by Brea Viragh
“Think nothing of it,” Patricia urged. “But you’re going to have to go to the market to get more. Otherwise I won’t be able to make my famous quiche for dinner. We have leftover ham in the freezer that needs to be used up but we’re going to need more eggs from the store. Okay?”
Thomas entered the kitchen with a yawn, rubbing his eyes, his red-gold hair sticking out at all angles. “What’s burning?” he muttered.
My sweet brother, only eight years old and with the whole world ahead of him. He didn’t need to know about my worries. “It’s nothing, honey,” I reassured him.
My eyes fell on the mess in the basket for a moment longer before the smoke from the pan had me shaking off the odd sensation between my shoulder blades. Excuses. Everything my mother said was an excuse.
I knew she hadn’t dropped the basket.
But I smiled at her and my brother anyway, flipping off the burner and pushing those dark thoughts aside for another day, another time. “It’s no problem getting more eggs, Momma. I’ll head out in a bit. It’s not like I have anything else to do today. Thomas, sit down so you can eat your breakfast. I’ll scrape away the burned bits. You won’t even taste them.”
Patricia’s own smile turned sad as she bent down with towel in hand, wiping at the spread of broken yolks on the floor with a barely concealed wince of pain.
I did that.
Not the pain from arthritis, but the eggs. The explosion.
I’d done other things, too, things Patricia had been just as hasty to write off as accidents. Like the time I’d caught my shirt on fire although I hadn’t been standing anywhere near the stove. Or the time I spilled milk on the counter and when I went to clean it up, it trailed off into the sink though no one had touched it.
“Aren’t you going to stay and eat with me?” Thomas asked as I set his plate down in front of him.
“I can’t today, kiddo, I’ve got to run. Tomorrow, I promise.” Forced normalcy had me reaching out to pat him on the shoulder the way I always did, hoping he didn’t see the way my fingers trembled.
I grabbed my book on the way out the door and didn’t look back.
Sick. I felt sick and I had no way to combat the swelling nausea. What had I done to those eggs? How had I done it?
And why was my mother so quick to turn a blind eye and offer an excuse?
While it was still early in the morning, the sun burned down bright overhead, waves of heat shimmering above the sidewalk. We were in for a blistering hot August by all accounts.
I clasped the book in my hand and drew in a deep breath. The scents of summer, the air saturated with heat and life. Renewal even as the months marched steadily toward autumn.
My favorite time of year.
I think.
It was as if I was a partially finished painting, with some areas filled in and the rest left showing the plain white canvas beneath. No one wanted to help me with the unfinished bits.
The steps to the market were memorized and allowed me to keep reading instead of watching where I was going. I knew where I was going. Nothing ever changed. My eyes devoured lines of black print inside my book. I knew the book, too. Knew it well. Maybe I should ignore the familiar plot and look for hidden clues. Who knew, maybe there were answers between the lines. In the spaces between words. Hints and clues that only I could see and interpret.
Yeah, sure.
But I needed something to get my mind off of the eggs Patricia had insisted she’d clean up. If she wanted me out of the house, then I would oblige. And apparently that’s exactly what she’d wanted.
Her comment on meeting people my own age had hurt, though.
No one my age chose to associate with me. I carried a stigma unknown to me, an invisible stigma no one bothered to tell me of but insisted on nonetheless. No wonder I’d rather lose myself in a book, in a story. Because fiction was infinitely kinder than reality.
I would never tell my mother that I recognized her subterfuge, the way she kept me in the dark. Not with outright lies. Never lies. But I knew when she spun a tale around me. I could hear what she didn’t say as well.
Just as I heard them speaking about me even now as I walked down the street. Those subtle whispers from the people I passed on the sidewalk.
There goes Reila Barnes. What a strange woman.
Have you ever seen a weirder person? She rarely leaves the house. Her mother keeps her at home because she knows how crazy the girl is.
Odd things happen around her, I hear.
You’d better not get too close. There’s something not quite right about her…
Yeah, crazy. Strange. Odd. Not quite right. I’d rather they think me crazy. It was nothing compared to what I thought about myself. Odd things did happen around me. Like the eggs breaking today, or the time I’d grabbed a hot cup of coffee only to find it frozen over moments later.
Perfectly normal abnormalities, Patricia had told me, with their own logical explanations. And the funny thing is…I had no choice but to accept that, because I couldn’t remember enough to make that judgment call myself.
I pushed the undertones about me aside and refused to listen to them any longer. They did nothing to help me. They did nothing except bring my attention to the things I already knew about myself.
For instance that I wasn’t like other people.
The town of Bellmare in the Halsworthy Kingdom was its own little slice of paradise, and I stood out as a whisper on the lips of the townsfolk more than anyone else. It didn’t matter that my mother sold her art to galleries and on the street during the market days, nor that she had stood as a pillar of this community since she’d moved here decades ago.
Once she’d been a nomadic traveler, blowing wherever the wind took her. She’d often regaled me with stories of the places she’d seen and the people she’d met, the scenes she’d painted before she decided to settle down and start a family. But those days were long gone. Even after her merchant husband, my father, died, Patricia had never regained her momentum again. And whatever drive she’d had to travel had disappeared.
