by Platt, Sean
As John showered and got ready for work, Hope buried herself in bed, wondering just how well she really knew John.
They had met during a sea change for both of them.
Hope graduated from New York’s Pratt Institute in 1995 but found breaking into the well-paying end of the art scene about as easy as spinning straw into gold. After a vacation with a friend, she found herself in love with Saint Augustine and its Old World Spanish architecture. Though the art community was smaller than New York’s, it wasn’t much easier to crack. She’d entered and won a few contests, took part in some exhibits, but hadn’t exactly broken out or been able to translate her efforts into regular income.
At first, she told herself she’d wait tables at Umberto’s to support her artistic endeavors. She considered herself an artist who happened to wait tables. Then, almost without realizing it, she’d almost stopped painting. She was a server who just happened to paint in the waning occasions when time and inspiration collided. In her experience, dreams didn’t die quick deaths; each one suffocated through a slow and almost invisible demise.
Then she met Sergei.
He, and his boyfriend, Stephan, were regulars at the restaurant. They were especially friendly and often pulled her into their banter, asking about her day with nearly identical smiles. Surprisingly, Hope had never thought to mention her artistic passion. One day, she overheard them talking about an old gallery that had gone out of business the year before. Hope slipped into the conversation and discovered Sergei was also an artist. He’d made his money — quite a bit judging from his taste in clothes and wines — in real estate. He had decided to bankroll his true passion and open his own commercial gallery.
Hope joked, “Got room to showcase an up-and-coming painter/waitress?”
She was kidding, never thinking they’d take her seriously.
Stephan, suddenly excited as if they’d discovered a fellow artist among the peasants, said, “Oh? What do you paint?”
“Oils, mostly — realism, romanticism, impressionism.” She laughed. “I’ve even tried pointillism. Take your pick of any ism.”
For a moment, she worried that maybe she should’ve offered a more sober response, but was so used to the carefree back-and-forth that she found it hard to be serious. She felt like the world’s biggest dork.
“Do you have any samples?” Sergei asked.
“Yeah, I carry canvases wherever I go,” Hope joked again, before biting her tongue. Then she remembered that she’d given her boss, Umberto, a painting for his birthday. She practically skipped to his office, asking if she could borrow it for a moment before running back to the table.
“Ta-da,” she said, holding the canvas, tilting it forward into better lighting.
It wasn’t her best work by any means, but it was good. The painting was of the diner, a pedestrian subject, but one she thought would please Umberto. The magic in the painting wasn’t in its subject, but in the beautiful mingling of light and shadow that cast the canvas in a romantic glow.
“Oh my God.” To say Stephan loved the painting was an understatement. Sergei echoed his sentiments.
Two months later, Sergei featured two of Hope’s works at The Loft’s grand opening. Little did she know one of those paintings would lure John into her life.
The gallery was swarming with people. Hope shifted, uneasy under the glare of attention, doing her best to widen her half smile into a full one while keeping the small talk flowing between both those who wished to meet her and the money people Sergei sent her way.
So this is what it feels like to be a rock star in training.
Though the moment was everything she’d always dreamed of — the launch of her career as a bona fide artist — part of her wanted to shrink away, run home, and curl into the couch with a good book and a blanket of silence. She had to fight the urge to flee and find that social part inside her, incongruous with her more reclusive artist side.
John happened to be passing by, “right time and right place,” as he’d later say, when he happened to glance into the gallery. Her painting had drawn him in.
Dusk Wanderlust was a painting of a man standing beneath a tangled briar of shadows at the edge of a high bluff, a jagged crag of jutting rock above a wide sea of rolling waves beneath a violet sky churning with clouds. The man stared into the distance, and seemingly into John’s depths. Never one for art, he would’ve kept on walking had he not felt certain that he and the man in the painting were sharing a secret.
Hope was speaking with Sergei about an irritating harpy of a woman, Doris McEllny — an overbearing, far-too-chatty fiftysomething socialite whose money and name tore her ticket into these sorts of events. She acted like everyone’s best friend, but her cattiness made the world hate her in private.
Sergei assured Hope that she’d only have to put up with people like Doris at every major event and most of the minor ones. Hope laughed — an honest sound that echoed against the gallery walls and warmed her from within. She glanced around to make sure Doris wasn’t around and spotted the man bolted to her painting, his head tilted in a pantomime of attempted recall.
“Oh, he’s a cute one,” Stephan teased Hope, nudging her forward. “What are you waiting for?”
Hope was already a mile outside her comfort zone. She turned to Stephan, laughed again, and shook her head. But something compelled her feet toward the stranger.
At first, John hadn’t noticed.
As she approached from behind, his head was still tilted in that odd way, reminding her of a curious cat she had as a child. She noticed his dark hair, falling just past his strong-looking shoulders, a bit wild but not quite grunge. A thick black peacoat hung just right. His jeans were a faded cerulean blue. His boots were black, scuffed enough to show the miles. His clothes said blue collar, maybe local band.
