by Teri Harman
“I am lucky and I’ll take it.”
“Of course you will. I already picked up the keys.” Abby dug into her purse and threw the key ring to him. He caught it easily, looking down at the single brown key. A new apartment. This is serious. A rush of nerves tightened his throat. He slipped the key into his pocket.
Abby crossed over to him. “You got any money for furniture?”
“Yes, ma’am, a little. Ronnie gave me an advance on my first check. But all I need is a bed.”
“And a couch, coffee table. And a desk. Can’t write without a desk.”
“Abby, I told you …”
“Blah, blah. I know what you told me. I’m still bringing that beautiful typewriter over here first thing tomorrow.”
Henry pressed his teeth together. He knew she meant well, and after all she’d done for him, he couldn’t hurt her feelings with a protest. “Okay. Well, where does one buy a desk, a bed, and a couch in Silent Fields?”
“Clive’s Furniture on Main Street. But first, I’m starving. How about some dinner?”
n
Abby stopped outside the large picture window of a small diner. “Welcome to The Mad Hash,” she announced. “Best food in town. It’s owned by Bob Meekam, a retired banker turned biker turned chef. So please ignore all the cheesy motorcycle memorabilia.”
Henry laughed as he hobbled over to the door, his big boot cast making his steps awkward. He opened it for Abby. The small eatery was decorated with brushed-metal tables and chairs, a black-and-white tile floor, and an odd collection of vintage motorcycle memorabilia, just as Abby had warned. It all felt a little out of place for what Henry had seen of Silent Fields, but he liked it instantly. He smiled at the smell of deep-fried goodness. A young hostess dressed in a tank top and mini skirt flashed them a big smile. “Hey, Abby, nice to see you.”
“Hey, Pam,” Abby answered.
Pam’s heavily painted eyes moved to Henry. “And you must be Henry, the new editor.” Her smile grew. “Sit anywhere you like.”
Henry smiled shyly, nodding without actually looking at the hostess. “Thanks,” he mumbled. Her smile increased, and she flipped her long fake-blonde hair off her shoulder.
Henry led the way to a table near the back. Abby grunted as she eased her body into the booth. “That pretty young hostess has got her eye on you, son.”
Henry shook his head, color rising to his freckled cheeks again. He opened his menu to hide his face. Abby had taken to calling him son more and more over the last weeks. At first it made him uncomfortable, but now Henry found it endearing. She and Gill had never had any children of their own, and since Henry was an orphan, he enjoyed the way she treated him like family, like her own. It was nice to feel owned.
Abby’s bulbous, stout fingers appeared over the top of the menu, pulling it down. “So?”
“So what?” he said, laying the menu on the table.
“You gonna ask her out?”
“No, ma’am. I am not.” His face was now as hot and red as sunburn.
Abby smiled knowingly. “There’s nothing wrong with a little fun, Henry. If anyone deserves it, it’s you. And you live here now. Gotta get to know people, right?”
Henry moved his eyes to the front of the room where Pam was vigorously wiping a table, bent forward, certain personal items almost falling out of her tank top. Turning back, he said, “Not really my type.” And how could someone as broken as him take anyone into his life? There was also the worry that there had been someone during those six years. The woman who had written For Henry in Winston’s book. Where was she? Was she looking for him? He wanted to look for her, but didn’t have a place to start.
“And what is your type? Every single gal in this town will soon be panting on the sidelines. What’s wrong? Someone back in Detroit?” Abby raised her gray eyebrows, opening wide her weak tea eyes. She hadn’t pressed him much about his life before knocking on her door and for that he was grateful.
“Not that,” Henry said flatly, trying to keep his emotions out of his voice. He looked at Pam again. “I’m sure Pam’s a nice girl, but nothing about her is attractive to me.”
“Well, keep those dazzling eyes open. Maybe one will be attractive to you and you can start doing more than reading and watching TV with an old woman.”
