by Nina Lane
“Yeah, but you’re always skulking off to do something mysterious. Oh, wait a second! I found something for you.”
I hurry back to the workroom and grab the Firebird books off my desk, then return to the kitchen.
“I was going to give these to you tomorrow. This collection has a version of the story, and the other two are illustrated. This one was illustrated by Ivan Bilibin, who earned quite a bit of renown in the late nineteenth century for his fairytale collections.”
I open the book and leaf through the pages. “There are a lot of different influences in his work. He studied ethnography, Japanese prints, and had a strong interest in Russian village architecture. All of that is reflected in these drawings. But you probably know that already.”
I close the book, consternation rising in me. I’m lecturing a man who probably knows more about fairy tale artists than I do.
“I didn’t know any of that.” Flynn takes the books with a nod. “Thanks for telling me. And for finding these.”
“No problem.”
I expect him to turn and leave, as per his usual exit strategy. He doesn’t. I check the teapot, giving the steeping leaves a quick stir. If he stays, maybe I can learn a little more about him.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask. “This is a really nice black tea, smooth and flavorful.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You’re a tea connoisseur.”
“Not really, but I like it a lot.” I indicate the teapot. “This was a gift from the wife of my PhD advisor. She believed strongly in the power of a good cup of tea, and I realized soon that she was right. Tea doesn’t make everything better, but sometimes it helps soften the rough edges.”
“You think I have rough edges that need softening?” Amusement laces his voice as he sets the books on the counter.
“Don’t we all?” I take a second teacup from the basket and remove the filter from the pot. After pouring the tea, I set the two cups on the table along with the sugar bowl and creamer. Flynn waits for me to sit down before he takes the chair opposite me, his presence making the table seem even smaller than it is.
I pick up the creamer. “Do you take milk and sugar?”
“I have no idea. Make mine the same as yours.”
I add cream and sugar to each cup and slide his closer to him, nodding toward a spoon. “You have to stir it yourself. It’s bad luck to stir someone else’s tea.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just a superstition. If you stir someone else’s tea, it means you’re stirring up trouble for them.”
“I didn’t know tea was associated with superstitions.” He stirs his own tea, then takes a swallow. “You have tea every day?”
“Right at two.” I sip my tea, appreciating the hints of spice and sweetness.
We both fall silent, the air between us perfumed with aromatic steam. Rain spills down the window. Despite our fraught history, it’s not awkward, only surprisingly pleasant.
I study him surreptitiously, the aesthetic side of me appreciating, as always, his strong features and thick-lashed eyes. But now I also notice the brackets of tension around his mouth and the frustration shadowing his eyes.
Who has loved you in life? Do you love anyone?
He shifts his gaze from the window to me. A current passes between us, something almost warm and tangible. As usual, a thousand questions pop into my mind, but for now, I don’t want to ask them, don’t want to pry into any part of him that he doesn’t want to give me freely.
Instead I ask, “Do you happen to know anything about an artist named Maria Wood?”
He shakes his head. “Why?”
“I found a drawing of hers in the collection. Red Riding Hood, but a pretty disturbing image, kind of monstrous and sexual at the same time. She’s holding a knife, implying that she’ll kill the wolf before he has a chance to hurt her. I know I’ve never seen it before, but I feel like I’ve seen something like it before, if that makes sense. You’ve never heard of her?”
“No.”
“I’m sure Uncle Max never mentioned her either.” I shrug and sip the tea. “I was just wondering. I’m going to write a paper about her. I need to get my art history career back, hopefully with another university professor position, but first I have to remind my colleagues I’m still a good scholar. Maria Wood will be a great start. I’ve never written about a fairy tale artist before.”
Flynn studies me, his expression as impenetrable as ever. “What’s your favorite fairy tale?”
“The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen.” I smile. “Did you know about Max’s class assignment?”
“No.”
“On the first day of every class, he had his students write an essay about their favorite fairy tale and explain why. He said it gave a great deal of insight into their hopes, values, and dreams. Like it was their essence.”
Though I can’t be certain, curiosity appears to gleam in Flynn’s smoky eyes.
“So what does The Snow Queen say about you?” he asks.
I look out the window. A sweet, painful ache nudges my soul.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I love so much about it. Gerda and Kay’s fierce loyalty. The way she makes her way into the world with such bravery and determination. She doesn’t give up on Kay, even when he’s cruel to her. She knows he’s not truly malicious. She faces all her fears and goes to the end of the earth to save him. She helps him see the good in the world again. She melts the ice in his heart.”
“What does he do for her?”
“He loves her. He trusts her infinitely. If the situation were reversed, he’d risk everything to save her. They both know it. How many people are lucky enough to have that kind of devotion?”
Heavy silence falls. Self-consciousness seizes me. I risk a glance at him. My heartbeat increases.
For the first time, his defenses are down. The bleak look in his eyes, the lines of tension creasing his brow, give me a brief glimpse into… him. A man who has feelings and emotions like the rest of us, much as he tries to conceal them.
