Liberating Mr. Gable, Part One

by Sophia Derobe

  “I feel much better now. I don’t…I don’t like crowds. Or the cold, apparently.”

  “Me and Vera were a crowd?”

  “No. But you never know when one’s coming. It could be just a normal day, and then out of nowhere, hundreds of people are swarming around you.” He glanced at the window, as if mentioning a crowd might conjure one.

  Etta eyed him curiously. “Huh. LA’s weird, then. That doesn’t really happen up here.”

  “Promise?” he asked uncertainly, looking over his shoulder at the door to make sure it was shut tight.

  Etta put down her fork and kicked her legs down on the empty chair nearest her. “Anson, look at me.” She waited until his gaze that had grown suddenly wary settled on her. “You can relax here. You’re in a safe place. Population’s like, fifty on the mountain if you don’t count the renters. Not even the possibility of hundreds swarming around you.” She sized him up before speaking her piece. “Are you agoraphobic? Is that why you took those pills?”

  Anson lost the taste for his last bite of eggs. “I’ve been trying to go off my meds, but social situations make that…difficult.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She reached for his empty plate, noticing his lack of the flinch she was growing accustomed to. “For what it’s worth, you can be yourself here, whoever that is. Anson. Oscar. Superman. Whoever.”

  Anson put on an unconvincing smile. “Well, all three of me are getting a little tired. I think I’m going to turn in, if that’s alright.”

  Etta nodded. “Of course. See you in the morning.” Etta tried not to think about the newcomer as she did the dishes and straightened things that needed no cleaning. She packaged up and set the last of the cooled quiches in the fridge before turning out the kitchen light. Etta shuffled into the hallway, bypassing her bedroom and moving to the off-limits office.

  The small room had not been used for its proper purpose in some time. Her grandfather’s things were still on his desk, complete with a glass of evaporated water she could not bring herself to remove. Some small part of him – his DNA, at least – remained there as long as his office stayed untouched. She could still smell his aftershave in the air if she used her imagination and focused her complete concentration on her olfactory sense. She took in a deep, soul-drenching breath and shut the door tight. Though it was past midnight, she knew she would not find rest in her bedroom.

  The paintbrushes were always waiting for her, never leaving her alone in her sorrows. Etta entered the room next to Papa’s office that was off-limits to visitors and shut the door behind her. Her office was far smaller than Papa’s, but she used the space wisely. Since the incident, she mostly used it as her own personal art studio, shutting the demons in the quaint room when they grew to be too much.

  Acrylics, watercolors and pastels greeted her in their understanding hues that did not ask her how she was holding up. They knew. There were no words. Fine? Etta doubted anything would be fine ever again, but she willed it to be true with every utterance.

  She picked up a thick brush and began mixing colors. Again, she painted a portrait of her grandfather. They always started out with the intent of him posing serenely, but they never ended that way. Night after night, Etta painted pictures of the man who raised and loved her as she had last seen him. Dead, sunken-in eyes, and bits of flesh missing that wolves ripped off before she found his body. The image plagued her, though she never told Cooper about it. No one knew how Henri Brossetta had been discovered by his granddaughter. The coroner was not from the area, and the cop that was on duty was a stranger from the town at the foot of the mountain. Etta insisted on a cremation, saving the townspeople from remembering the beloved man the way she now did.

  The late night snack churned in her stomach – the first real meal she had eaten in days – and Etta knew she would not finish the painting before her dinner came back up. She shut the office door and darted to the bathroom down the hall. She bowed on her knees, vomiting and crying as quietly as she could. She hoped the fan would mask some of the sound and smell of her indiscretion. The heaviness of the eggs made her sweat. She choked each bite back up, wishing she had foregone Anson’s victory celebration at making his very first skillet of scrambled eggs.

  When she had the flu, Papa would put her in bed and make her tea and dry toast. He would sit with her until her fever broke, sometimes playing cards with her, and sometimes watching his favorite movies for the hundredth time with his granddaughter. Tonight she was alone, and wish as she might that things were different, Papa would not come for her again.

