by Ian Withrow
At last Valerie swam back over.
“The only bad thing about this boat, no ladder. Can you give me a hand up?”
Lauren pretended to think about it a moment before sticking her hand out. Valerie grabbed hold and she hauled her up into the boat. Lauren fetched a towel from the bag nearby while Valerie sat down on the deck beside her.
“Thanks.”
Lauren took a seat as well.
“No probl-”
Valerie cut her off by planting a deep, passionate kiss on her lips. Valerie’s full, plump lips lingered against her own for several heartbeats before she pulled away. Lauren was shocked, but her body responded hungrily. Lauren raised herself up and straddled her companion, a torrent of emotion bursting through to the surface. Putting a hand on either side of Valerie’s face, she returned the kiss with vigor. Valerie’s hands slid up her back, tickling her bare skin and sending sparks along her nerves. She pulled her closer, pressing their bodies together in the growing heat of the night.
“Lauren,” Valerie breathed the word through parted lips.
Lauren was an uncaged animal. She sucked Valerie’s bottom lip between her own and bit down gently on it, eliciting a gasp of excited pleasure. Her partner’s response only further aroused her. She kissed her way across to Valerie’s neck and up to her ear. She was heedless of their surroundings, responding only to the cues she felt from Valerie’s body and her own hunger.
Lauren nibbled on Valerie’s earlobe. She could feel Valerie’s hands move from her back to her bare thighs. Delicate fingers slipped under the hem of her makeshift skirt and up towards her hips. Valerie’s touch lit a fire inside of her unlike anything she had ever felt before.
But the placement of her hands, the slowly rising fabric at her hips, it was too familiar. Lauren’s mind cruelly reminded her of Weyland. Of the cavalier manner in which he had handled her body in the dream and afterwards. She tried to focus, but try as she might Valerie’s soft touch felt unnaturally like the rough heat of Weyland’s skin.
She pushed back, her passion cooling with the humiliating thoughts of his abuse. Valerie could feel Lauren hesitate, and she stopped immediately.
“Are you ok? What’s wrong? I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-”
Lauren scooted back onto the blankets. She felt her hands shaking and tried to calm her breathing. She couldn’t yet bring herself to speak, but she gave Valerie a forced smile and a nod.
“Look, Lauren, I’m very sorry if I overstepped my bounds. I-I must have misjudged the mood. I… I understand it may have been awkward or out of place for you. It won’t happen again.”
Lauren couldn’t put into words how much it mattered to her that Valerie was so concerned about her consent. Her words broke through Lauren’s carefully crafted emotional walls and a flood of tears threatened to pour out.
“Please, don’t apologize. You didn’t overstep. Honestly, it was wonderful. I’m just... not ready.”
Lauren was kicking herself internally. She wanted desperately to tell her. But she couldn’t. What would Valerie think of her if she knew? Her newfound friendship was too precious to risk. She settled beside her companion, looking for answers in the darkness around them.
“Can we talk about something else for a while? Please?”
Valerie nodded solemnly.
“Anything at all, I’m all yours.”
Despite her offer they sat in silence for several minutes before Lauren finally spoke.
“How far is it to London?”
“We’ve around 18 hours of driving left. In all likelihood we could be there by this time tomorrow... if you wanted.”
One more day.
Lauren pondered her predicament. How would London change things? Did she really want to go to London, or simply stay with Valerie? Valerie’s hand slipped into hers and eased her worry.
“Do we have to go straight there?”
Valerie furrowed her brow.
“Lauren, I meant what I said. The world has stolen your youth from you. You’ve been kicked back and forth from place to place by people always demanding more from you for years. I know a few things about growing up too soon.”
She put her arm around Lauren’s shoulders and drew her close.
“You deserve to live. To breathe. To be alive for yourself instead of just existing for the good of other people. For once in your life, live by your own schedule.”
