by Lynn Sholes
"What?" she said.
He shook his head, then after a moment, stood. "I say we crack open another bottle and clean up."
The wind roared up the mountain and pushed against the cabin. It groaned under the attack, but held firm.
Once the dishes were done, Cotten and John refilled their cups and moved to the couch in front of the fireplace. For a long time they sat in silence watching the flames biting at the air, sending small sparks shooting up the chimney.
"I wish we could shut out the world, right now, and stay just like this." She sat with one leg tucked under her, half turned to face him.
"You know we can't."
"Well, why not?" she said. "I hate this always being afraid-thinking about Vanessa's death, Thornton's death-this emotional turmoil."
"Don't let it swallow you. You aren't in this alone. I'm here with you.
Cotten put her mug on the floor. How could she explain how this was eating her up inside? "Look at me, John. Look hard. Somebody killed my best friend and wants to kill me. They murdered Thornton. I don't even know why. And everybody keeps telling me I'm the only one. The only one to do what? I don't have a clue what that means. I'm supposed to stop the sun from rising?" She glanced at the fire, then back. "What kind of insane life have I made for myself? Look at the pattern. I only want what I can't have, and whatever I touch turns to shit ... or dies."
"Their deaths weren't your fault. I know this is a tough time," he said. "Ease up on yourself."
She stared into his dark sapphire eyes. "I've dragged you into this nightmare, and I'm afraid you're going to wind up dead, too."
John held both her hands.
Cotten laughed through her tears. "On top of everything else, I'm trying not to fall in love with you." She immediately regretted her words. "Shit, I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have said that."
She felt his warm hands squeeze hers.
"Cotten ... You're getting your feelings all mixed up. You're in danger, you're scared, all that makes you very vulnerable. We've been through some unusual times together-we've formed a bond, a kind of love, but not the kind you think."
She hung her head. "I'm sorry. I put you in an awkward position." She was silent a moment. "I feel like an idiot. Too much wine. It was wrong for me to say that. I'm so screwed up. God, I'm sorry, John."
"There's nothing to be sorry for, and you're not screwed up, just confusing your feelings. You're an amazing person who is decent and honest. Have you ever thought that when you believe you've fallen in love with a man you think you can't have, that protects you from having to choose between marriage and your career?"
Cotten sighed. Images of her mother flooded her. She could still picture her standing at the kitchen sink, expressionless, passionless, staring out the window for long periods. Deep lines carved her mother's face, the skin abused, not by the sun, but by the absence of purpose and joy. And the eyes-no sparkle, the sense of wonder sapped from them. Sometimes that same vision came in dreams, and like watercolors exposed to rain, the image ran and changed, and she would see herself aged in the same way. That's when Cotten would wake with a start and promise to push herself even harder at work so she wouldn't one day find herself used up like her mother.
No thirteen drops left.
John lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. "If I weren't a priest ... you are the woman I would fall in love with. You're the one I would spend my life with."
Cotten couldn't take her eyes from his. "You don't have to say that to make me feel better. I know I was tangled up in a fantasy."
"I said it because I mean it. I'm speaking the truth, telling you what's inside."
"You are always so ... stable, so grounded. You see things as they really are. I wish I was like that."
"Remember I told you that I'm on a leave of absence because I don't know what it is I'm supposed to do? My life is unclear. You know what you want, Cotten. Do you know how blessed you are?"
He was right in one respect-she desperately wanted a successful career, a life different from her mother's. But she always managed to want what she couldn't have-at least when it came to men.
"When the right guy comes along, you won't need to make choices or sacrifice one thing for another. You'll find a balance." He smoothed her hair back from her face. "And he'll be the luckiest man in the world."
Cotten wrapped her arms around John's neck. "I still wish you weren't a priest," she whispered.
THE CELLAR
THE DARKNESS CLOAKED THE mountains in a tight embrace as a dusting of snow drifted down.
