by J M Fraser
She reached across and patted his hand. “I won’t torture you anymore.”
“Whew.”
“Why did you buy the stuff? You look slim enough already.”
“Yeah, for now, but I hit a bad age milestone.”
“Thirty?”
He nodded.
“And that’s when it all goes to hell?”
Hmm. That brought him back to the immediate issue. Judging by Carla’s earlier behavior—wandering into the neighborhood on foot during a thunderstorm, settling onto the wet pavement as if for a midnight picnic in the rain—maybe she’d been trying to escape a far worse version of Hell than a damned glass of vegetable juice. What pushed her off the ledge? “Can I ask you something?”
She closed her hands around her mug and hunched over it.
Clearly, that was a no. Women who melted into puddles had no use for probing questions. But he was a businessman, trained to inquire, probe, engage, learn, and then form plans around the ambiguous bits of information gleaned whenever the opportunity for interrogation presented itself. The truth could always be found by asking seven questions.
Carla had fallen out of the sky and into his life wearing a tight black dress and spiked heels. What did it mean? How could he help her? Had she come to help him? He was beyond help. He couldn’t even think of seven questions. “You look like you’re dressed for a party that didn’t happen. Are you okay?”
She hid behind her coffee steam. “I don’t want to think about what brought me here, let alone discuss it. Hopefully, that doesn’t seem—”
“No, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Let’s change the subject.” She reached for his glass, sipped some of the stuff, grimaced, and slid it back to him. “I’ll stick with tea.”
“Wait till you’re thirty.”
“Shh. I’m there already.”
They shared an easy laugh. Carla’s smile brought a welcome glimmer to those gray-green eyes, but a loud gust of wind broke the spell. “Your house hums,” she said.
“Stick around long enough, and the doorbell will blast you out of your chair.”
“Who’s coming?”
“It goes off on its own.”
She glanced around, leaned forward, and moved a finger to her lips as if sharing a secret. “Brewster,” she whispered. “Maybe you have a poltergeist.”
“And here I was groping for a scientific explanation.”
“My mother’s into the occult.”
“And you?”
“Hah!” She shook her head, dizzying him with a swirl of black hair. “Why invent the supernatural when we still have the mystery of our dreams to explore?”
Dreams. She sure struck a chord with that one. “Hey, now that you mention it, just before you came along, I was locked into a rerun of this repetitive, Latin—”
Dut-dut-dut DAH!
That crazy doorbell. Brewster nearly had to reach down and pick Carla off the floor. “Well, I did warn you about that.”
She stared out of the kitchen toward the front door across the foyer, hopefully not measuring her escape route. “You’re sure we aren’t dealing with poltergeists?”
“I’m thinking thunderstorms. Static electricity. Beethoven’s Fifth blasted me out of bed during the last one.”
“Try lowering the sound.”
The doorbell box loomed high up a wall near the entryway. He’d thought many times about pushing a chair over there or grabbing the stepladder out of the garage, climbing up, doing something about it.
Plans. Whenever he was lucky enough not to be dealing with the spreadsheets and calendars of his regimented office life, he shunned all attempts at enterprise. Work was one compartment, home quite another. Carefree novelists didn’t make plans. They let their doorbells run wild.
The wind hummed louder. Carla kept her focus on the door, and Brewster took the opportunity to sneak his attention down the front of her dress. What was the thing about women in black? His sex-crazed subconscious always latched on to the color choice as a suggestion of availability or, even better, a willingness to walk the wild side.
He settled his gaze on the swell of her breasts and the impressions of nipples beneath. That bra had to be flimsy if she wore one at all.
But he’d been busted earlier when looking her up and down a little too lasciviously on the street. Besides, what the hell was wrong with him? This poor woman had entered his home seeking sanctuary from whatever had been haunting her, and all he could think about was burying his face in her breasts, running his hands through her midnight-black hair, moving them lower, down her arms, along her hips…
He scurried back to neutral territory just in time to meet her eyes as she turned her attention back to him. “What do you do when you aren’t getting lost at night on twisty streets?” he asked.
“My shop keeps me busy.” Carla reached into her sleeve, came out with a card like a magician, and slid it across the table.
The placeholder displayed the image of a woven basket overflowing with handmade dolls. Rag Thyme—her clever play on words had been shaped into a crescent of rainbow-colored, cursive font beneath the sketch. “Craft store, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Cute name.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him through the steam of her tea. “Nine eighteen Church Street. Stop by and browse sometime.”
“What do you sell?”
“Handmade dolls mostly, and teddy bears, eggshell ornaments, herbs.”
That had about as much appeal as a chick flick. “I like creative people,” he offered.
Carla slumped. Surely she’d pegged his comment as a patronizing come-on, which it had been, mostly.
He needed to elevate his game. This woman was interesting and likeable. Yes, somewhat sensitive, too—probably understandable given whatever circumstances had driven her here—but mysterious and appealing in a must know her better sort of way. Not someone to hit on as if they were beginning a mating ritual beneath the strobe lights of some club.
