He had the vehicle started and halfway down Main Road before Charity remembered her employer.
“Where’s Mr. Hollingsworth?”
“Saw him pop into MJ’s earlier. Wobbly as a newborn calf. I didn’t think he’d make it that far, truth be told. Never before seen a man fight so hard to keep himself upright. It was admirable.”
He slowed the vehicle down as it drew abreast of the restaurant but swore softly when he realized that there was nowhere to park.
“Circle the block, I’ll go in and get him,” Charity suggested, and George nodded, stopping long enough for her to hop out.
Charity spotted Mr. Hollingsworth at one of the window tables, but he didn’t see her, his attention focused on whatever he had in front of him. Sighing, because that meant she would have to go in, Charity threw back her shoulders and entered the warmth of the restaurant.
The maître d’, a familiar looking young man, smiled when he spotted her.
“Mrs. Cole. How lovely to see you. Will you be having lunch?”
Seriously, how did everybody know her name? And why were they always so warm and welcoming? It was sweet and unnerving and really uncomfortable.
“Uh. No…thank you. I’m just here to speak with my employer.”
“Your employer?” The maître d’, identified as Ricardo by his discreet name tag, looked blank for a second, but when his eyes drifted to Mr. Hollingsworth’s table, a troubled frown settled on his face. “That’s your boss?”
Clearly, Mr. Hollingsworth had not made a good impression during the short time he’d been here. Not if the look on Ricardo’s face was anything to go by.
“Yes.” She tossed him a fleeting smile before hurrying toward her boss’s table. She could now see what had him so wholly absorbed—a huge slice of dark, moist chocolate cake.
“Mr. Hollingsworth?” Her voice seemed to startle him, and his gaze snapped to her in an instant, rooting her to the spot.
“Mrs. Cole.” His voice was glacial. “Done with your shopping?”
“Yes. We’re ready to leave.”
“Join me for some coffee,” he said, ignoring her statement.
“George couldn’t find a parking spot, so he’s circling the block.”
“This cake is sinful. I can’t finish it by myself. Would you like to share?”
Share? Did he not recognize how out of bounds that suggestion was? Friends, intimates, lovers, shared slices of cake. And they were none of those things.
“You could take it home, sir.”
“What’s your rush, Mrs. Cole?”
“The weather, sir.”
His lips thinned. No arguing against nature.
He nodded and the curtness of the gesture was reflected in his voice, “Of course. I’ll settle my bill and meet you outside.”
Feeling thoroughly dismissed and unutterably relieved about it, Charity hastened out of the restaurant. She acknowledged Ricardo’s cheery goodbye with an awkward nod.
She stood beneath the awning, stamping her feet to ward off the cold while she waited for George. To her relief, the SUV took the corner back onto Main Road before Mr. Hollingsworth exited the restaurant and after navigating a snag in the traffic, George double parked beside an ancient VW and left the engine idling while he waited.
Charity chose not to wait for Mr. Hollingsworth and dashed across the short distance to the SUV, gesturing at George to stay put when it looked like he was about to exit the vehicle to assist her.
The rain was starting to come down in earnest now and, by the time she hopped into the front seat, she was soaked. An icy stray droplet slid down the neck of her blouse. She shuddered at the sensation of ice water slipping down her back and had a horrible moment of panic as the sensation triggered the memory of a sharp, cold blade skimming down the exact same path as that frigid droplet.
The recollection was disorienting and for a second, she was back there. In that moment. With that man…helpless, terrified, and so alone.
The sound of the door slamming mercifully ripped her back to the present, and her eyes darted around the cab of the SUV in horror. She was grateful to note that George had exited the vehicle to open the door for Mr. Hollingsworth and that neither man had been present to notice her tiny lapse.
These moments of blind, helpless panic were becoming less frequent, but Charity knew it was past time to seek professional help. Staying here, isolated, and voluntarily cutting herself off from the people who loved her the most, had seemed like a solution before, but she knew it was nothing more than cowardice.