  When it seemed there was nothing left for her to throw up, Etta brushed the bile from her teeth and rinsed out her mouth. Then she rested her forehead against the cool tile of the floor and attempted to cry out the last of her tears. It was the same ritual every night, but there never seemed to be a permanent mend to her leaky tear ducts or broken heart.

  Etta cried until she fell asleep curled up on the thick rug that served as her bed several times in the past two months. She prayed that when she awoke, her world would magically have righted itself, and the portraits of her grandfather would show a different fate.

  Chapter Seven

  Bonding in Bed

  The doors opening and closing upstairs did not wake Etta, nor did the calling of her name or the knock on the bathroom door. It was Anson’s exclamation of horror that roused Etta to a dreary wakefulness. “Turn the light off,” she groaned.

  Anson did not obey, nor did he lower his voice to a respectable volume. “What’s wrong? Did I give you food poisoning? I told you I’d never made eggs before!”

  “I’m fine,” Etta garbled, and then turned over on the green shag rug in an attempt to shut her guest and the world out.

  “I’m so sorry!” Anson’s tone was mournful. “How do I call a doctor? Can I take you to the ER or something?”

  Etta only curled herself into a ball, hoping this was all a dream, and that she was not discovered passed out on the floor of her bathroom by a tenant. She closed her eyes, willing the darkness to take her under so she could find sleep that was restful for once.

  She was hoping she had achieved just that when she felt herself being scooped up and carried down the hallway. Her covers magically pulled themselves back, and her hair draped over the pillow she had been avoiding because it refused her rest too many nights in a row. “Don’t tell,” she murmured. “Don’t tell Cooper. He can’t handle it.”

  “Etta, you’re burning up. What can I do? I don’t know where we are! My phone doesn’t work up here, and your landline’s down. Wake up and tell me what to do!”

  A few minutes later, a cool cloth rested across her forehead. The tension that had been building in her disoriented state began to dissipate as she cooed her relief. Some immeasurable amount of time passed, and Etta felt her shoulders being propped up and a cup being pressed to her lips. She drank obediently before drifting off into unconsciousness again.

  Hours passed before Etta’s eyes opened on their own accord. The room spun, coaxing a groan from her parched mouth. Movement from the chair that sat at her desk by the side of the bed alerted her to the fact that she was not alone. “Goodness gracious!” she exclaimed, pulling her covers up further.

  Anson Gable woke with a start, nearly falling out of the wooden chair Etta’s grandfather made her for her sixteenth birthday. “You’re awake! Are you okay?”

  Etta’s face scrunched up in confusion. “What…what’s going on? Why are you in my room?” she questioned the stranger warily.

  “I found you passed out on the bathroom floor with a fever. You were delirious, so I brought you to your bed. Must’ve fallen asleep. I don’t know how to take care of a sick person!” he admitted.

  “I’m not sick,” Etta insisted, sitting up straighter once she realized with relief that she was fully clothed.

  “I’m pretty sure I gave you food poisoning with my cooking. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll never cook again, I swear!”

  Etta ru
bbed her forehead and reached for the glass of water on her nightstand. She was surprised when Anson handed it to her, not bothering to maintain the usual two feet of space he seemed to require. She took a sip, coming back to herself a little more. “I’m fine now. Thanks.”

  “But you look awful!”

  “You don’t look so stunning yourself, first thing in the morning.” It was a lie, but she owned the statement without apology. Anson was attractive, even with his haphazard hair and disheveled clothing.

  His voice quieted. “I heard you throwing up last night. Are you…are you pregnant? Is that why you didn’t want me to call Cooper?”

  Etta was horrified when tears burst forth from her, surprising both of them with their ready appearance at the first sign of distress. “I’m sorry!” Etta fretted, hiding her face under her comforter, wishing she could melt beneath the fabric and never have to own up to the embarrassing display.

  “I can call him if you just give me his number. It looks pretty bad out, but maybe it just looks bad to me. I’m sure he’ll come right over.”

