Oh, I’m not sure how to explain it.”
“You explain well enough.”
Ever buttered a slice of melba toast, smeared it with blue cheese and topped it with a carefully cut quarter slice of tomato, salt and pepper.
“Brooke—”
Brooke glanced up.
“Thank you.”
He smiled slightly and nodded.
The work seemed to go more smoothly during the afternoon. Brooke cleaned up after lunch and resumed his reading in the easy chair, soothed rather than distracted by Ever’s sighs, key ticking, and soft curses. Every so often she withdrew to the terrace to meditate with a cigarette, but she didn’t have to be coaxed back to the work.
Come seven o’clock she twisted around in her chair.
“Brooke?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got to take a break. Bath. Maybe some dinner. I’ll come right back afterwards, I promise.”
“Alright, go ahead.”
Ever stood up stiffly, but before leaving, she picked up the clipboard and pencil.
“What’s that for?”
“Hey – when you’re hot you’re hot,” she said and headed for the stairs.
Brooke chuckled to himself. He was pleased his tactic seemed to be working, but still, he was perplexed over her state of depression the other night. The muted roar of the plumbing, and its sudden cessation, told him Ever’s bath was drawn and she was probably steeping in its relaxing depths.
He stood up and turned to the book shelf. He searched among the notebooks and finally located a padded blank book with a flowered cloth cover. Opening it, he immediately realized he had chosen correctly.
He didn’t read the whole thing but leafed through to the final entries which stopped abruptly – before Stroud left for Europe. Damn. All but one, dated the day before yesterday.
‘Brooke’s a comfort.’
It amazed him to see she’d written that about him. To be sure, it wouldn’t be the only note she’d made in that book about him, but he hadn’t opened it to get into all that. The answer he sought might be in another book. Her daily journal, perhaps. But invasion of her private world had not been his intention in seeking the book out. He just wanted to know what was wrong. What had made her want to forsake her work?
He was downstairs waiting when Ever came out of the bathroom, dressed only in a flowered, wraparound robe. They worked together, chopping ingredients for Ever’s special sandwiches. Brooke was happy and contented in her company – and somewhat distracted by the sight of her in the robe. She appeared relaxed and lighthearted over dinner, joking and laughing with ease, but she seemed to be preoccupied with the time.
“Why do you keep checking the clock?”
“Oh, well, if Stroud calls on my day off, it’s usually about this time,” she said and a shadow seemed to cloud her eyes.
“Does he call every day?”
“No, and I don’t expect him to.” She stood up and began clearing the table. “Do you want anything more?”
“No. Those are great sandwiches.”
“Yeah. Just right for single living.”
“I’ll take care of the clean up,” Brooke offered. “That is, if you’re ready to get back to work.”
“As a matter of fact, I would like to do a bit more.”
“Go to it.”
Ever worked until eleven before finally calling a halt for the day. Brooke was content to let her quit. She’d put in a sincere effort, which was all he could fairly demand. Actually, he was relieved, because he had not been able to get his mind off the fact that she was still naked
under that robe.
Yet, when Ever switched off the computer and work light and turned from the desk, she looked drained, and Brooke instantly dowsed any ideas of getting her into bed – except to sleep.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, ready to take his leave.
“You’re determined to see this through, aren’t you?” she questioned with a slight smile.
“Most definitely. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”
“I thought you were staying.”
“I can stay in the guest room in the other house.”
He thought he saw that shadow in Ever’s eyes again. “I am kind of tired,” she said.
“I know.”
“But I’d like it if you stayed with me...”
***
Garrison strutting, peacock proud, in his heavy boots. Leland, all in black, seated, ankle crossed over knee. She, bare and knelt on her small mat on the stone flagging, discussed as the used, discarded object she was.
Leland had remarked upon her astounding complicity. Garrison’s grating laughter filled the chamber.
“One who is owned has no choice.”
Leland had not understood, but Garrison had gladly boasted, “She serves me out of devotion to a desperate lover who put her up on a poor wager.”
Thus, the heretofore denied truth was at last confirmed. And, had she but one bitter tear left to shed, that would have been the moment.
She burned under Garrison’s wine glazed eye.
“And so, she is mine, until a man is clever enough to top my wit in a gamble.”
He swung extravagantly on his guest.
“Are you a betting man?”
Leland, whose glass was still half full, had answered, “I have never acquired anything of value on a gamble.”
And Garrison laughed again.
Leland visited with more frequency from that time forward, and it seemed he looked and acted upon her with more sympathy – and upon her master with less...
***
Ever was standing, gazing through the terrace door when Brooke came up after drying the lunch dishes on Monday afternoon. From all indications, the morning’s writing had gone well. He was very optimistic that the barrier between Ever and her work had been eradicated. He was still flush with his success in getting her started again, and warmed by the memory of the sweet, platonic comfort they had shared throughout the night.
“You’re not working,” he admonished playfully.
Ever’s silence, rather than eliciting further scolding, caused Brooke to pause.
“Ever? What is it?”
“He’s not coming back, is he?”
“Stroud?” he asked, suddenly catching her meaning.
“Europe’s his true home. He won’t want to return here, now that he’s been back.”
Brooke took one indecisive step toward her.
“I doubt that very much,” he said.
“There’s really nothing here for him. He only came to this country to escape his sorrow. To heal. Now that he’s home, he’ll feel... restored. And there’s Nicole...”
“Nicole?”
Ever turned half to him. “Who is she, Brooke?”
“I - I’m sorry, Ever. I don’t really know much about it.”
“He’s never mentioned her to you?”
“Yes, but I never gave it much thought...”
Ever’s mouth compressed. Her head bowed slightly and somehow Brooke found himself standing before her, her small, fragile shoulders braced in his large hands.