I wondered if my passion for escaping into books was some version of wanderlust I’d inherited from her. The words on the pages called to me, the images conjured in my mind cementing a connection between this world and that. Like now, even doing something as simple as walking a path I’d walked countless times, I was here but not here. Ignoring the whispers and stares, I went back to that world which was so much more appealing to me than this one ever—
“Hey, watch where you’re going!”
I glanced up just in time to see a muscled chest directly in my path. My sneakers skidded to such an abrupt stop my balance was upset and I went down hard on my tailbone. A smile I did not trust in a face I dreaded to see loomed above me.
Chapter 2
Gray Matthews did not help me up. In fact, he just stood there, towering over me, his smile growing into an unpleasant sneer as he stared.
“You need to watch where you’re going. You can’t just run into people and then expect them to help you,” he said, brushing the front of his blazer to make sure there were no spots of dirt to ruin his immaculate image.
I stifled a groan. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Matthews. I’ll take it under consideration.”
Gray was the type of guy to idly meddle where he wasn’t wanted on the best of occasions. The kind who believed the world owed him whatever he wanted because of his natural good looks and charisma. On the worst of occasions, well, he asserted himself with the tenacity of a pig hunting truffles in the woods.
Especially when it came to women he considered worthy of his attention. And sadly, for the last year, I’d been his target.
He was tall and good-looking, with clothes perfectly tailored and much finer than anything I might have worn in my life. At least, my life now.
His eyes grew wide, as if he’d only just now recognized me. But I wasn’t fooled. “Well, well, Reila Barnes. What are you doing outside on this fine day? With your n
ose in a book, no less,” he cooed.
His sly smile was a look I recognized all too well: he thought he’d captured me.
With a sigh, I pushed myself upright, trying to overcome the urge to slap the smile right off of his handsome, disgusting face.
“It’s nice to see you too, Gray. As usual,” I said with forced cheer. “And thanks for lending me a hand there. I really appreciate it.”
I inhaled, urging my insides to calm. Sarcasm and irony were lost on him. Lord, give me the strength to let him walk away…
I wouldn’t do anything bad to him. Not really. But damn, whatever semblance of peace I’d fought for after the egg incident immediately evaporated in a haze of frustration.
I rubbed the tender skin on my rump and tried to ignore what was sure to develop into a splitting headache if I wasted any more time with Gray.
“Honestly, Reila, if you spend much more of your time with books then you’re going to forget how to live.” He flashed me a charming wink. Or surely what he thought to be charming. “You need to get out more. Your skin is so pale. Almost translucent. Beautiful, of course, but a nice golden glow would complement your hair to perfection.”
“Well, I’m out right now, and I have to say I’m not really enjoying the view.” Anger welled up inside of me and I flicked my hair over my shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Gray, I have places to be and people to see that don’t involve you. I was on my way to the market.”
Handsome, yes. One of the better-looking men in the kingdom, with rich dark locks that curled over slanted amber eyes. He stood taller than most, with shoulders wide enough to block out the sun. Now they bumped against mine as Gray fell into step beside me. Obviously not deterred.
And there went any thought of escape, I thought with a sigh. He kept his body solidly between me and the street, with buildings at my other side. I could make a break for it but odds were good that with his long, muscled legs he’d catch up to me in no time.
Besides, it wouldn’t look good for the crazy woman to sprint away from the town golden boy without provocation.
“Off to go buy more books, is what I’m sure you mean,” he said easily, slinking along beside me wearing a sneer.
I pointedly ignored the way his elbow tapped against my arm, his shoulder bumping mine occasionally. “I can see how you feel about literature. I have to say, your opinions aren’t impressing me much.”
And although he didn’t subscribe to any of the gossip surrounding me—too dense to do more than focus on my face, apparently—I didn’t have time for him or his overt come-ons.
“I read,” Gray insisted almost petulantly.
“Picture books don’t count.”
“Come now. Don’t be like that.” His chastisement skittered along my spine and despite the heat, I shivered. “There’s no need to insult me when I only want to make conversation with you. Let me see what you have there and I’ll give you my honest opinion on it.”
Gray snatched the book out of my hand.
I started, surprised that I hadn’t seen him move. “Hey! Give that back to me.”
Amiable and appealing? Did most of the women in the town think him such? They were mistaken. Although I had always struggled to see the best in him, in anyone—I think—more often than not I found his outgoing disposition to be nothing but a mask for his inner demons. Everyone had them in some form or other. Gray, instead of dealing with his, traded on smarm and charm to get his way.
He also came from a wealthy family who had invested more in Bellmare than any other locals had. To the Matthews clan, that bought them certain privileges, including big-boy toys and status and women for their son.
“You are too busy to have fun because you’ve always got your nose in a book, pushing away people who actually care about you,” he scolded.
Any hint of guilt I’d felt about being rude to him vanished. Especially considering how he held my book just out of reach. Toying with me. I didn’t bother hiding my annoyance now, squaring my shoulders.