  “No!” she called from under the covers. “Don’t call anyone! I’m fine. Just have the flu.”

  “Etta,” Anson scolded her gently. “Morning sickness is normal. My sister had it a ton with her kid.”

  “I’m not pregnant!” she protested, crying afresh. It took her a full minute to stuff the emotions back where they came from and quiet her outburst. “I’m not pregnant,” she stated quietly, finally peeling back the blanket from her face to peer at the man who tended to her so sweetly. “Thank you for being nice to me. I’m so sorry that this is your vacation. I thought I could handle a renter, but it’s too soon. Coop was right. I can’t do this!”

  Anson said nothing, but sized up her outburst as he thought. He handed her the glass of water again before disappearing into the kitchen. He came back with a mug filled with hot water and a tea bag. He watched her sip the contents tentatively. “Did I do it right?”

  Etta nodded and offered up her gratitude, not mentioning that water for tea was supposed to be heated in the kettle, not poured from the tap. “It’s perfect. I’m so sorry, Anson.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I’m not a renter, remember? Don’t be so hard on yourself. I kept you up too late.” He looked up at the ceiling, groaning with self-loathing. “I gave food poisoning to a girl who says Jiminy Cricket. I poisoned a pregnant woman! I’m scum.”

  Etta sat up straighter and handed him the tea. “Were you throwing up, Anson?”

  “No.”

  “We ate the same thing last night, so it’s not that. You didn’t yell at a pregnant woman. And trust me, there are far worse things than Jiminy Cricket swarming around up in my head right now, so don’t worry about it.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not pregnant. I was, but I’m not anymore.”

  Anson’s mouth fell open. “You lost your baby? Was it Cooper’s? Is that why he’s so protective?”

  Etta scoffed. “No. I’ve never slept with Coop. Gross! Why would you even think that? It’s been a rough few months for me. Nothing you want to hear about, and nothing that talking about it’s going to change. Thanks for picking me up off the floor, though. That was decent of you. I know how you don’t like to be touched. That must have been a big decision for you, so thanks.”

  Anson ran his hand through his black hair, messing it further. “I didn’t use to be like this,” he admitted.

  “Neither did I.” Etta managed a weak smile. They stared into the other’s eyes, a mutual appreciation beginning to bloom.

  “Who did you used to be before it all went south?” he inquired quietly.

  Etta thought on his question a moment. “You know? I barely remember, and it was only a few months ago. So much has changed since then. You?”

  “I was a lot more normal as a kid. It wasn’t until a few years ago that everything exploded for me. It was supposed to be a good thing. Some days I can see the bright spots, but most of the time, I’m miserable.” He met Etta’s weary gaze, relishing the acceptance there. “But you’re right. I don’t like to be touched anymore. I noticed how you caught onto that last night and gave me a little space. Shopping for me. Not calling me out on it all. Thanks for that.” Anson smiled – a welcome change to the dismal mood of the room. “Let’s be honest, you did most of the cooking last night.”

  Etta shook her head. “You did a very good job. I barely helped at all.”

  “You’re a nice person,” he observed. “And psychic, apparently.”

  “Huh?”

  He pointed to her window, which had snow touching the base of the pane. The morning sun danced on the tall banks, making it shine like it had flecks of glitter sprinkled on top. “It kept coming down all night. I can’t imagine what kind of truck could drive through this.” He took the mug from her and set it on the nightstand. “I know this is more than you signed up for, having me here this long.”

  “You haven’t been here a whole day, yet. You’ve hardly overstayed your welcome. I don’t mind the company. Maybe we could start over?” she suggested hopefully. “I could not be the slobbering mess on the bathroom floor, and you could be whoever you need to be right now.”

  “That’s fine by me. But you’re still the girl with a fever or the flu or something, so I vote you rest.”

  Etta sighed. “I’m not contagious or anything. I just haven’t been eating or sleeping much. Being pregnant and then not was jarring enough. Like I said, it’s been a long couple of months. But you don’t have to worry about getting sick around me or anything.”