Cotten came out of the bathroom wrapped in the long white terry cloth robe they had bought in town. Her hair spilled down her back, dripping wet. "Hi," she said, seeing John lighting a candle on the dresser. She noticed the aroma of mulberries filled the bedroom and realized there was an array of burning candles scattered around the room. "Where did you ... ?"
"We use them when we first open up the cabin each summer," John said. "It can get pretty musty after being closed all winter."
"They're delicious, like you could eat the very air."
"I thought the scent might help you relax. My attempt at new age aromatherapy."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "Thank you, for everything."
"I'll be in the room next door. If you need anything...'
Cotten lifted the gold crucifix on the chain around his neck. Taking his hand, she pressed the cross inside his palm. "You'll find a balance, too. We both will."
When the lights were out and all she could hear was the sigh of the wind, she lay awake thinking. John was probably right about having her feelings confused, but still there was a pang, a small ache inside her. With John, there were no pretenses, no masquerades. With him she was completely herself, a freedom she hadn't enjoyed in a long, long time. He had opened a door in her heart that had been sealed shut when her father died.
The dream was disturbing. She saw Vanessa, then Thornton, then Gabriel Archer-all through a haze, thicker than fog, like frosted glass. Then she saw her father kneeling on one knee, his hand outstretched, beckoning her to come to him. He spoke, but his words sounded like the rumble of distant thunder. She moved toward him, gliding rather than walking. The closer she got, the more he sank into the fog.
Suddenly, a voice broke through the mist. Her eyes flashed open, but the cloud of the dream still clung.
"Cotten!" John called. "Get up, quick." He shook her and pulled her arm.
"What?" she said, blinking awake. The room was dark except for a single candle that still burned. John had one arm through his flannel shirt and was madly shoving his other arm through the opposite sleeve.
"Hurry," he said, yanking her up and off the bed. "The cabin is on fire!"
Cotten bounded to her feet. She could smell it now, the acrid stench of smoke from burning wood, fabric, plastic.
John grasped her wrist. "Come on," he said, pulling her behind him into the hallway.
The remaining grogginess vanished as she followed, clutching the robe together at her chest. The thickness of the smoke increased, and she felt the heat radiating down the hall. An eerie, flickering orange light came from the living room-the direction they were headed. Cotten balked. "No, you're leading us straight into the fire." She pulled back, resisting.
He tugged on her arm. "Stay with me." His voice was hoarse.
The smoke would suffocate them even before the flames had a chance to burn them, she thought. Cotten nearly lost sight of John in the darkness as she coughed, the smoke stinging her mouth and nose.
Near the end of the hall he stopped and opened the door to the storage closet. He cleared the way, then led her down the narrow stairs to the cellar.
Cotten hugged the wall, wishing for a railing she could hold. The cold sliced into her, but she was thankful there was less smoke in the darkness of the cellar.
They dodged old furniture-stumbling over chests, bumping into large rubber trashcans, and plastic bags stuffed with what she guessed
were clothes or linens.
Cotten tripped on a stack of heavy steel pipes, sending them rolling and clanking across the bare concrete floor. She fell to her hands and knees. "Shit." Pain exploded from the top of her foot where she had smashed it into the pipes.
John clasped her forearm and helped her up. "There's a window," he said. "Over here."
She couldn't see it, couldn't see anything as she hobbled behind him.
"Here," he said, climbing up on an old workbench beside the wall. He unlatched the window and tried to shove it open, but it didn't give.
The basement brightened slightly, and Cotten glanced over her shoulder toward the source. The opening at the top of the stairs glowed with the light from the fire, and a river of heat channeled down the steps. She heard the crackling and popping followed by the thud of falling timbers. The fire raged and would soon eat its way down the wooden stairs, blast into the basement, and feast on the contents.
"We're going to die," she cried.
John shoved again.
Cotten felt around on the workbench, finally coming up with a crescent wrench. "Use this;' she said, handing it up to him.