He meets my gaze. Just like that, his implacable shield slams back into place. Blocking any hint of vulnerability.
My heart is still thumping hard. I lower my head to sip my tea.
“I also like stories that have a magic object,” I continue in an effort to diffuse the sudden tension. “A spindle, a glass slipper, a feather, a golden apple, a spinning wheel, a mirror. The idea that we’re surrounded at all times by magic is a powerful concept. Even if it doesn’t always work in your favor.”
“Indeed.”
A combination of amusement and exasperation rises in me. He gives new meaning to the term strong, silent type.
“What’s your favorite fairy tale?” I ask.
“Don’t have one.” He drains his cup before shoving to his feet. “Thanks for the tea.”
He starts toward the cottage door. After my little soul-baring about The Snow Queen, I’m not about to let him off the hook quite that easily.
“Everyone has a favorite fairytale,” I call after him. “Is it the Firebird?”
“No.” He opens the door.
“Snow White?”
“No.”
“Cinderella.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Guess again.”
“Ah ha! You do have a favorite one.” I narrow my gaze at him. “I’m going to figure out what it is.”
“You are, huh?”
“Your favorite fairy tale must be Beauty and the Beast.” I roll my eyes and indicate the lighthouse. “Mysterious creature locked in a tower? Surely you can relate.”
He frowns. “Your favorite fairy tale should be Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
“Why’s that?”
“A nosy girl who can’t mind her own business?” He pulls open the door. “Surely you can relate.”
He leaves, shutting the door behind him.
A laugh bursts out of me.
What’s that feeling bubbling underneath my heart? It’s light and fluffy, li
ke a marshmallow, a cotton puff, a baby chick.
I’m charmed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After work, I stop at the usual curve on the trail, my breath wheezing out in puffs of white. The damned boulder looks a thousand miles away. I rest my hands on my hips and peer back at the lighthouse. Aside from the boulder, I have no other way of marking my progress.
I search the ground and pick up a smooth white stone, nestling it in the roots of a grass plant well off the trail. On Monday, I’ll see if I can pass it without stopping.
As I start back to the lighthouse, my phone buzzes. I pull it from the pocket of my track pants and swipe the screen.
Juliette. I suppress a groan. Relentless as she is, she’ll keep calling until I answer. I accept the call.
“Have you found a job yet?” she asks after a brief exchange of pleasantries.
“Actually, yes.” Much as I long… no, ache to tell her about Max’s collection (“I found it again, Cruella.”), Flynn’s contract is embedded in my brain. Not even for the satisfaction of finally having one up on my mother will I jeopardize my job.
“I’m doing some consulting work,” I say.
“For whom?”
“Various people. How’s your new position on the board?”
She tsks with impatience. “Will this consulting work do anything at all to revive your career? Have you been networking? You have to put yourself out there, Eve, because God knows no one will come to you.”
I breathe in the view of the vast ocean, the rippling whitecaps, the endless sky. All the forces that are far more powerful than even my mother.
“I’m looking into several possibilities.”
“Where?”
“Duke has an interim nineteenth-century position opening next fall. Northwestern is looking for guest lecturers in an undergrad seminar for the spring semester.”
“You have a next to nothing shot at working at Duke or Northwestern,” Juliette says sharply, “especially considering the eager, fresh-faced doctoral students who will be applying. You need to start somewhere smaller and network at conferences. What about a new publication?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’d better be,” she snaps. “You might have screwed up your one shot at a prestigious tenure-track position, but you can fight your way back if you’d grow a damned backbone. I expect to hear more details the next time I call.”
She ends the call before I can respond. I shove down the flare of anger, trying not to let her caustic words scald too badly.
Shoving the phone into my pocket, I trudge up the hill. As I reach the plateau, I look up at the tower. A light glows through the smoky glass. The sight eases the burn of my mother’s call.
A memory washes over me of the day I first climbed up to the lighthouse and put my secret in the wall. That was almost a month ago, and I’m already finishing up my second week of work for Flynn. Strange how it feels like I’ve been here much longer than that, and yet I still know almost nothing about him.
But he’s disarming me, that man up there. Peeling away the thick leather armor I’ve worn for so many months. The armor that failed to protect me from a thousand slings and arrows.
He’s also frustrating the heck out of me and irritating me with his dictates, but even those emotions are welcome after all my bleak, helpless despair.
He’s making me feel good things again.
I run the rest of the way to the parking lot, wondering if he’s watching me. Hoping that he is.
Saturday is my date with Jeremy King. Though I have misgivings about dating another man when I’m so attracted to Flynn, I’m not betraying him. Teatime, new pens, and scented lotion aside, he made it clear he plans to keep me at a distance. So I’m entitled to a normal date with a nice man. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.
I spend the morning at the library working on my paper about the Little Red Riding Hood drawing. I have both a newfound affinity and antipathy toward the story itself, the origins of which are rooted in a punishment for female sexuality.