Lauren was flooded with relief, she laid her head on Valerie’s shoulder and stared out into the night.
Three magical days on the Liebeslied, eight more spent zigzagging through Europe, and the old truck was finally rumbling across eastern France an hour or so from the English Channel.
“So explain this to me again. How are we getting across?”
Valerie smiled thinly, she wasn’t a huge fan of the plan either, but it was the best she could come up with.
“So, I’ll drive the truck onto one of the vehicle transport cars.”
“Right.”
“Then I’ll get out, get my passport checked, and head to the passenger cars.”
“Mhmm.”
“You’ll be hidden in the truck, where you’ll stay for the twenty-seven minute trip across the Channel. Meanwhile I’ll ride in the passenger area…”
“Right. See, that part. Not thrilled.”
“Well, Lauren, I’m sorry but I just don’t see another way to do it. Not unless you want to risk flying. It’s 50 kilometers at the Chunnel, longer elsewhere. What if someone sees you?”
“What if the train breaks down! Or catches fire! Or the freight transport cars are filled with horrible fumes and toxic gases that are kept out by the passenger cars!”
Valerie chewed on her bottom lip, the laundry list of horrible things that could go wrong was fairly extensive.
“Ok. Say you flew, and managed to make it across without being seen. How would I find you again? Folkestone is no small town, and neither is Dover.”
Lauren could tell that Valerie was getting worked up, she was fidgeting while she spoke and her eyes darted nervously around the road.
“Hey, hey I’m gonna be ok.”
“But, what if I can’t find you?”
“You won’t have to, I’ll ride on the train ok?”
Lauren’s worry proved to be unfounded, as the freight cars were state-of-the-art and even climate controlled. They shared a laugh at their unnecessary fretting while they departed the Folkestone terminal and headed into Britain.
The countryside was filled with lush greenery and Lauren adored the rolling hills of green and fences made of stone that zipped past them on the M20.
“So you live in London then?”
“Well, Farningham actually.”
“Never heard of it,” Lauren joked.
“Yes well, I should think not. There’s only a thousand of us after all!”
“Is it close?”
“To London?”
“No, to Paris, of course to London!”
“Sassy from your train ride I see. Yes, it’s in Kent, Seven Oaks District.
Lauren Raised an eyebrow.
“Well, we don’t have states, so to speak. We have countries, which have regions, which have shires or counties, which have districts, which have towns.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not.”
“I could never live here.”
Valerie gripped her hand tightly.
“That’s a shame, I was rather getting my hopes up.”
Lauren was caught off guard and blushed deeply. She couldn’t think of a witty response so she simply squeezed back and tried to stifle the huge, goofy grin that appeared on her face.
Chapter Six
The bulky truck turned off of the highway and down a narrow path, rumbling into a sleepy town nestled in the countryside. The winding cobbled streets and timeworn buildings were straight out of a fairy tale. Lauren craned her neck this way and that, trying to soak in every charming sight the quaint little village had
to offer. She caught sight of an old-timey butcher shop, a young woman on a park bench reading, a tiny village newspaper office, and a few statues that might have been a thousand years old. In the blink of an eye they were emerging on the other side, once again staring at rolling hills and open fields.
Valerie turned right on the last street in town. They followed it to an old farmhouse sitting on a modest acreage surrounded by a short stone fence.
“Well, here we are. Home sweet home.”
Lauren was impressed, the place was unassuming but elegant. The yard was trimmed, and the house looked taken care of, as did the outbuildings sitting on the property. It could have been any farmhouse in the midwest where she had grown up, and a wave of nostalgia washed over her.
“All this is yours?”
“Yes, well it was my parents anyway.”
“How do you keep it so well taken care of if you’re gone for weeks at a time?”
“I’ve a fellow in town that takes care of things around here, sort of a tradition between our two families that stretches quite far back.”
“Like a butler?”
Valerie cringed at the word.