Lightning sparked in the sky ahead, streaking from one black cloud to the next like a mischievous sprite playing tag. It was closely followed by a massive, rumbling boom.
George slid the door open for Mr. Hollingsworth as the echoing rumble faded away.
“That was loud.” Miles Hollingsworth, connoisseur of the dry understatement.
“Storm’ll be on us very quickly,” George said, as he got into the driver’s seat and buckled up. He slanted a speaking glance to the back, and Mr. Hollingsworth fastened his seatbelt with a sigh.
George wasted no time getting them back on the road, and they were just exiting Riversend, when the sky opened up.
“Good thing we didn’t go to Knysna,” Mr. Hollingsworth pointed out, and Charity gritted her teeth, hating that he was right.
“Definitely,” George agreed. “Weather forecast says this is only going to get worse.”
“Best make haste back home then, George.”
George only stayed long enough to help Charity unload the groceries. He parked the SUV, asked if they needed anything more, and left in his own late model Toyota.
“I think I’ll retire to my room for a spell, Mrs. Cole,” Mr. Hollingsworth said, moments after George left. He looked wrecked, and Charity couldn’t help but feel concerned. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, and he looked a thousand times worse than he had before they had left the house. The small amount of activity had clearly been too much, too soon.
“I’ll call you for dinner,” she told him, tempted to ask if he was okay, even though she knew he’d shrug off her concern. Or worse tell her—rightfully so—that it was none of her business.
“When might that be?” The words seemed dragged out of him—he was definitely flagging fast.
“What’s your preference?”
“Sixish?” Three hours away, that gave her time to swim a few laps before starting dinner.
“That’s fine, sir. Anything in particular you’d like me to prepare?”
“No soup or broth, of any kind. Nothing bland—not that your cooking is ever bland. But if I see anything steamed or boiled I think I may well expire from sheer boredom.”
She clasped her hands in front of her and nodded, “Noted, sir.”
“And dear God, if I’m to be here for six weeks, I’d much rather we relax the formalities. Call me Miles.”
That disconcerted her, and her hands tightened around each other so much she feared the whites of her knuckles had to be showing.
“I don’t think…I’m not sure that’s proper.”
“Who’s to know? And I’m not sure ‘Mrs. Cole’ suits the informality we’re striving for either. I’ll call you Chastity.”
She cleared her throat awkwardly. “That’s Charity, sir.”
“What?”
“My name. It’s Charity.”
“Right. Okay. Sorry about that. Charity it is then.”
She shook her head, feeling panicked. “No. Wait…”
He sighed. A long-suffering expression on that arrogant, much-too-thin, face.
“I don’t think I feel comfortable calling you by your first name.”
He moved closer and held her eyes captive with his penetrating stare. “Why don’t you try it and find out for sure?”
She took an involuntary step back. She hated to feel crowded. Invading someone’s space was a classic bullying tactic, and Mr. Hollingsworth seemed to do it unconsciously. A charact
er trait that threw up massive red flags for her.
“Excuse me?”
“Try it. Say my name and see if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“I’d rather not do that…Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“Jesus.” He shook his head in disgust and stepped back, giving her some much-needed breathing room. “Fine, if you feel so strongly about it, call me Mr. Hollingsworth, but just give the ‘sir’ a rest, would you? I feel like a sixth form school teacher, every time you say it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“But I’m calling you Charity.”
She didn’t like that at all. She hated hearing her name on his lips. It sounded much too inviting, even when it was being delivered in that crisp, no-nonsense English accent of his.
She maintained a stoic silence, hoping he would glean from that how much she disapproved of this entire conversation.
His smile was purely a predatory parting of his lips. “Buck up, Mrs. Cole. It’s just a word.”