  “You want to go back to sleep?”

  “No. I’m fine. Tons of stuff to take care of.”

  “Like what? What can I do?”

  Etta shook her head. “You can enjoy your vacation. Work is for me. Rest is for you.” She removed the comforter and swung her legs off the bed. She paused when she took in her feet clad in only her blue and white striped socks. “You took off my shoes for me,” she marveled, looking up at him in unmasked wonder.

  “I was the perfect gentleman, I swear. I just have a mild foot fetish,” he joked.

  “Ha.” Etta stood too quickly, which was a mistake. “Goodness gracious!” Her head swam and her knees buckled, sending her plunging toward the wood floor.

  Anson did not think of his dislike for being touched. It did not register how rarely he permitted contact. His arms went around her, saving her from passing out on the floor, yet again. She was conscious, as evidenced by her fluttering eyelashes. “Etta,” he breathed tenderly. The moment where Anson could have easily released her came and went, but still he held onto her, clutching her thinned frame. “Sweet Etta. I think you need a little vacation, first.”

  He lifted her legs and gently laid her back on the bed, tucking the comforter around her waist. Anson handed her the water, helping her hold the cup. He observed her carefully as she sipped. His hand lifted without his permission and brushed away a loose strand of chocolate-colored hair from her forehead. He froze when he realized what he was doing.

  “Thank you,” Etta whispered, blinking her dark eyelashes bashfully. “I’m so sorry. I keep making you have to touch me.”

  Anson released a smirk, leaning close enough so she could feel his breath on her face. “Well, goodness gracious,” he teased. “For some reason, with you, I don’t mind so much.”

  Etta cringed when she felt the traitorous blush heat her cheeks. “I…I…I’m glad.” She touched her cheek with the back of her hand to cool it down.

  “Are you?” he inquired, taking a seat on the foot of the bed casually, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. As if his neurosis never existed. As if he was the kind of man who lived the life he should have been living this whole time. He found her foot under the blanket and tugged lightly on her big toe.

  “Watch it, fetishist,” Etta warned with a timid smile.

  He did not release her toe, but played with it as if it belonged to him – as if she belonged with him. “Are
you with it enough to try eating something?”

  “Sure,” Etta said with a nod. “I’ll make us some breakfast.”

  He stood before she even pulled back the covers. Anson’s hand on her shoulder was filled with electricity, even as he pressed her back against the headboard. “Not so fast. I’ll bring you something. It won’t do to have you passing out in every room of the house.”

  “I don’t want you to wait on me,” she argued, dismayed.

  “I don’t mind. What else am I supposed to do? No internet, no phone, can’t get on ‘the facebook’. Might as well feed you before you go fainting over my good looks again.”

  Etta sniggered, giving him a halfhearted shove. “You don’t cook!”

  “I think you’re forgetting that I made from scratch an entire quiche last night,” he called over his shoulder as he moved into the kitchen. “Good looks and a stunning cook? No wonder you’re trying to get me into bed.”

  “Anson Gable!” Etta gasped, feigning shock at his presumption.

  He rummaged around in her cupboards, collecting the appropriate tools to assemble the morning meal. He called into the next room with a smile that could be heard in his light tone. “If you called me Anson Clark Gable, you’d sound just like my nanny.”

  “That’s a sweet name. Very respectable.”

  “Come on, now. Even trade. What’s yours?” His query was greeted with silence. “Etta?” he called. When no sound came from her room, Anson darted back to her. “Etta!”

  “Jiminy Cricket! What?” she exclaimed, surprised at his outburst.

  “I thought you passed out again. You got all quiet on me. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine. I just didn’t want to tell you my name,” she admitted.

  His concern melted into a smile that was becoming easier to access in her presence. “Well, there are no secrets between lovers. I mean, you did let me suck on your toes last night.” He leaned on the doorframe and faked intimidation for her amusement. “Out with it. Etta what?”