And for some ridiculous reason, I think, we are going on tour together!
Then, I hear the voice of Carmilla. She is saying just the opposite:
This man will gobble you up. He is a predator like all the rest. He wants you for one reason and one reason only. For all you know, he probably killed his wife.
I am shocked this enters my brain. I do not like it, and I am tired of Carmilla hounding me. I wish she would leave me the alone. Why doesn’t she go watch after the bookstore or something?
Lewis stands as my father and I embrace.
“How have you been, sweetheart?”
“Fine, Daddy.”
I do love seeing Dad. He always makes me feel as if it’s his greatest pleasure to see me. It’s always very special, as if I’m the one bright spark in his life—other than Willamina, of course. He always gives me the biggest smile, the biggest hug, and the biggest kiss on the cheek.
He turns to introduce Lewis. “Lewis,” Dad says. “This is my daughter, Rayleigh. She’s a little disturbed mentally, but she is a treat.”
“Daddy!”
“Nice to meet you,” Lewis says, deep voice, baritone, very masculine, very soft. I like his smile immediately. It is cute and genuine, which makes his eyes glow. He has lots of dimples. His eyes look strange, as if he’s constantly in the moment but living somewhere else at the same time.
Embarrassed, I feel myself blush. I brush the hair out of my eyes, wishing—had I known—I would’ve put on something classier. Thanks, Mother. Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I cannot take my eyes off Lewis, though. There is something about him, penetrating, intelligent. He has the eyes of a wolf or a cat. He does not look like a musician, a music teacher, or anything remotely like what I pictured.
He’ll eat you alive.
Carmilla, go bury yourself in a vault somewhere, you nagging bitch.
“Same here,” I say. His hand is big and firm, not soft. He doesn’t squeeze my palm too hard and seems genuinely pleased to meet me.
“Lewis here came in to buy a suit last week,” Daddy says. “One of my own, I might add, and I’m glad he decided not to wear it tonight, or I’d have thrown him out on his ass. We got to talking. I thought he should come by for dinner, and maybe we could all have a roll in the hay.”
“Rex Michael!” Mother shouts, and Lewis and I burst out laughing. Daddy is pleased with himself because he is smiling, chuckling like a schoolboy. Lewis is blushing.
Careful, girl, I think. Just because he’s handsome doesn’t mean a thing. Hold your ground.
“What would you like to drink, pumpkin?” Daddy asks me.
I notice Lewis has smiled twice now. He is thoroughly amused Daddy still calls his thirty-plus-year-old daughter ‘pumpkin,’ and I find it a trifle embarrassing. I want to ask him to stop, but it would break his heart.
“I’ll have a glass of wine,” I say.
“Bartender!” Dad virtually shouts, addressing Mother, and we all laugh again.
“Aren’t you supposed to be watching the chicken?” Mom asks.
“Oh! Sheepherders!” Dad exclaims, and sets his drink down, bolting to the kitchen. I hear the oven door open and Dad breathing a sigh of relief. He has not destroyed the chicken.
While Mother is getting my wine, I’m left alone with Lewis. I wonder if he’s vainglorious or narcissistic, and I scold myself for the thought. This man has lost his wife, and I realize that’s what I see in his eyes. He has a deep, haunted, and painful look, one that goes through me, listens to every word, evaluates every answer and question. It’s the detective in him, I think. I cannot picture him playing an instrument at all.
“Your dad says you have your own bookstore,” he says.
“Yes,” I say. Why am I so nervous? “The Broken Spine. It’s on Broadway.”
He chuckles and nods.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“I like the name. I’m not making fun of it.”
“Hmm,” I play along, letting him know I’m skeptical.
“So, you’re a musician,” I say, after a while.
He doesn’t get cocky. He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, and he’d rather not talk about it. “I like music,” he says, simply.
I want to mention his wife and tell him how sorry I am, but it doesn’t feel right, obviously. Where the hell is that wine, Mother?
“Do you write at all?” he asks.
I am lost in reverie. I see blood. I hear the voice of a distant girl who claims to be me. I try not to let this show and look at Lewis, giving him my attention. “Huh?” I say. “Uh, no. I sometimes do, but I don’t know…I guess I get more a thrill out of the people who come in and like to read. If they mention something I’ve never heard of, I try to find it somewhere else.”
“I hate to mention this,” he says. “But I feel extremely overdressed. I was actually going to wear the suit I bought and thought that would look a little trite. I spent an hour trying to decide what would be appropriate without looking overdressed, and what would look insulting.”
He sticks a finger under the collar, unloosens the button, and tries to give his neck some breathing room.
“That’s funny,” I say. “I feel extremely underdressed. I opted for insulting, but hey, they’re my parents.”
He blushes, I see, and I blush, and we both cackle like hyenas.
Mom comes back and hands me a glass of white wine.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, and take a quick drink.
Dad comes back from the kitchen and says, “Birds almost done. Who needs a drink? Lewis?”
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll have another.”
“Bartender!” Dad exclaims, making Mom jump again.
Mom reaches for her throat, heart obviously skipping a beat, and the rest of us laugh at her expense. Dad is chuckling like a schoolboy again.