“Care about me? You can’t mean yourself.” I didn’t doubt the sincerity of his words, despite how delusional they sounded to me. Gray honestly believed what he said. “You really are crazy.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m in love,” Gray insisted. He flashed me a smile I’m sure must have cut more than one woman off at the knees. A regular lothario. “You have to know how I feel about you. You are the prettiest girl in town, no matter what everyone says about you.”
I spun toward him, reaching out to retrieve the book when he held it just out of reach. “Come on, cut it out. Give me the book back.”
He was the town playboy. The one no woman could resist, or so he told himself. Told countless others, too, if I chose to believe the rumors about Gray. I would not have given the gossipmongers a second thought if I hadn’t seen his behavior for myself.
The Beau of Bellmare.
He refused to take no for an answer.
Gray believed that everyone loved him, and would jump at the snap of his fingers. Sadly, that included me as well. He’d been hot on my heels since…well, ever since I could remember.
He held an arm out in front of him to keep me at bay, a flesh and blood barrier. “Why? You object to me telling you how I feel about you?”
Unease settled in my gut and I hesitated for a brief moment before saying, “I object to you stealing my book and continuing to harass me. We all know you want nothing more from me than a quick tumble, and I refuse to give in. You just love the chase. Now give me back my book.”
As before, my plea fell on deaf ears. “Tell you what. I’m going to come by later. I need to talk to you about something important,” Gray told me with an unsettling smirk, his tone full of mock politeness. “I’ll give you back your book but you have to invite me in for dinner.”
My hands froze in mid-motion and the blood in my veins turned to ice.
To strike a bargain with a man like Gray? The audacity sent a wave of cold surging through me. I would rather kneel naked on my knees in the street than agree to anything he said.
“No, I’m busy. Sorry.” I kept a purposely blank face and thrust my hand forward in a final attempt to grab my book back.
Gray drew away, baiting me. “Tomorrow, then. Six o’clock.”
“I’ll promise to let you stay on the porch, but you’re not coming inside and you are certainly not dining with me or my family,” I replied. “Give it back to me. Now.” I jumped up in a final attempt to grab the book.
Gray eyed me up and down as though I were a piece of merchandise he wanted to inspect before purchasing. “Fine. I know I’ll convince you one way or another. Tomorrow at six, Reila. It’s important.”
He shrugged and tossed the book toward me, but it landed near the sewer opening. I scrambled to grab it, to save my treasure, only to find the balance tipped and the book slipped between the grates and into the murky water below. “No!”
I didn’t care what he thought of me then, could only imagine what he thought as I bent down and reached through, twisting my wrist, though the book remained just out of reach. Rocking back on my heels, I sadly watched the pages swell with water.
I’d just lost my favorite place to hide.
When I glared back up at Gray, he gave a final twitch of his upper lip, adjusted his cuffs, dipped his head in farewell, and walked away. “Tomorrow.”
I could have killed him on the spot.
It took longer than I liked to go to the market and grab the eggs my mother wanted. Afterward, I wandered the walkways of downtown in contemplation. This part of Bellmare held more charm than the outskirts, where my family shared a cottage barely bigger than a shed.
The storefronts gave way to manicured patches of grass and driveways made to resemble cobblestone streets. Some of the locals called Bellmare “Little France” after the old country, and we certainly acted as though we were a sovereign kingdom of our own.
But France, like all other countries in the European Union, had dissolved its
borders after the last civil war. Small kingdoms redefined themselves under the hands of anyone strong enough to hold them, so long as they all answered to the parliament of the European Union.
Although born here, I couldn’t say I felt perfectly at home in Bellmare, but I knew the streets like I knew my own reflection. I could maneuver without misstep even with my nose buried in a book. And that meant something to me. It was a hard-won stability.
I dodged couples walking along the street with eyes only for each other, then paused mid-stride to stare at one of them. Wizened and wrinkled, their hands clasped together as they held each other tightly. The man leaned in close and whispered something to his sweetheart. Her giggles carried on the wind. Gentle, joyful.
With a wistful sigh, I turned back toward town and the path home. The clamor intensified the closer I got to the storefronts, where trades set up shop and owners called out their wares.
“Fresh bread!”
I followed my nose toward the scent of baking dough and butter. The townsfolk had risen early to prepare for the bustle of Saturday, waiting on and greeting usual clientele and tourists alike.
“Fresh—oh, Reila. I didn’t realize it was you.”
Allen, who owned the local bakery, had wheeled a sign out to set in front of the shop window. He took a step in the opposite direction when he saw me. A white apron covered his portly belly, flour dotting his hands. The smile he sent me was genuine, but it didn’t completely erase the wariness I always sensed when the two of us interacted.
I returned the smile and accompanied it with a small enthusiastic wave. “Good morning. How are you?”
“No time for complaints.” Allen looked down his nose at me. “Can I interest you in a loaf of six-grain sprouted? Just came out of the oven and I’m running a special.”
I pushed an uneasy niggling sensation out of my mind at the way Allen watched me. The way he held his shoulders back and straight with his knees bent, legs tensed to run in the opposite direction. I had never done anything to the man to make him act in such a way. If I had, I didn’t remember, and no one bothered to tell me.