Unfortunately, they’d strayed into his danger zone. He’d never been good at the basic human intercourse known as small talk. He often pushed too hard and turned clumsy, saying something misconstrued, rushing things along, or not moving quick enough. The main crisis still loomed ahead when they’d run out of things to say.
He tried to rally. “I do some writing.”
That got her attention. She clasped her hands together. “Tell me more.”
“Do you like modern-day fairy tales?”
“You’re a romantic?” Carla’s obvious delight curved her lips into the perfect shape.
“I guess so.” He’d brought a smile to her face, and the entire universe brightened in response. This was how the world was supposed to turn. The cosmos demanded he make the woman happy. She was not an object of possible conquest.
“Are you published?” she asked.
“No, but honestly, that doesn’t matter to me as much as it should.”
“Why?”
“I look at writing as an escape from the here and now.”
“I suppose that beats midnight walks in the rain.”
“Wait here.” With the pounding heart of a schoolboy—because he’d never shared his writing dream with a stranger? Because she bedazzled him? Because her eyes revealed the hint of attraction? Because she cast an aura that could only be described as two parts saint and one part sinner?—he left a table spilling over with questions and rummaged through the drawer of a small counter by the stove. His rubber-banded packet of business cards peeked out from beneath a tangle of pens, paper clips, and forgotten notes scribbled on crinkled Post-its. A more important but hitherto unshared message had been printed on the cards: Brewster DeLay, writer. Words escape me.
He brought the offering to his goddess of the night. “I had these made a few weeks ago when I got a new phone number, but the poor things have to live alone in a drawer until I get published.”
She took the pack and cradled it in cup
ped hands as if protecting a delicate flower. “Try pulling them out and talking to them every day so they don’t feel lonely.”
“I don’t have any experience at parenting.”
“No problem. I can adopt one and take better care of it.” Carla slid a card out and slipped it into her pocket.
Oh, to join it in there.
She sipped her tea and regarded him in silence for a few moments before perking up again and sweeping her arm. “This is a nice place for a starving writer.”
“I’ve got a day job.”
“Doing what?”
“Lending money that never comes back. Every month we’re still in business is a gift from the usury gods.”
She laughed but turned somber a moment later, staring down at her tea. “I’ve been struggling with my business, too.”
“Times are tough.”
“But we’re not starving.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They settled into comfortable silence. Brewster tried to talk himself into another sip of liquefied carrots, tomatoes, frog eyes, and whatever other secret ingredients lurked inside his juice glass. He glanced at Carla for reassurance.
For the briefest moment, the fridge showed through her, as if she’d faded as translucent as a ghost.
He blinked.
She returned to normal.
“Wow,” he said.
“What?”
“I guess I’m not awake all the way yet.”
She set her cup aside. “I’m boring you.”
“Impossible.” He blinked again.
“How would the opening chapters of a Brewster DeLay novel go?”
He tried to snap out of the fog before it dissolved the mood completely. He needed to say the right thing. Yet words truly did escape him, and he could only stare into her bottomless eyes.
“Would things move quickly between your hero and heroine at the start of the story?” She settled a hand on his forearm.
The timing of this exquisite physical contact suggested a double meaning in her words. “Huh?” Great response. He was on a roll.
She removed her hand. “Or do you prefer dragging things out for the reader to savor?”
“And the writer.” Those vibrant lips, so kissable.
“I should leave then.” She pushed her chair back.
“Wait, I—”
Carla was already halfway out of the kitchen.
He raced after her and almost bowled the woman over when she stopped within an arm’s reach of the front door.
“Thanks for the shelter, and the company,” she said.
“At least let me drive you home.”
“No. That slope would be slipperier than the one we just traveled.”
She opened the door and stepped outside. The rain had stopped and a hint of moon peeked out between fast-moving streaks of clouds. “Let’s trust fate to bring us together for a second date, Brewster. I look forward to the next chapter.”
“Can we settle on something more concrete?”
“I’m afraid not. My dreams take me where they will. You were quite the pleasant surprise tonight.”
Now the street showed through her. What the hell was happening with his eyes? He groped for her arm but came up empty.
Carla had disappeared altogether.
Brewster lost his balance. He slapped a hand on the doorframe, gripping the molded wood for dear life until the world stopped swaying.
He waited. Endlessly. Fruitlessly. The universe failed to right itself and bring Carla back.
He reached into his shirt pocket where he’d slipped her placeholder, the only proof he hadn’t gone insane and imagined the entire encounter. The only lifeline to a midnight vampire who’d nibbled a bite of his heart.
Rag Thyme.
CHAPTER 9
Syracuse, New York, The morning after dreaming she met a man named Brewster
“Let the drama begin.” Carla marched into Dr. Elaine Larsson’s office but steered clear of a fiendish recliner guilty of lulling her into submission during previous sessions. The therapist had coaxed her eccentricities, fears, and dreams into the light of day far too easily.
The lingering echo of Carla’s most recent nocturnal adventure had the markings of true insanity, and she had no intention of falling into Elaine’s cozy trap again. The facing chairs in the middle of the room offered sanctuary. She picked one, settled onto blessedly uncomfortable wood, crossed one leg over the other, and waited for her therapist to get ready.