“Rex Michael Thorn,” my mother says with authority. “You do that one more time, you’re sleeping outside.” Mom turns to Lewis. “He always shows off when we have company.”
Mom takes Lewis’ glass anyway and refills his drink from the cart in the sitting room. My parents could open a liquor store with all the bottles of booze they have. She turns and hands a fresh drink to Lewis.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thorn,” he says.
“Well, have a seat, have a seat,” Dad says. He has re-lit his cigar, sitting in his favorite, maroon wingback chair.
The room is very dark, but I have always liked it. Books line the shelves, but most of them are historical novels and classics. There is no H.P. Lovecraft in this house. Everyone takes a squat. I sit in the deep red loveseat to Dad’s right. Mom sits next to me, and Lewis occupies the chair he had previously.
“Rayleigh here has always liked musicians,” Dad says.
“Dad!” I say, turning red in the cheeks. I don’t know it, but I can feel it.
Lewis looks over at me and smiles, and I realize how much I like that smile. I blush madly and look down. I will get revenge on my parents, I vow.
“Is that right?” Lewis asks.
“Brought one home in the sixth grade to have dinner once,” Mom says. “She said they were going on tour together.”
“Mother!”
Lewis, bless his heart, is not cackling like mad, but sitting with his chin in his hand, drink propped on the arm of the chair. He has a subtle grin on his face. He’s listening, but he doesn’t want to add to my embarrassment.
I stand up. “I think I need another drink,” I say, and go to the kitchen. That’s where the wine is because Mom cooks with it. I help myself to a glass, out of sight, drink it, and pour another. I feel better instantly. I can handle this crowd. I can take them head on.
Is there any such thing as magic?
I don’t know where this thought comes from, either. Something is definitely happening to me lately, and it is frightening me. I am having a good time with my parents, but why am I so reluctant to be with them? Maybe it’s only Mother. I don’t know what it is. I came into this wor
ld wondering what I’d lost. The thought cruises through me like mercury. At the moment, in the kitchen, I feel a surge of emotion. My parents always wanted the best for me—the very best. Dad wanted to help me with the bookstore, but I was reluctant. I wanted to show them I could be an independent girl and take care of myself. I was eligible for a loan, leased the space, then started putting money aside. I was proud of the fact I could do this on my own despite their wishes to help me. I knew in some ways that it broke Dad’s heart, but I wanted them to respect me, appreciate my being on my own and doing my own thing.
I take my glass of wine and walk back into the living room, joining the conversation.
“I’m sorry, pumpkin,” my dad says. “Are we embarrassing you?”
“Only on a molecular level,” I tell him.
Lewis bursts out laughing, thinking this extraordinarily funny, and I like him all the more because of it. In the kitchen, the buzzer sounds.
“Chicken’s done,” Dad says, and we go into the dining room, where Mother has already set the table. She bustles into the kitchen, getting everything ready, and I help her set out the mashed potatoes—garlic—I smell, loving her all the more because of it. She likes a burst a flavor in everything. The chicken smells delicious. We have asparagus and rolls. After Daddy carves the bird, we’re all digging in. We spend about thirty minutes eating. Because of the wine, I am soon stuffed, and I help my mother clear the table.
“Here,” Lewis says, “let me help.”
“No no,” Mom tells him. “You big, burly men go into the sitting room and nurse your drinks. Rayleigh and I’ll take care of it.”
He nods, looks at me, smiles, and goes into the sitting room with my father, where I can overhear them talking business, suits, and music.
“So,” my mother whispers, smiling and leaning in like we’re a couple of gabby friends. “What do you think?”
I look at her, grabbing one of her best dishes and put it in the dishwasher.
“He seems nice,” I say, shrugging, as if I don’t really care. I can’t reveal, not to her, how much I feel already. ‘By the way, Mom, I curled up on the floor after seeing my mouth ripped to shreds earlier. Carmilla says I’m being dramatic, and I keep hearing voices, you know, a girl beckoning from the dark. I figure, maybe I’m losing my mind. I guess it comes with being over thirty, right?’
“I think he likes you,” my mother says.
“I think I’m out of his league,” I say.
Mother looks at me, brows furrowing. “That’s ridiculous, Rayleigh.”
I try to appear as if this doesn’t bother me, as if I’m not thinking about it at all. Sure, I’m falling in love and going mad at the same time. Happens to girls the world over. It comes with the territory. I love to be this, love to feel it, and wish I’d put on some more make-up to really turn him on.
“You’re such a beautiful woman, Rayleigh. You should learn to see yourself as beautiful.”
“There’s too much vanity in it, Mom,” I say.
She laughs, shaking her head. I am being a difficult girl, I know. Get your elbows out of my eyes! More dark images fill my head. I miss Junky and suddenly want to go home and drink, drink, drink. That, too, comes with the territory. I’ll curl up on the couch, watch some sappy romance, and discover I’m not as dark as I make myself out to be. I mean, who cares, right? I’m pathetically sappy and hopeless. It’s not doing any good, no matter what I tell myself. There’s more to come, and this is just the beginning. ‘There is no life in this body,’ a Dracula movie once said, and I agree. Part of me is truly scared to be happy and in love because I don’t know if I’m capable of holding on, of taking it to deeper levels, of making it grow. A child somewhere is in danger, and that is more important to me right now than anything else. I want to help Pug. I want to help Emma. I don’t even know her, and I hope I see her again. Why are these thoughts entering my brain? Why can’t I ignore them?