Henry blushed again, offering a noncommittal shrug as his only answer. “Speaking of all the time we’ve been spending together,” Henry deftly changed the subject. “I’m sure Gill is happy to have me gone.” Gill had not warmed to Henry in the least. In fact, Henry was pretty sure Gill hated him more now than the night he knocked on their door. The cantankerous old man wouldn’t even look at him without scowling. He wondered how someone as sweet and giving as Abby had ended up with someone as brash and nasty as Gill.
“Oh, he’s thrilled. But don’t let that get to you. He’s … Gill.” A resigned shrug. “Nothing makes him happy.” Abby frowned and looked down at her menu.
An older waitress named Pearl stopped at the table to take their orders. As Henry handed her back his menu, his eyes caught on a woman sitting at a booth in the opposite corner. Her face was hidden behind a paperback novel, an empty plate on the table in front of her. Under the table, her short legs were crossed, the one on top bouncing lazily, her long white lacy skirt fluttering. She was alone.
Abby said something, but her voice sounded far away. Henry’s chest suddenly ached fiercely, contracting and expanding all at once. He bent forward, trying to pull in a breath, but the air felt as dense and scratchy as sand. The woman lowered her book to take a drink of soda and their eyes locked instantly.
His heart pounded uncomfortably, his whole body filled with the rich dark color of her big round eyes, the smooth texture of her tanned skin, and silkiness of her long black hair. He’d never seen anyone like her. Her body was small and compact, like a cat, but not a domestic animal—a wild one, powerful and graceful. She was most certainly beautiful, but not in the way of other women. Her features were sharper, as if everyone else were slightly out of focus. And the way she looked at him—she glowed with sumptuous energy.
The dark hair. Was this the same woman he’d seen leaving Abby’s a couple weeks ago? The pie woman?
The sweating cup in her hand slipped, tipped, and spilled soda all over the table. It dripped off the cliff of the table onto her white skirt. She didn’t move her gaze from Henry’s. When her pink lips parted, he heard the gasp as if it were the only sound in the busy restaurant.
Someone stepped in the electric path of their eyes, severing the connection. Air rushed into Henry’s lungs as razor pain flared under his skin.
“Henry? Henry, you better not be having a heart attack!” Abby’s voice was now loud next to his face, edged with concern. He blinked, turned to look at her leaning across the table. Her hand was on his arm—he didn’t know when she had put it there. “Henry?” she asked again, voice strained.
“I … I’m fine,” he managed as he blinked, shook his head. His chest still throbbed. He pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum.
Abby narrowed her eyes at his chest. “Liar. We better call Dr. Wells.”
Henry lowered his hand, moved his eyes back to where the woman had been. The booth was empty, the soda still dripping onto the tile. She’d left her book and the soda was seeping into the edges of the pages. Panic rushed up his throat. “Where did she go?” he blurted out as he twisted in his seat to look for her.
“Who? Where did who go?” Abby asked. She looked around the room. “You’re not making any sense, son.”
“The woman!” he stammered. “Sitting right there.” He pointed to the empty booth, fighting the urge to jump up and run out into the street after her. Calm down. Don’t make a scene! “She left her book,” he added quietly.
Pearl came back with drinks. “Pearl, who was sitting over there? I didn’t see,” Abby asked hopefully, ready to help solve Henry’s problem.
Pearl turned. “Just Matilda. First time she’s been in since
she got back. Did you hear she’s running from an abusive boyfriend?” She shook her head disapprovingly and turned. With a huff, she added, “And I guess she ain’t never heard of napkins!” Pearl rushed away to wipe up the soda.
Abby took Henry’s hand. “Your hands are cold.” She pursed her lips. “Come on now. Talk to me.” She tugged a little on his hand and he pulled his eyes from the search for the woman. Matilda. “What happened? Why did seeing Matilda upset you so much?”
Embarrassment rushed to his cheeks. “No, it didn’t. It’s nothing. I just … I thought …”
Abby leaned closer and lowered her voice. “If you’re not well …” Her eyes widened.
“No, no.” Henry scoffed. He put his hand on top of hers, sandwiching it. “I’m okay. Really. She just … looked like someone I used to know.” He shook his head, knowing that wasn’t right, but he wanted to give Abby something. “Who is she—Matilda? Is she the one who brought the pies?”
