Stillwater

by Maynard Sims

  Latham shrugged. “What can I say? I suppose the age of chivalry isn’t dead.”

  “I think it’s because basically you’re a decent man.”

  “I like to think so…at least, I try.”

  “Did you actually see her onto the train?”

  “Good God, no! A couple of tearaways were at the station. They appeared to be waiting for her, so I just dropped her off outside and drove away.”

  “I see,” Beth said, and then, “Drink your tea, Arthur. It’s getting cold.”

  Latham picked up the mug and put it to his lips, all the while staring at her over the rim. “Why do you ask?” he said after a while. “Those weren’t casual questions.”

  Beth avoided his eyes. What she was about to say seemed preposterous now in the comfort of her kitchen. But she’d decided to level with Latham and she wasn’t going back on her decision. “Because…” she said. “…because I don’t think she caught a train.”

  “But she said that was her intention.”

  “And I’m sure she meant it when she said it. But I don’t think Dolores Franklin ever left the area. I think she came back to Stillwater…and I think she’s still here.”

  Latham took a gulp of tea. “That’s pretty far-fetched, Beth. I never saw her again after I dropped her off. And I don’t think anyone in the village did either.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean she caught a train out of here,” Beth said.

  “So what does it mean?”

  “You dropped her at the station. She met with two of her young men. They persuaded her not to go, so she came back here.” Beth picked up her mug and drained the tea. Her mouth was dry. As she spoke it was as if the saliva was being sucked back into the glands. “I’m going to make another one,” she said, gesturing to her empty mug.

  “I think I’ll join you,” Latham said.

  There was an uneasy silence in the room, while Arthur Latham tried to digest what Beth was suggesting. As she finished pouring water into the mugs he said, “So what do you think happened to her once she came back here?”

  Beth turned to look at him, meeting his eyes, letting him see the seriousness in hers. “I think she was killed.” She could see by his reaction that this rocked Latham, even though he had probably guessed where Beth might be going with this. “Killed? Who by?”

  She ignored the question for a moment, but said, “I saw Jessica Franklin yesterday. She visited me when I was working in the office.”

  Latham waited until she had made the tea, and then took the two mugs across to the table. Finally he said, “You realize that if it were anyone else telling me this, I’d be calling for the men in the white coats.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I understand that. And if I were talking to anyone other than you I wouldn’t be mentioning it. It’s been hard enough wrapping my own head around it, never mind expecting you to. But it’s true. Jessica came calling, and she was as real to me as you are sitting there…well, almost. She seemed to be fading in and out.”

  “What did she want?”

  Beth inhaled deeply, and told Arthur Latham what had happened with Jessica yesterday, and what the girl had shown her.

  By the time Latham picked up his mug, the tea was lukewarm. He drank it anyway.

  “So? What do you think?” Beth said.

  “I think I should get out there and deadhead those roses.”

  “I didn’t imagine it,” Beth said, her temper flaring slightly.

  Latham sighed. “I didn’t say you had.”

  “But?”

  “I don’t see where you can take your theory. You tell it to the police and, more likely than not, they’ll book you for wasting their time.”

  “But Jessica showed me for a reason. She must feel there’s something I can do.”

  “Then it’s a pity she didn’t tell you.”

  She could tell he was being kind to her, but she still found his indifference infuriating.

  She was about to snap at him, but reined in her feelings, and held them in check. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault if he was having difficulty swallowing her story. A week ago she would have reacted the same way. It was living here and experiencing what she had. She felt now that her senses were highly tuned, zinging, like overtightened piano strings.

  “Okay,” she said. “I take your point. But you have to admit it’s a mystery.”

  “Yes,” Latham conceded. “It is that. Why don’t you write about it? After all, it’s what you do.”

  “I write fiction,” she said. “Besides, I’m a few chapters into the new novel. I don’t want to jinx it by starting something else. Especially something that has no conclusion. A book about a mystery can only succeed if the mystery can be resolved and, at the moment, there is no resolution. Not that I can see anyway.”

  “Then put all this from your mind and go back to the novel you are working on.”

  She suddenly thought of a dozen reasons why she couldn’t do that, but knew she’d be wasting her time telling Arthur Latham.

  “Well, thanks for listening,” she said.

  “I’ve always got time to listen to the outpourings of a creative mind,” he said. “Now, I must get to those roses.” He stood and walked to the back door. “As I said, go back to your novel. Gwen can’t wait to read it.”

  Beth waited for him to close the door, drained the dregs of her tea from her mug, and picked up her cell phone.

  “Falmer’s, James Bartlett speaking. How can I help?”

  “James, it’s Beth. Could you come over? I could come to you but parking’s a bit of a pain.”

  “Beth, great to hear from you.” There seemed to be genuine delight in his voice. “Is it a problem? Can I deal with it now, on the phone?”

  “Are you too busy to come out?” she said. “I’d rather speak face-to-face.”