She preferred the formality of being called Mrs. Cole, it kept him at a distance. It kept everybody at a distance. He scrutinized her for a second, before appearing to see something in her determinedly neutral expression that made him shift his shoulders in displeasure.
“Alright, have it your way, Mrs. Cole. We’ll keep things formal.”
She nodded, the gesture stiff, but couldn’t resist responding, “As you wish, sir.”
His lips tightened for a second before he opened his mouth. She held her breath, wondering if he was going to call her out on her low-key insolence. But he seemed to reconsider what he’d been about to say and, with an impatient shake of his head, he swiveled on his foot and strode from the kitchen.
A rumbling boom shook Miles from his restless sleep. He sat up disoriented in the darkness. He reached toward the nightstand and found the bedside lamp.
But nothing happened when he flipped the switch.
“Shit!” He felt around for his phone and was relieved when he found it almost immediately. He hastened to activate the flashlight.
The miserly beam of light quelled his rising claustrophobia and he got up, just as a bright white flash of lightning lit up the entire room for a second, making the darkness so much more oppressive when it faded.
The thunderous clap that followed actually rattled the windows. The wind was picking up, and a weird clattering sound, a noise that he couldn’t quite identify, rapidly gained intensity until it was almost deafening.
Hail.
“Fuck me,” he grunted, unnerved by the severity of the storm, and tentatively made his way to his door. According to his phone, it had just gone six and he wondered when the power had died.
If the lingering warmth of the central heating was anything to go by, it couldn’t have been too long ago.
The house was eerie in its silence, and all he could hear was the wind and the dull roar of hail hitting the roof and cobblestones outside.
“Mrs. Cole?” he called, once he had stepped out of his room and into the hallway. His voice sounded ridiculously timid, and he shook his head, disgusted with himself, before calling again. This time his voice was louder and more assured. “Mrs. Cole?”
Better. But there was no still response. The beam of his flashlight barely penetrated the blackness of the hall yawning ahead of him. Everything not illuminated by the dim light was shrouded in absolute darkness.
Where the hell was she? And why was he so bloody hesitant to walk down this fucking hall?
Another shock of lightning lit the way ahead, and he was relieved to note that there was nothing lurking in the shadows. He immediately berated himself for even allowing the notion to cross his mind. Despite his love of epic fantasy books, Miles wasn’t one for ridiculous flights of fancy, so he wasn’t sure where the hell this was coming from.
He should have been prepared for it, but the resonating crack that shook the paintings on the wall, made him jump. He swore again, before throwing back his shoulders and confidently striding down the hall toward the kitchen.
The sprawling house was built on one level. It had an underground garage— Miles preferred building down rather than up. His architect had argued that building a second floor would capitalize on the panoramic views, but Miles had been adamant. One level, and a basement, or he’d find a new architect. The kitchen and pantry divided the family’s sleeping and living areas from Mrs. Cole’s private rooms.
“Mrs. Cole?” Jesus, he sounded like a broken record but he hadn’t expected to find the kitchen empty. The next flash of lightning lit up the large room long enough for him to establish that Mrs. Cole was definitely not here. There were sliced vegetables abandoned on the counter next to the stove. The large knife she must have been using for the task was tossed to the side. She had clearly been in this room when the lights went out.
He turned to exit the kitchen back the way he had come but banged his knee against one of the stools at the island. His clumsiness sent the stool toppling with a loud crash that rattled him almost as much as the thunder that followed.
His phone chose that moment to die, and Miles froze on the spot.
The darkness was absolute and oppressive. He could feel it closing in around him. The air was thick and stifling. His breathing sped up and he was embarrassed by the short harsh gasps rasping from his throat.
Disoriented, Miles stood—helplessly adrift—in the kitchen. Because he had been in the process of turning when he’d knocked over the stool, he wasn’t quite sure where the island was, or where the stool had fallen, or even where the doorway to the hall was right now—although he was certain that it was directly behind him. And he hated the idea of having his back to that cavernous black hall.