Abby nodded. “Yes. Fantastic cook. Learned that from her Aunt Jetty. Matilda is one of our librarians. Sweet girl. Really knows her books; one of the best librarians we’ve had. She’s had a rough time of it lately though. Poor thing.”
His eyes moved over to the booth again. Pearl wiped the soda from the table and floor with a dingy white towel. She picked up the book. “Pearl?” Henry called out, an odd itch of urgency burning in his gut.
She walked over. “Yeah, Henry?”
Did everyone know his name? “I’ll take her book.” He nodded toward it. Pearl looked confused. “I’ll see her at work on Monday. I’ll return it to her.”
“Oh, right. Here ya go.” Pearl handed him the book and went off.
Henry’s fingers burned where he touched the paperback; he gripped it tightly. The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris. Henry laughed out loud. “Not what I was expecting,” he said, turning the book to show Abby, who smiled.
“Matilda is many things people don’t expect.” Abby smiled, pleased.
Henry’s smile spread. He looked back at the book. It was one of his personal favorites: bizarre, gruesome, and also somehow beautiful. He’d make sure to ask her what she thought of it when he returned it. He tilted the book to look at the soda-soaked pages, already rippling as they dried.
“Henry?” Abby asked, her eyes intent on his face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He met Abby’s eyes. “I’m fine.” Abby frowned. “Really. Forget it. I don’t want to ruin our dinner.” Reluctantly, he set the book down on the bench next to his leg. A flash of warmth moved down the limb.
Abby’s frown stayed and her eyes narrowed as she evaluated him. Finally, her expression softened. “Okay, then. If you’re really sure?”
Henry exhaled. “Yes. I’m fine. Really. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be sorry.” She smiled her grandma-smile. Henry felt a pulse of comfort. Not enough though to completely erase the odd feelings still simmering in his chest. He had to fight not to look away, to search again.
What just happened?
He couldn’t wait until Monday.
Matilda
Matilda was out of The Mad Hash and two blocks away before she stopped to take a full breath. When an empty iron bench outside Estelle’s Bakery came into view, she threw herself down, pulling air into her fluttering lungs.
The wet spots of soda on her skirt were cold against her leg. Her purse was heavy on her shoulder. The air smelled of cake.
What just happened?
Looking straight ahead, out at the narrow two-lane road, Matilda saw only the man’s face. He looked like something from an old movie with his long, masculine architecture and explosion of youthful freckles on pale, creamy skin. His dusty-blond hair was a casual mess on his head, unkempt and shaggy, as if that morning he’d simply ran a hand back through it and easily went on with life, unconcerned. And his eyes … it wasn’t so much the color of them—she wasn’t sure if they were green or hazel—but the way he had looked at her. It wasn’t looking, it was more like … devouring. He’d consumed everything about her in an instant.
Her skin felt raw.
She tugged at the sleeves of her cardigan, tucking the ends into her fists. Closing her eyes, she felt the race of her heart and wondered what he’d tasted with those enigmatic eyes.
A loud truck rumbled past, breaking her thoughts. Her eyes dropped to her skirt. She blinked at the quaint red-brick pavers of the sidewalk. Everything about downtown Silent Fields was quaint, charming. Tree-lined streets, rows of well-maintained shops, fresh air. She touched the wet stain.
No. No, I can’t have this.
Mortified, she realized she’d left her soda spilling onto the floor and ran out of the diner as if it were on fire. She’d also left her book behind. Good thing she had already paid. Swearing under her breath, Matilda looked back down the street in the direction of The Mad Hash. She couldn’t go back for the book—at least not right now. Had anyone seen her flee the diner? The last thing she needed was more undue attention. Things were just beginning to calm down. Stories about her having some kind of freak emotional moment in the diner would only stir up the rumor whirlwind again.
She looked up and down the street, searching for the stares and whispers. Did you hear about Matilda’s weird mad dash from The Mad Hash? Something really weird is going on with her. She shouldn’t have come back. Also, when she walks that fast, she looks like Long John Silver with that limp! Poor thing. It’s a miracle Parker dated her at all.