She wears red, the color of blood and scandal. In the original story, after she undresses and gets into bed with the wolf, he devours and kills her. She doesn’t escape, and no hunter saves her. The 1729 Charles Perrault published version of Little Red Riding Hood included a moral admonishing young women to stay away from wolves.
In her drawing, however, Maria Wood places the blame and punishment clearly where it belongs—on the evil, predatory wolf.
I write a solid rough draft, apply for three more professor positions, and message Graham with an update.
Despite my mother’s admonishing call, things are finally going well for me. I need to keep it that way.
I’ve agreed to meet Jeremy at a downtown seafood restaurant for dinner. As the clock approaches six, the more nervous I become. Not only has it been ages since I’ve dated, I have no idea what Jeremy knows about me.
I dress conservatively in a plum-colored jersey knit dress and low-heeled pumps before heading downtown. Jeremy is waiting for me outside the restaurant, looking golden-boy handsome in a navy suit and tie. His smile at the sight of me elicits both relief and pleasure. If he knows about my sordid story yet, he doesn’t appear to hold it against me.
“You look lovely.” He takes my hand and brushes his lips across my cheek. “Thanks for agreeing to go out with me.”
“Thanks for asking. I haven’t had a date in quite a while.”
“Then I’m honored to be your first in quite a while.” He winks and pulls open the door.
After we’re seated and have ordered cocktails, I decide to bring up the issue, or else I’ll be wondering about it all evening.
“So you asked last time why I moved to Castille.” I rub my finger over the handle of my fork. “Did you find out the real reason?”
A dull flush rises to his cheeks. “Uh… if you mean, did I look you up on the internet, the answer is yes. I was curious. You’re a beautiful woman, and obviously I like you, so… well, yeah. I wanted to know more. Sorry if that was rude.”
“I guess everyone does it these days, right?” I take a sip of water. “But not everything on the internet is true.”
“I know.” He pauses. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”
“Everyone else around here already seems to know. But they don’t know the truth.”
He leans forward slightly. “Which is what?”
“I did have an affair and I was terminated,” I admit, setting my glass down. “But I never stalked him, I didn’t know he was married, and I didn’t do any of the things he accused me of. In a nutshell, he was a powerful man, and I was naïve enough to believe whatever he told me. Not a mistake I’ll make again.”
Jeremy is silent, shifting his attention to the menu. My shoulders tense.
“We all make mistakes,” he finally says. “I’m not one to judge. I figured you had your side of the story. Thanks for telling me.”
“If you want to end the date here, I’ll understand.”
He looks at me, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t want to end the date, either here or anywhere else. I like to think I’m not stupid enough to believe the internet over an obviously accomplished woman who’s being honest with me.”
“Thank you.” I return his smile, my tension easing. “I’d like it if we could talk about something else, though. You can imagine it’s not my favorite subject.”
“What is?”
“Art. Movies. Books. I’d like to know more about you. I assume you grew up in Castille?”
“Born and bred here. I’m pretty sure my first solid food was lobster.”
We share a laugh as the waitress comes to take our order. As the evening passes, I’m increasingly glad I had the courage to say yes to the offer of a date.
Jeremy is a good conversationalist, warm and funny, and he’s interested in everything else about me—my art history specialization, my travels abroad, my favorite books. He tells me about his
own childhood growing up on the coast, taking his golden retriever out on a boat, trips to Canada, visiting the governor’s mansion with his prominent parents.
“I preferred hanging out with Buster, but I didn’t always have a choice.” He gives me a rueful smile as he pushes his empty plate away. “Worst part was my mother made me wear a suit and a tie. Not a clip-on, either.”
I suppress the urge to ask about his mother, instead saying, “By the way, how did the city council meeting go the other night? Did you convince people that selling the lighthouse is a good idea?”
“Some, yeah.” He picks up the wine bottle and refills our glasses. “I get why people are resisting, though. My buddies and I used to ride our bikes up to the lighthouse all the time. The first time I had a crush on a girl, I wrote her name on a piece of paper I’d torn out of my math notebook and stuffed it into the secrets wall. Hell, I had my first kiss up there on the cliff. That place has a lot of memories for me. If people think the idea of selling it is easy, they’re wrong. But I’m doing it because I still believe it’s the best thing we can do for this town.”
“How does the rest of your family feel about it?”
“My father was the one who came up with the idea, which is actually the reason so many of the residents support it too. He hasn’t been involved in local politics for a few years, but people still respect him and his opinions a great deal.”
“What about your mother?”
He shakes his head, his mouth compressing. “She’s not well, unfortunately, so she’s not involved in the debate. There was a point last spring when we thought we were going to lose her. Had to deal with power of attorney, advance directives, all that stuff. She told us she didn’t expect to leave the hospital.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thankfully she recovered. She’s better now, but still…” His voice trails off. “She’s always supported what I’ve wanted to do. My father’s a little tougher, harder to please…” He shrugs, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Anyway, it’s not a done deal yet.”
“What about the lighthouse keeper?” The question escapes my mouth before I can stop it.