“No, not like a butler. A very stubborn old man who insists on helping me with my housekeeping and whom I try desperately to pay appropriately for his services. He’s not overly fond of accepting my money, as it turns out.”
They approached the house on a long winding crushed gravel path and Valerie pulled her truck into one of the barns. She parked and hopped out, indicating to Lauren that they could leave their belongings for the moment. Not that Lauren had any.
Lauren stepped free of the vehicle and saw a veritable wave of white fluff rounding the corner of the barn and heading their way. She yelped in surprise and then burst out laughing as a small herd of sheep surrounded Valerie, bleating for her attention.
Valerie was red in the face and trying to evenly distribute chin scratches and head pats to the needy animals.
“Sorry, they miss me terribly when I’m gone!”
Valerie had to shout to overcome the noisy gaggle.
Well, that explained how one stubborn old man could keep the grass looking so neat. It seemed he had a great deal of hungry, four-legged help.
“You didn’t think to tell me you were Little Bo Peep while we road-tripped across the entire continent?”
Valerie look strangely embarrassed.
“Yes well, ah, it never came up.”
Lauren waited patiently until Valerie sighed and continued.
“We’re shepherds and weavers, or were. It’s the original source of my family’s… holdings. Chatwick wool has been highly regarded by English weavers for a few centuries. My grandfather and my father took us global.”
Lauren nodded, it was obvious that her wealth was a source of embarrassment for Valerie.
“It’s just, it all looks like rather a lot compared to so many other people. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m some kind of stuffy British landowner, you know?”
Lauren could understand. She’d seen a great deal of crushing poverty and slum-living in her short life as well. This idyllic country home, with its ancient stone fence and rolling fields, was far from ostentatious though. To Lauren’s eyes it looked like heaven.
“I can’t imagine ever leaving. It’s wonderful here.”
“Well just remember you said that when we get inside. The house creaks like an old man and is only slightly less drafty than this barn.”
Valerie led the way across the yard, stopping to look around for anyone who might observe them before waving Lauren onward. They slipped unnoticed into a moderately sized foyer that opened into a sitting room.
Valerie began a thorough tour of the property. Wide doors and high ceilings prevented Lauren from feeling her usual claustrophobia while inside. The large sitting room formed a hub from which the rest of the house radiated. Sleek granite counters and teak cabinets elevated a large but otherwise unremarkable kitchen that, along with the sitting room, a guest bathroom, and a small but well-stocked library formed the bottom floor of the house. The wide spiral staircase leading to the second floor was a work of art in its own right. Masterful carpentry made the glowing hardwood look like flowing water as it wound upward to a long carpeted hallway.
The majority of the upstairs was taken up by what Valerie called the ‘Weaving Room,’ a clean but obviously unused space with a few large bales of wool fiber, jars of dye, and an exquisite wooden loom among other things.
There were also three bedrooms upstairs. The first two were draped in white cloth, as though nothing had been moved in many years.
“And this is the master suite, such as it is.”
Valerie pulled open a large, six-panelled wooden door revealing a massive four-poster bed set atop a plush purple carpet. She indicated that Lauren should enter, and then followed her as she did so.
Lauren was transported back a hundred years. Every piece of furniture was an antique. Not the untouched, museum replica style of antique, but rather the warm, “lived-in” sort of old that exuded love and light. The most eye-catching feature of the room was a series four of large, framed photographs that sat in a row beside a deep bay window.
“What are these?”
Lauren approached and examined the pictures. The first was of a woman, she looked very much like Valerie, but older. The woman had longer hair, and was smiling shyly at her feet while holding a lacey parasol. The photo was a little blurry, and had faded through the years, but Lauren judged from the sundress the woman wore that it was taken at a beach somewhere.
“That’s my mother. Angelica Scott. It’s one of the first photographs I took as a child. She bought me my first camera that summer. This one here is my father, building a model airplane with my older brother.”