Hope had gone out with too many guys in that area code to have interest in another self-obsessed boozer. If he hadn’t turned, ever so slightly at that moment, she might have retreated.
His face was remarkably youthful, healthy, and smooth, not at all the kind of face she expected to see, weathered by years of assorted abuses. Then there were his eyes, impossibly blue, peeking from beneath his dark thatch of hair.
Hope’s tongue was a clumsy brick in her mouth. She wasn’t used to approaching guys. Every first date had been initiated by the guys.
She spoke without thinking. “This artist is a real hack, eh?” Nervous laughter hid the small dorky death inside her.
What the hell was that?
His face looked as if he were trying to think of something clever. Ah, thinking before you speak, what a novel concept. His head tilted like a quizzical cat again. He raised a finger, pointing at her, and smiled widely.
Such a beautiful smile.
“Ah, you’re the artist, aren’t you?” His voice was quiet, yet strong. Friendly, with the slightest hint of an accent she couldn’t place.
Hope nodded then blushed against another nervous laugh, might have even crossed one leg in front of the other, though she wasn’t even aware of her limbs.
He explained how he’d been walking by, saw the painting, and felt mesmerized. He had to come inside for a closer look. They talked about her inspiration for the painting, a dream she had. They discussed her ambition to become a real artist and the drudgery of her day job. She rambled on about her favorite movies, books, and trashy magazines. She even told the stranger about the time when she was twelve and had stolen a Kit Kat from the corner store but felt guilty and tried to sneak a new candy bar back onto the shelves, only to get busted in the process.
“Well, I can see why you got out of the thieving business,” he teased.
Just like that, twenty-three minutes disappeared, and the world faded around them. They were the stage’s only players, talking fast, laughing, and trading all manner of minutiae, when she suddenly found herself observing the moment from within herself and thinking, I really like this guy.
She actually thought, I co
uld really love this guy, though she would never have admitted it at the time.
Then, as if this handsome stranger had somehow sensed Hope’s inner dialogue, the conversation paused and stretched into the first awkward silence since their first traded words.
Holy shit, I’m out of interesting things to say! Please, please, say something so I don’t have to!
Then he did.
“I just realized, I haven’t even introduced myself.”
She was stunned that it hadn’t even crossed her mind. She’d already talked for so long without asking his name or giving her own.
“John.” The beautiful man extended his hand.
“Hope,” she nearly whispered, looking downward, blushing again as their hands touched.
She would have sworn she felt a spark.
“Hope?”
She surfaced from the stew of memories to see John, one hand on the blonde wood of their sleigh bed, the other buttoning the top button on his black shirt. He only worked three days a week, but one was Saturday, which meant a dozen or so straight hours of hell at the restaurant. He’d leave at 10 in the morning and be lucky to beat midnight home.
She glanced at the clock: 8:14 a.m.
“Going in early?”
“Yeah, Jerry asked if I could help get things ready for the Dresdin banquet. They booked last minute, as always.”
“Oh,” Hope said, her eyes slightly off to the side, fingers roaming in a circle around John’s rumpled absence.
“What are you doing today?”
“I dunno. Maybe I’ll call Michelle, see if she wants to do something.”
“Okay,” John said.
He was standing at the edge of the bed but seemed barely in the room. Hope wondered if he were worried at all, leaving her home alone after last night and what happened with the police. Maybe his mind was on the cops for another reason? Something in her stomach soured the rest of her for allowing a cobweb of doubt to settle in a corner of her mind.
She looked back up, reminding herself that the man she loved was incapable of killing.
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
His face thawed. Dancing eyes pulled his face into a grin that seemed somehow … off.
Doubt turned like a screw, deeper into her brain. She thought about his inability to sleep and the occasional late-night jogs John insisted he needed to burn his energy.
She thought about the trunk.
John’s trunk — the lone belonging he had moved from his world into theirs, other than the clothes on his back and few worn books — flickered into her mind. The trunk had sat in the back of their closet since the day he brought it into their house. She’d never seen him open it, nor look inside.
When asked about the trunk, John said it was mostly junk from his past. But “junk” rarely invited so many excuses. Bad memories he didn’t care to revisit. Given the bits of his history she’d culled together from scraps of conversation or odd comments, Hope suspected he’d been abused by a few of his foster families. So she never pushed the matter, or asked why the trunk was secured by a thick padlock.
“Good; go out and have some fun,” he said. “I’m sure everything will be fine. If you need me, I’ve got my phone. I’ll rush right home.”
Hope followed John downstairs and kissed him goodbye. She closed the door, turned the lock, and slid against the door until she was sitting on the mat, staring at the ceiling. Hope would’ve loved to believe she was lost in thought, but her mind was wandering up the stairs to the back of the closet, right to the trunk resting beneath his folded pea coat.
Slapped by a sudden memory, she shot to her feet, glanced out the window to make sure John was gone, and headed straight for the change jar on his nightstand, where he made regular deposits of pocket treasure, rubber bands, paper clips, and keys.
Guilt gnarled her insides with every step.