“You’re not getting any younger,” my mother says.
Why is she so bent on setting me up? Is she afraid I’ll be like Grandmother after Grandfather died? Years and years of isolation until death comes to claim me alone and afraid? It doesn’t make sense. I’m confusing myself, making too much of it. It’s no big deal. This fear and terror are very real. There’s a reason for it, but I can’t do anything about it.
After the dishes are washing in the noisome dishwasher, we retire to where the boys are and make small talk for the rest of the evening. It’s still early, after six o’clock, and I’m ready to go home. I love my parents dearly, but I find myself getting restless after a time. I start fidgeting and drink another glass of wine. Lewis has held himself to his limit. His eyes look red and tired. Adding to my tiredness, Mom says it’s time for dessert, and she pulls out cherry cheesecake, which we all take our time nibbling on. After the cheesecake, I feel ready to burst. Luckily, Mom makes some coffee, which seems to lighten everybody up. I help her gather the dishes, and we sit and chat about Dad’s new branch in New York, and if it’s going to go through. I yawn noticeably for all to see. I don’t eat this well even at home. The coffee is not helping as much as I’d like.
“I should be getting back,” I say. “Will you take me home, Mom?”
“Lewis is going that way. Do you mind, Lewis?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all.”
I think about the dark blue Ford Explorer I’d seen parked in front of the house, and it dawns on me that this must be his.
“Thanks for dinner,” he says. “It was fabulous.”
“You’ll have to come back for more,” Daddy says, shaking his hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thorn,” Lewis adds.
Mom smiles, pats his hand as he shakes, and says, “Anytime. We’d love to have you.”
I’m a trifle fumed at my mother for setting it up this way. Now I have to travel with Lewis in the awkwardness between strangers, forcing small talk along the way. Part of me hates Mother because of it; part of me actually loves her. She’s sly, and I make another vengeful vow.
“Ready?” he says, turning to me.
I nod. I kiss my mom on the cheek, give her a hug, and do the same with Daddy.
“Bye, pumpkin,” he says. “Don’t stay away so long.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “Bye. Love you.”
We head for the door, and Lewis opens it for me. I step out into the chilly evening, wondering what happened to the warm weather we had earlier this week. Lewis closes the door behind him, and we walk the length of the sidewalk to his SUV, a midnight blue, Ford Explorer, sure enough. He sticks the key in the lock and opens the door. I get a quick flash of Lacey and her pretending to admire my beauty (if there is such a thing) in the moonlight. I step inside. It smells new, and I wonder if he just bought it. It is plush and relaxing. I lean over and unlock the door for him, and he seems pleasantly surprised.
“Thank you,” he says. He puts the key in the ignition and starts the car. We pull away from the curb, and he asks me where I live.
“Forty-seven South Logan,” I say.
He nods and angles the car in that direction. “I like your parents a lot,” he says. “They seem like genuinely good people.”
“Yeah,” I say. “They like to surprise me with sudden ‘set-ups.’”
He laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I was pretty uncomfortable about it. I haven’t had a date since…well, not that this is a date or anything.”
I look over at him. He cuts it short as if he’s ashamed or doesn’t want to talk about it.
“You haven’t had a date since…?” I ask.
“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. Since my wife—”
I play dumb. “How long have you been divorced?”
He pauses for a long time. “She died two years ago,” he says, staring straight ahead. A light mist has drizzled onto the window, and he puts the wipers on.
“I’m so sorry, Lewis,” I say, awkwardly. “I…”
He smiles, making me relax instantly. “It’s okay,
” he says. “She was killed while running errands for her sister. We were planning a surprise party for her. All she was doing was crossing the road on foot...I used to be a detective. After a while, I just couldn’t do the job anymore. Everything reminded me…so—”
I nod. I can see he doesn’t want to talk about it, and that’s okay with me. I wonder if I blew it with him.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
He laughs, making me feel better. “No, it’s okay. I have good memories, more good than bad, and I’m over the worst of it. It’s behind me. But it’s something that never leaves you, you know?”
These are very wise words, and I think I’ll probably never forget them, but I still feel stupid. “How long were you married for?”
This, too, seems like a stupid thing to say, and I don’t know how it comes out of my big fat mouth.
“Four years,” he says.
I nod again, not knowing how to change the subject.
“So, what do you think your parents are saying about us?” he asks.
I smile, looking over at him. He has beautiful lips, lips I haven’t seen on many men, full, roseaceous, and kissable. I find myself wanting to nibble on them.
“Everything and anything,” I say.
He laughs, finds my building without fail, and stops in front of it. “Well, here we are,” he says.
I wonder what he’s thinking. Should I invite him up? He’s probably wondering the same. My palms are sweaty because I want to ask him up, but I don’t want to appear easy. I don’t want him to think I’ve fallen for him this quickly when I don’t know a damn thing about him.
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