Matilda exhaled, dropped her chin to her chest.
What power did this stranger have? When her eyes had met his, her blood had floated in her veins, defying gravity. Her head had spun with dizziness and every muscle tensed, ready to get up and run over to him. Begging her to.
Like something out of Winston’s book.
Matilda stood slowly, adjusted her purse strap, and then started walking, sluggishly. Something was wrong with this day. First the nightmares, then cleaning out Jetty’s room. Touching all her keepsakes, each wafting with memories. Bagging up most of her clothes. Sweeping dead spiders out from under her fairytale bed.
Now, this stranger and her head spinning with his freckled face.
He had leaned his body toward her in those potent few seconds. She’d felt his body shift toward her as if he’d been sitting right next to her.
What did he feel when he looked at me?
The question almost stalled her stride, but she pushed on. She needed to get home to the safety of the house, to the privacy and protection of its quiet rooms.
Fumbling slightly, Matilda unlocked the front door and plowed into the living room. She tossed her bag onto the couch and dropped into the comfy blue gingham armchair. The room was silent expect for the ticking of the mantel clock. She set her mind to finding a reason for the episode with the stranger. All that came was a picture of him sitting in the booth, his long legs and knees nearly touching the underside of the table. When she wondered just how much taller he was than her, Matilda huffed in frustration. Her eyes moved to the typewriter.
I’m losing my mind.
The typewriter had been sitting there since that first day of this bizarre, broken second life. She’d barely looked at it, though she could feel its presence almost every moment of the day. It sat there, as if watching and waiting.
Now, thinking of the stranger, she heard keystrokes in her head, echoing and haunting. Bravely, she reached out to touch the cool, smooth keys. Her stomach tightened. She pulled back her hand. Suddenly, she was heavily sad, the feeling pressing on her chest.
After a long breath, she looked around the room. “Jetty,” she called out, “are you there?” When no answer came, she shook her head, angry with herself. She stood, full of purpose. “There has to be something else to clean or fix in this place.”
Henry
The bedside clock read four-thirty in the morning. Henry squinted at it, the green digital numbers glaringly bright in the darkness of his room. For a moment, he listened to
the lonely quiet. Sleep had teased him all night, tucking him into its arms and then shoving him awake with disturbing images of running down dark snowy streets, fear an insistent pursuer. And this woman, Matilda, standing in the shadows, always just beyond his reach. Now his body felt achy, antsy. With a frustrated sigh, he pushed the covers back and sat up. His ankle hurt, but he ignored it.
Henry pulled a random T-shirt from the brown leather couch where he’d dumped his box of stuff earlier, and tugged it on, pulling it down over his cotton pajama pants. He went to the window and lifted the blinds to look down into the empty gray street. He tried to tell himself that his trouble sleeping was due to being in his new apartment for the first time and not his inexplicable encounter with the librarian.
The lie didn’t take.
At his feet was his box of books. A few had been upended and tossed into puddles thanks to the accident, but the police had been thorough. Every one accounted for, if some were a little worse for wear. There were so few compared to what he used to have.
He missed the books he used to have.
Buying books was his only indulgence, and he’d acquired an impressive library since his eighteenth birthday and emancipation from The System. Most of his Saturdays had been spent visiting any and all bookstores within a hundred miles. He never came home empty handed, even in the days when money had been sparse. He’d rather buy a book than a shirt or new shoes. He’d rather have a book on his nightstand than meat in his fridge.
As a child and teenager, Henry had never owned a book, but had desperately wanted to. His foster brothers and sisters always wanted Nike shoes, jewelry, more clothes, nicer clothes, their own room. All he ever wanted was a few books. Just one or two would have satisfied his unselfish soul, but in the eyes of his foster parents, books were a waste of money, completely unnecessary. After the sting of many hands and yelling rebuffs, Henry had eventually stopped asking for books and resigned himself to reading at the library. He didn’t even dare check out the books and bring them back to his foster homes. Possessions, whether owned or borrowed, had a way of disappearing. And he couldn’t bear the thought of being responsible for the demise of a library book.