John was the kindest, most honest, genuine man she’d ever met. The first to treat her with respect and care more about her than getting into bed. She was his everything. Never in a million years could she imagine he’d lie to her.
Nor would he ever spy on her and search through her belongings.
She hedged outside the closet then reached inside to flick on the light. A spark of static electricity shot through her hand, and she snapped it back. The closet was packed with clothes, boxes of her junk, and small mountains of things they didn’t have room for but that she hadn’t been ready to toss.
The trunk sat there, a bulwark between their pasts.
Don’t do it, Hope told herself — even as she grabbed the change jar and spilled its contents onto their unmade bed.
Leave it alone. He would never do this to you.
Her hand waved through the cool sea of silver and copper until she found what she was looking for. A single brass-colored key that looked as if it had never been used. She went back into the closet.
Don’t do it.
The voice was insistent, but not very convincing.
She inserted the key. A latch clicked inside.
Forty-Six
John And Hope
John
Saint Augustine’s historic district was charming gothic eaves arching over the worn but still mostly gorgeous moldings of row upon row of peeling Victorians. Street parking was scant in the overbuilt and overcrowded quarter, and unfortunately for residents, a steady sea of tourists swallowed most of the available spaces, leaving locals to hitch it several blocks from their mortgages.
Any other day, and the agitation would’ve creased his brow, but John knew the morning’s half-mile walk past homes turned into bed and breakfast spots, interspersed with houses in various states of renovation, would give him an advantage. Hope would never see him point his car west and away from the restaurant.
He’d have to be quick. His shift started at 10 a.m., and he couldn’t risk being late and having someone call home. He felt Hope’s swelling suspicions, despite her best efforts. Even if he hadn’t been hypersensitive to human emotions, her discomfort was clear. They knew one another well, but John knew Hope in ways she didn’t know herself.
Guilt tried to stake a claim in his mind, but John was quick to evict it. Deception was necessary — no woman could ever love the monster he’d been. Certainly not a woman as sweet and kind as Hope.
It wasn’t as if he’d sold her on a lie without any truth. The John she knew was as real as any other part of him, the him he strived to be. His ideal version, freed from alien instincts and inhuman hunger. He was, by most accounts, the man Hope had fallen in love with — or at least he thought he’d been. But then the doorbell rang and turned his nightmares into reality.
Had he really killed someone without knowing it?
Maybe this John was a guise even to himself.
That was exactly what he intended to find out.
John circled his intended block twice, never moving his eyes from the rearview for longer than a second. He couldn’t afford to be followed. He did as usual, swinging the car into the U-Store-It complex, punching his pass code into the dingy aluminum box and waiting for the black metal gate to lurch open and invite him inside.
Hope
Hope turned the key and opened the trunk stuffed with John’s buried past. The scent of cedar brought back memories of her childhood and a giant chest owned by her mother. She almost smiled.
The contents were neatly stacked: bound journals, a metal lock box, and a red scarf, obviously a woman’s.
Whose scarf is this?
She wondered if John was still holding a torch for someone else and felt the cruel blade of betrayal, even though this was thin evidence at best.
Hope heard a creaking floorboard and jumped, startled, dropping the keys into the trunk with a dull thudding chime. Her heart pounded as she imagined John entering the room and catching her in the act. But he wasn’t in the room. It was probably the sound of a settling house.
She caught her breath and fished the dropped keys from the bottom. Her han
d brushed a stack of five journals, all in pristine condition. The whisper inside her wasn’t shy.
Shut the trunk, and leave John’s past where it belongs. If he wanted to share it, he would have.
But he hadn’t.
And why not?
What’s he hiding?
Okay, but quick.
She grabbed the book on top of the stack, a black leather tome with a crimson strap.
Her heartbeat sped up as she unfastened the cover and opened the book.
The pages weren’t filled with John’s careful block letters, though it was clearly his writing. The flowing strokes looked as though they’d been scribbled in a rush, despite entries that sprawled for pages. All two hundred pages of the book were packed with writing, all in an odd and unfamiliar language. She’d read and seen enough during her years to think she’d recognize most languages in print. She wouldn’t understand them, of course, but would at least have an idea what she was seeing. But this was completely foreign.
“What the hell?”
She grabbed the other journals, quickly flipping through hundreds of identical pages.
Another floorboard creaked. Her heart skipped before finding its usual patter.
She grabbed the metal box next, surprised to find it unlocked, and swung the lid open, greeted by a stash of folded newspaper articles and photographs sitting beneath a blue velvet pouch. Spilling from the pouch was a perfectly smooth black rock, the size and shape of a small apple. It felt colder and smoother than it should have, as if it were made of molded ice.
What the hell?
There were two photos, old and faded. One was of a small, Northeastern, rural-looking two-story home. The other was of two young boys standing in front of the same house, each holding an ice cream cone — four scoops and two goofy grins. The boy on the left had to be John. She smiled at the younger version of him, feeling like she was getting a peek back in time at the man she’d come to love.