“Good to see you, Carla. Give me a moment.” Elaine grabbed the free chair, opened her laptop, and switched it on. As usual, the woman projected the aura of a professional but the haggardness of one whose hours were too long. She hid her attractiveness, no doubt deliberately, by fixing her blonde hair in a bun, wearing a dark business suit, and hiding her eyes behind studious glasses. The bags beneath those eyes suggested too little sleep and probably too much reading, judging by the floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books and scholarly journals on two walls of the office.
Initially, all of that stuff, along with the diplomas and plaques, had intimidated Carla, but she’d come to consider Elaine something of a friend, if not in a social context, then in a secret-sharing arrangement, albeit one-sided. She hadn’t learned much about her therapist. The game didn’t work that way.
She glanced around the office and settled her gaze on a painting she couldn’t remember from previous visits. Colorful sailboats skimmed frosty waves, and a couple stood watching, hand-in-hand, from a pier. They’d dressed in summer whites and blues, ready for a day of sailing. Elaine had probably selected the scene to soothe troubled souls. It almost succeeded, until Carla glanced at a thriving palm bursting out of its pot in a corner of the office. Once again, she’d forgotten to water her own green pet, a spider plant drooping with thirst in the window of her apartment. Journeys back and forth between one reality and another had been muddling her mind lately. That and the worry her eventual diagnosis would be schizophrenia.
She shifted her attention to Elaine’s dancing fingers. The log-on process was taking forever.
Elaine had begun using a computer during their last session, complaining of carpal tunnel syndrome from constant writing on a pad. Carla wanted to be sympathetic, but this brutally permanent method of recording her mental wanderings could lead to…what? She didn’t know. She set her hands on her legs in an effort to stop twisting them.
At last, Elaine finished pecking her keyboard and looked up with a smile. “Alrighty! What would you like to talk about today, Carla?”
“Ending my sessions? God knows I could use the money I’d be saving.”
The shot across the bow spurred Elaine to type a flurry of notes. “You came seeking answers. Have you found them?”
“Who does?”
“I’m guessing the dreams haven’t ended, then.”
“What’s the point of digging so deeply?”
“You’re edgy today.”
Carla couldn’t think of a suitably cutting answer.
Elaine motioned to a couch and coffee table positioned a safe distance from the lurking recliner. “I made tea.” A white ceramic pot and two matching cups had been set out.
“You’re trying to seduce me into sharing more secrets,” Carla said.
“That’s an interesting choice of words. Just mentioning the dreams triggers sexual associations. You see that, don’t you?”
“You think it turns me on to dream about offing myself?”
“What do you think?”
Elaine’s black-framed glasses made her seem overly studious to the point of being unapproachable with any secrets on this particular day. Carla held fast to her resolve and looked away. “I think you make me feel uncomfortable. Maybe it’s that laptop, recording my every thought.”
The therapist stood, set her computer on the chair, went to the coffee table, and poured tea. “I won’t record anything. We’ll just talk.”
“Or I will. Stick with the game plan, E
laine.”
“Did something happen to set you off?”
“I’ll say.” She gave up the chair for the couch but perched on the edge of it, keeping her back a safe distance from the comfortable cushions and letting the coffee table foil her desire to cross her legs again. Discomfort seemed the best strategy for staying mum. She talked too much when relaxed.
The therapist stared at her during a stretch of silence. Carla grabbed her teacup and looked into it.
“You seem frightened,” Elaine said.
“Don’t tell me how I seem. You know how I hate that.” She lifted the cup to steal a sip, but a brief tremor in her hand stirred a tiny leaf to the surface. “This tea is off.”
Elaine made a show of sipping her tea with relish. “Consider yourself lucky. My coffee would kill you.”
The humor in those overworked eyes weakened Carla into melting backward and becoming one with the cushions.
“You dreamed something, didn’t you?” Elaine said.
Carla kept her gaze fixed on the steam rising out of her cup.
“Tell me the setting,” Elaine coaxed.
“One setting led me to the next.”
“Let’s talk about the first one, then.”
“I asked somebody to push me in front of a subway. Satisfied?” She fought her way back to a fully upright position and bumped a knee against the table in the process.
“Suicide again?”
“Contrived death has a nicer ring to it.” She rubbed her knee and closed her eyes, skipping to the memory of a far more bearable dream, the one in a man’s kitchen—Brewster’s kitchen—a scene she could picture as clearly as if it had happened. But it hadn’t and she’d only sink deeper into malaise by pretending otherwise. She needed to stick with the fantasies she knew all too well.
She’d been having a recurring dream about life in a primitive forest for so long she regarded it as her midnight pastime. She’d initially sought counseling because of a bizarre element to the fantasy—when her dreams included dialogue, the language spoken seemed to be Latin. Yet she’d never had any waking experience with the language, or so she thought. But Elaine had suggested she’d probably heard snippets of Latin here and there in various movies or perhaps from other venues such as an Easter high mass during her early childhood. Maybe her subconscious had shaped them into a church language to poke fun at the ritualized nature of her recurring dream. The subconscious can be quite a trickster.