Sure enough, the second photo was of an older man and a young boy assembling small wooden pieces at a desk. Lauren immediately recognized the library downstairs. The man had his back to the camera, but his sensible vest and trousers gave a businesslike appearance quite at odds with his unkempt hair. The boy standing next to him was in profile, and shared the slender jawline of his little sister. His eyes sparkled with obvious joy that matched his wide smile. Lauren chuckled at his funny school uniform.
“He was in his second year at Hamilton’s Academy, just home for the summer.”
The third photograph was the whole family, save Valerie. They were assembled in front of an old church. They were all several years older than the previous picture as well. The boy was wearing a crisp, military uniform and the man had a cane that seemed to perfectly suit his round glasses and bowler hat. The woman looked thinner, and she wore a broad bandana on her head. Her smile was less carefree, but just as beautiful.
“St. Agnes. My family is very religious.”
Lauren sensed a great deal of bitterness in her tone, and decided not to press for details. Still, the cold response stuck out in her mind.
“And this?”
The final photograph was a confusing, almost abstract display. It was severely overexposed, little more than a white blur with a few faded figures in it. Dark cracks filled the frame, giving the viewer the impression they were looking through a broken window.
Valerie was silent. Lauren looked back at her and was surprised at how angry her companion appeared. She slipped a calm, passive expression onto her face but not before Lauren saw her anguish.
“Valerie?”
“You could call that a mistake, rather than a picture I meant to take. I… dropped my camera. I covered it, but not before I ruined the whole roll of film. That’s the only frame I could salvage. I won an award for that photograph, ironically. In fact I owe my career in large part to it.”
Lauren shifted uncomfortably in the awkward silence that followed her terse reply. She cast around the room for something else to discuss. She took note of a doorway that led to a large bathroom, and a another that she presumed was a closet.
“Is that a walk-in? I’ve
always loved walk-in closets…”
“Let’s get a drink. I’ll show you the wine cellar?”
Valerie didn’t wait for a reply, but turned on her heel and headed back out of the room. Lauren rushed to keep up with her, catching up as they got to the stairs.
“Hey, I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“Hmm? Oh, of course not love. Just the nostalgia that comes from a dusty old house full of memories, that’s all.”
Lauren remained unconvinced.
Valerie led her outside and around the back of the house. The rear of the structure was much the same as the front, save another small outbuilding with a curious glass roof on it. She didn’t dwell on the structure, though, as she was busy scanning the horizon for someone who might see them.
Lauren’s midnight-black feathers seems to swallow the bright sunlight of the afternoon and she felt incredibly conspicuous after hiding for so long. She glanced around nervously while Valerie fiddled with an old lock on the door to a storm cellar. Finally, the rusty mechanism loosened it’s grasp and she heaved open the broad wooden doors.
Lauren was nonplussed at the mess of cobwebs before them. Her skin crawled at the thought of spiders in her feathers, nestled in where it might be impossible for her to get them out. She shivered at the realization that this gruesome event may have already occurred. That even now she may be playing host to tiny, eight-legged terrors.
“Lauren? Are you ok? You look really pale.”
Lauren gagged a little, and held her finger up.
“I just. I’m suddenly horrified to think of how my wings and spiderwebs might mix.”
Valerie shared her look of concerned disgust.
“I’ll go first. Furthermore I shall personally uh, preen your feathers to put your mind at ease.”
Preen.
Lauren laughed out loud at her word choice. She felt for an instant like an expensive macaw. She took a deep breath and nodded, steeling herself to follow Valerie.
Valerie made good on her promise and led the way, brushing away the thick webs as she did. Fortunately, it seemed the highest concentration of webbing was at the doorway, and the cellar itself was surprisingly clean. The brick walls and clay floor were dry and clear. A pair of old dim light bulbs with wild, spiral filaments provided illumination, revealing boxes filled with odds and ends and a large metal rack filled to the brim with dust-covered bottles.