He shoved his phone into his rear trouser pocket for safekeeping and tried to figure out what his next move should be. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust. And he was able to identify shapes in the darkness within moments. He remained unnerved by the blackness though. Especially with the accompanying discordant symphony of the violent storm raging right above them.
The wind was increasing, the rain intensifying—although it had stopped hailing—he could hear the faintly ominous ticking and scraping of branches on the kitchen window. The branches belonged to the giant old yellowwood tree that offered such welcome shade in the summer. He’d had no idea the damned thing was so close to the kitchen window. He was surprised Amos hadn’t trimmed back the branches yet. Miles would speak to him about it in—
What the fuck was that?
A low, howling sound…coming from the back door that led out to the garden. It was faint, but it was noticeable because it was anomalous. It didn’t fit in with any of the normal storm sounds. It sounded like an animal.
Miles swallowed and leaned toward the sound, trying to hear it more clearly over the whistling wind. The howl had lapsed into whining. It was insistent and urgent. And… Jesus, accompanied by faint, scratching sounds. Someone or something was trying their damnedest to get into the house.
Coming down to the basement garage during a blackout always made the hairs on the back of Charity’s neck stand up. And tonight, was no exception. Well, it was decidedly worse thanks to the frightening violence of the storm. They rarely had weather-related blackouts, but this storm had been touted as the worst in ten years and, sure enough, the lights had flickered out with the first lightning strike. If the dramatic display of sparks outside the kitchen window was anything to go by, the lightning must have struck the transformer. Mercifully this particular storm was accompanied by torrential rain.
Several years ago, in severe drought conditions, a similar storm—without the rain—had resulted in raging wildfires that had ravaged the surrounding area. Fanned by gale force winds, the fire had decimated over a thousand homes in Knysna, destroyed sixteen thousand hectares of fynbos and forestry, ravaged the wildlife and—tragically—killed seven people. It had been terrifying. Charity and the citizens of Riversend had been on high alert, waiting to he
ar if they would have to evacuate. But the fire—one of the worst in South Africa’s history—had been contained before it came to that. They had been fortunate. Eight thousand others had been forced to abandon their homes in terror.
It had brought home how alone she and Amos were out there. George had offered to stay with her in case they needed to evacuate. But because she knew he would prefer to stay close to Nina, Charity had assured him they were fine, and she would drive them out if need be. Even though the prospect had terrified her. She had seen harrowing clips on the news of people driving through burning forests. The fire had spread so quickly. She couldn’t imagine being forced to drive through something like that.
She shook her head, disgusted with herself for allowing these grim thoughts to creep in and unsettle her. She focused on the immediate problem—she needed to switch on the generator. She would hate for her boss to wake up to a dark and cold house. The light from her handheld searchlight bounced off the wall, creating unsettling shadows as she walked toward the state-of-the-art generator that Mi—Mr. Hollingsworth—had installed a few years ago.
The rain sounded louder down here, lashing against the high, narrow windows and drumming against the garage doors. She didn’t like it, it sounded like something ferocious and powerful was battling to get inside.
The wind tossed something substantial against the garage doors, and the loud bang cemented her feet to the polished concrete floor. It sounded like someone’s angry fist thumping furiously against the metal.
“Charity, open this fucking door!”
The harsh, familiar male voice seemed to echo around the cavernous garage, and Charity’s chest heaved as she found herself fighting for breath. For a horrifying second the voice seemed so real, so close; she instinctively went into a crouch and covered her head with her arms.
Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!
He’s not here. He’s not.
She counted: Ten, nine, otto, sett, roku, go, quatre, trois, zwei, eins…
Again. Her breathing regulated, her heartbeat slowed, and she gradually—sheepishly—lowered her arms and unfurled her body. She picked up the searchlight from where she had placed it on the floor and swallowed heavily. God, nights like these always brought out the worst of it.
The Best Next Thing Page 5