John took the tool and punched the glass. After the first shatter and tinkle, he ran the wrench around the perimeter of the window clearing out the remaining shards.
"Give me your hand," he said.
Cotten reached up, and he helped her climb beside him. The bench wobbled, and she heard the wood crack. It wasn't going to hold them much longer.
"I'll boost you up," he said. He laced his fingers. "Put your foot in my hands."
Cotten planted her right foot in the center of his hands, and he lifted her up to the window. She wedged her torso through, then grabbed at the earth with her hands and forearms, pulling forward, her robe snagging on the window frame. She worked herself onto a small rocky ledge just below the back deck of the cabin.
The rush of icy air instantly dried out her eyes and pricked her skin like needles.
In a moment she saw John's hands on the outer frame. She latched on to one of his wrists, tugging, helping him rise high enough to finally get his shoulders through.
Quickly, he heaved himself onto the stone ledge. "You all right?" he asked.
"Yes."
"We're going to have to climb up. Think you can do it?"
She glanced at the jagged mountain that seemed to rise almost straight up. "I have to," she said.
Cotten followed him up the steep incline that would lead them to the level ground around the side of the cabin. She seized fistfuls of dry brush, some ripping out of the ground. Losing her footing, she slid backward, the hard ground scouring her skin. Again she attempted to follow the slippery ledge, digging her feet in the frozen ground, clawing at the earth, fighting to keep the robe from entangling her. With each yard of progress she seemed to lose two. "I can't," she said. "It's too steep."
"Get up," John said. "You can make it. It's just a few more feet." He slid down toward Cotten, then moved behind her and heaved her upward. "Keep going."
Cotten stared up. The fire lit the sky to her right. Her hand found an outcrop of rock, and she got a foothold on a trunk of a mountain laurel.
When they reached the level ground, she looked at the cabin. The snowdrifts glistened with the reflection of the fire. Flames erupted from the roof and roared out the windows; the porch caved and collapsed. The cabin burned as if made of kindling-nothing more than tiny splinters of light wood. Sparks from the roof jumped to the branches of a barren hickory that grew close to the house.
John shoved her low to the ground and clapped his hand over her mouth. "Shh," he whispered, pointing. "Look."
Reflections from the fire revealed shadows of two men, hazy silhouettes, standing in the distance along the tree line watching the cabin burn. About thirty yards away sat John and Cotten's rental cars. To reach them they would have to cross in front of the men.
"We can't get to the cars," she whispered.
"We don't need to," John said.
LILLY'S CLOTHES
"JONES!" JOHN POUNDED ON the farmhouse door while he supported Cotten with his other arm. "Open up, Jones!"
Cotten's teeth chattered as she desperately hugged the torn robe to her. The ends of her fingers had at first tingled, but now were numb. And she hadn't felt her toes in the last five minutes.
John rapped on the door again just as the front porch light flashed on.
"Who is it? What's going on out there?" The voice was aged and shaky.
"Jones, it's John Tyler. We need help."
"John?" The door cracked open and Clarence Jones peered through. "What the-" The old man's mouth gaped as he looked at them. "Blankets. I'll get some blankets."
John carried Cotten to the couch and began vigorously rubbing her hands and feet.
"Here;" Jones said, dumping the blankets beside them. "Let me get you some hot chocolate." He headed for the kitchen.
"I'll never be warm again," she said, her voice rattling, her body shivering.
John threw both blankets on Cotten, then sat next to her. He lifted her feet onto his lap, blew his breath in his hands, and put them around her right foot. "Any life coming back to these toes?"
"Slowly," she said, curling her body and leaning her head on the arm of the couch.
All she could think of was the horrific flight from the cellar, then down the side of the mountain. Because she had no shoes, John carried her when possible-running, stopping to rest, lifting her, trekking over the rocky ledges that dropped in back of the cabin toward the creek far below, through the darkness, dodging boulders and jagged outcrops of stone, sliding over iced rocks and into fallen trees. Every time they stopped and she tried to stand on the frozen earth, her feet burned as if ablaze.