“Ever, I’m quite sure you’re wrong about Stroud.”
She shook her bowed head in a manner that made even Brooke doubt. The tension of suppressed sobs collected in her shoulders and Brooke finally understood the fears that had been plaguing her.
“I’m sure you’re wrong,” he said again. “But understand this – whatever happens, you will not be abandoned. I promise you.”
Ever’s shoulders quaked with silent weeping and, as she leaned toward him, Brooke found himself embracing her, his hand pressing her head tightly to his breast.
***
Brooke was alarmed by Ever’s outburst. He was distressed and angry. Angry with Stroud for allowing Ever to fall into this pit of depression and uncertainty. She didn’t deserve it.
And he was angry with himself. The situation made him examine the shabbiness of his own past behavior with the women he’d known. How blasé he had been. How cavalier. A selfish, insensitive cad.
He looked at this situation with Ever and saw how Stroud had removed her from everything that was familiar to her. Ensconced her in his own little kingdom, saddling her with the responsibility of watching over his household while he went off to Europe, possibly the arms of another woman, leaving Ever with nothing but doubt as to his true feelings or intentions.
Could he really have been so wrong in his interpretation of Stroud’s feelings for Ever? As if he was a judge of such things!
Well, what Stroud was doing now was blatantly wrong. It was cruel and cowardly, and he ought to tell Stroud he thought so. He should certainly call and tell him so.
But he didn’t. Never even lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle.
***
Evening. Her master’s sitting room. Leland present, but not in the customary role of pampered guest. Garrison’s wine, refused. Food, refused. She, too. Declined with a look. A new look.
Few words. A document tendered, studied by the recipient in darkening silence. Message and messenger understood. The chain dropped from Garrison’s quaking hand.
Eruptions. Boiling lava. Storms of fire and rock. Furniture upturned. She, dismissed – not by the railing Garrison, but by a glance from the messenger. Not for her ears, Garrison’s flood of vitriol.
She retreated along the worn path of footprints to the place most familiar, her master’s voice following in echoes. Futile accusations, insults, threats. Rage enough to slam the cell door behind her. The key on Garrison’s ring…
But Garrison was no longer the issue. Leland was.
Garrison did not think she could see or hear. And perhaps he did not think she could feel. Or remember. But memory was her only servant...
Leland’s eyes, the first time he had looked upon her. The tone in which he addressed his host. His touch, the first time Garrison invited him to handle her.
As swiftly as that, the die was cast. Garrison had opted to share her. To flaunt his power. It had been a mistake. She saw, heard and felt what Garrison had not. In memory, this intelligence had been stored. Nurtured.
There had been abuses since then. Leland had acted in tandem with the brutalities of the master of ceremonies. To prove courtesy. Comradeship. She had endured it.
Leland. A man with more than power. He had fooled Garrison but not her. For two long years he had been leveraging against his gracious host. Increment by increment. Now the trump was played. She, once more, the trophy.
Once beyond the influence of Garrison, Leland would not force her. But he had won her. Long ago. He would accept her, if she turned to him. She had known it from the start.
The veil was now lifted. The enemy revealed. Victory proclaimed. The locks would open. The key to this chamber and its ward, no longer property of the master of this house.
She waited, knowing. It would be Leland who came for her. Yes. Already the bars were melting. Reflection, unimpeded. Course, unimpeded, to an open heart that had fought for, and now waited to welcome her.
Chapter Thirty One
Ever hurried to the study to catch the phone before the machine picked up. A voice, any human voice would be welcome. This house had become such a mausoleum.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Ever! I’m so glad I caught you there! There was no answer on your line.”
“Stroud, what is it?”
“Ever, I think I’ve found a publisher!”
“A publisher?”
“For your book!”
“In... Paris?”
“London, actually.”
“But I always thought... I’d publish here.”
“Nicole got me this number.”
“Nicole, you say?”
“She’s in PR, you know.”
No. Ever didn’t know.
“I just spoke to him and he’s interested – very interested in seeing your work. Is the manuscript ready?”
“A... yes. Well, I mean it’s finished. I don’t know about ready…”
“It doesn’t matter at this point if it isn’t completely polished. Knowing what a perfectionist you are, you’d probably never feel it was ready.”
Perfectionist? Is that how he saw her?
“Ever?”
“I’m here.”
“This could be a wonderful opportunity for you. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Right,” she muttered, still trying to catch up.
“His name is Charles Merchant. Let me give you his number. Put the call on my account.”
Ever was searching the surface of the desk for the pencil. Damn, it wasn’t here! She must have inadvertently walked off with it during one of her writing frenzies.
“Ever?”
“Yes, yes. Just a minute…”
She jerked open the middle drawer of the desk, madly shifting things about in search of something that would write. Cards, notes, paper clips, pencil!
“Okay, got it. What’s the number?” She wrote it on Stroud’s blotter.
“Call him,” Stroud urged. “He’s very anxious to hear from you.”
Ever’s mind was spinning.
“Have you got it?”
“Yes. Stroud, you’re sure about this?”
“If I didn’t believe the offer was genuine, I wouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s a very reputable house.”
“Alright.”
“Call him, then package up the manuscript and send it.”
“Alright,” Ever said, her eye caught by something in the open drawer. “I will...”
It was a picture. When she hung up with Stroud, Ever picked it out of the drawer.
A snapshot of a woman. Younger than Ever. Pretty, pert. Shining auburn hair cut just so. Very chic. Smiling with the warmth of summer sunshine.
Ever flipped the photo. ‘Monaco. Last Spring. Love, Nicole.’ Love, Nicole. Ever’s hand flexed with the desire to crush the photograph. She dropped it back in the drawer. Closed the drawer. Love, Nicole.