Fleeing down the mountain, John had retraced a route memorized from hundreds of childhood journeys. He told her not to worry, that he knew the side of the mountain well enough to maneuver down blindfolded.
As she tried to gather her thoughts, Cotten strained a weak smile, watching John wrap her like a mummy in the thick blankets, tucking the cover especially snug around her feet.
After giving his visitors steaming mugs of Swiss Miss, Jones got a cup for himself and sat in his rocker near the fire. "Now that you folks are warmin' up, you gonna tell me what the hell happened?"
Cotten glanced at John.
"The cabin caught fire," John said. "We barely made it out. Electrical problem, I think."
Jones rocked, sipping his hot chocolate. "My God." He stroked a weathered hand across a stubbled face. "And you and the lady here ran down the mountain to my place?" He sipped again, staring at the fire, then turned to them. "Hmm. Seems it would've been easier to drive." He covered his mouth and coughed. "Don't mean to be prying. See, not much excitement happens 'round here, so ..."
John let out a long breath and moved Cotten's feet from his lap. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "I can't explain it all to you, Clarence. I would if I could. Let me just say that Cotten is in real danger. I thought she'd be safe at the cabin, but I was wrong. The fire was a deliberate attempt on her life."
"What?" Jones's eyes grew large.
"Arson," Cotten said. "Two men set the fire. Then they stood by and watched the cabin burn. We couldn't get to the cars without them seeing us. Hopefully, they think we're dead."
Jones scrunched up his face, obviously shocked. "Let's get the chief on the horn." The old man pushed down on the rocker's arms to get out of the chair. "Police ought to get up there right away if they're gonna nab-"
"No," Cotten blurted. "Nobody can know where we are. We've got to get out of here, first." She explained how her credit cards were canceled, and how John arranged for her to fly to Asheville. "We thought it would be safe. But they still tracked me down. We can't trust anyone. Not even the police. Not yet. Once the authorities trace our cars, they'll know soon enough that we were there."
Jones dropped back into the chair. "What are you gonna do? How can I
help?"
"We need to borrow your truck, if we can," John said. "And we're going to need some clothes for Cotten. Then we'll drive down to Greenville. So you can find it easy enough, I'll leave the truck at Bob Jones University, in the parking lot of the university's museum. I hate to do this to you, Clarence, but you'll have to find a way to get it back on your own.
"I can do that." He laughed. "But I could drive you m'self."
"We don't want you to risk your life, John said. "If they catch up with us, we don't want you in the middle. Will borrowing your truck be too much trouble?"
"No, sir, no trouble. Got the old Buick out back anyway, case of emergencies. Bob Jones, huh? Isn't that a coincidence ... or coin- keedink as my Lilly used to say?" He blew across the surface of the hot chocolate before taking another sip.
"What made you think of the university museum?" Cotten asked.
"I know the museum. I've been there. It's got one of the most highly recognized religious art collections in America. Dolci, Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, VanDyck. And it seems like an easy place for Clarence."
"Who'd have thought-Rembrandt in Greenville, South Carolina?" Cotten said.
John smiled. "We can catch a flight from there."
"How? My cards are no good. Yours probably aren't either."
"I'll try to make a withdrawal from an ATM. If there's a problem with my card, we'll know they're tracking me, too. And if that's the case, I'll get in touch with a friend back in White Plains. He'll wire enough cash for us to fly out of the country, maybe Mexico or South America."
Jones rocked back. "Gotta call the fire department. There's nobody up by your place to report it. Even if there was, they'd be sleeping. The whole mountain might catch if the fire's as bad as you say. Save for the recent snow, it's been mighty dry."
"But you've got to wait until we're gone;" John said.
"They'll ask you how you knew about the fire, Mr. Jones," Cotten said. "It's three-thirty in the morning-not like you were out taking a stroll."