  “That sounds ominous. Let me check the diary.” There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “I can be with you at three. Is that okay?”

  “That’s great,” she said.

  “And not a clue why you want to see me?”

  “I’d rather discuss it face-to-face.”

  “You know how to keep someone in suspense.”

  “Sorry, James. It’s not earth-shattering. More of a chat really. See you at three.” She rang off, rolled herself across to the back door and looked out at the garden.

  Arthur Latham was standing in the middle of the flowerbed, the stem of a rose in one hand, secateurs in the other. As she watched, he snipped off a wilted bloom, and dropped it in a plastic bowl at his feet, a look of complete contentment on his face.

  When James arrived at the stroke of three, Arthur Latham had finished his pruning, filled Teddy’s empty grave, and taken himself off home to Gwen. He hadn’t mentioned Dolores Franklin again.

  “You’re very punctual,” Beth said, as she let James into the house.

  “Is that a problem?”

  She shook her head. “Just rare these days.”

  He walked through the house, and sat down on one of the sofas. He declined her offer of coffee, sitting on the edge of the chesterfield, as if readying himself for a quick getaway.

  “Are you in a rush?” she asked.

  “Not especially. What’s the problem?”

  “I didn’t say I had one. I just said I needed to speak to you.”

  “Right, you did.”

  There was something about his manner she found unsettling. It was as if he was here under sufferance. When he glanced at his wristwatch it reinforced what she was thinking.

  “Look, if this is inconvenient you only have to say.”

  His cheeks flushed slightly and he looked away. “It’s no problem, honestly.”

  “That’s not what your body language is telling me. You look as if you can’t wait to be out of here.”


  “Really, sorry. That’s not how I feel. Ever since you phoned I’ve been watching the clock, waiting until I could get over here.”

  She frowned as she drew her wheelchair up to face him. “You mean that, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “I can’t pretend any more. This whole agent/client thing I’ve been playing is a sham. I’m just using it as an excuse to see you.”

  Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  “Ever since that first day I’ve found myself drawn to you. It’s unprofessional and probably you find it unwelcome, but I can’t help how I feel about you, and I can’t hide those feelings any longer. So, if you want me to go I will, but I had to tell you or I’d spend the rest of my life kicking myself.”

  Beth remained silent, but her mind was reeling. She hadn’t been expecting this and after her vision of the other night—her reaction to his seduction—she suddenly felt scared.

  The silence dragged on, and the tension crackled in the air between them.

  Finally he said, “For Christ’s sake say something, even if it’s ‘get out’.”

  What she said was simple. “Kiss me.”

  He moved from the sofa, knelt down, and then he reached out and took her head in his hands, bringing his face down to meet her lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The kiss seemed to go on forever. The harder he pressed, the more she responded, feeling his tongue exploring the contours of her mouth. It was electrifying, stimulating and incredibly erotic.

  His hand slipped down to the side of the chair and she heard a click as he released the wheelchair’s arm, and let it swing down. And then he was lifting her out of the chair. She wrapped her arms around his neck, never once breaking contact with his lips.

  Her eyes were closed, but as he started carrying her, and moving across the room, they flickered open for a second, and she saw they were approaching her bedroom. For an instant a surge of panic swept through her, but she fought it down. She didn’t want this to end.

  Instead she felt herself drift on the kiss, letting it carry her away to a place she thought she’d never visit again.

  He laid her down gently on the bed, and sat down beside her, the kiss finally interrupted. Deftly he undid the buttons of her shirt, pulling the two halves apart, exposing her purple bra, and the white breasts it covered.

  He leaned forward, and with his tongue traced a line from the belt of her jeans, up her entire body, pausing at her bra and then pressing on, outlining the contours of her breasts. She reached up and unhooked the front fastener, and let the cups fall to either side, gasping slightly as his tongue found her breasts, and his lips closed over a nipple.

  He lay down at her side, stroking her hair as he kissed her breasts. As his fingers loosened her belt, popped the button of her jeans and slowly slid down the zipper, she murmured a half-hearted protest, but he put his finger to her lips. “I understand,” he whispered in her ear. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “I can’t feel you,” she said desperately. “I want to but I can’t.”

  He sat up suddenly, but only to strip off his clothes, and then he was back beside her, his body against hers, and she felt a jolt of pleasure as their skin touched.

  “Can you feel this?” he said softly, as he wrapped his arm around her.

  “God, yes,” she breathed.

  And she could, a feeling more sensual than any she had experienced in her entire life. The feeling of his skin pressing against hers was electric, stimulating a hundred nerve endings, sending pleasurable shock waves coursing through her body.

  His hands massaged her breasts, fingers and thumbs pinching her nipples. A tension grew within her, wave after wave of pleasure building below her waist, sweeping down from her breasts, centering at a point just south of her navel.

  The orgasm, when it came, made her cry out and she clamped her hands in his hair, pulling his head down, crushing his lips against her own.

  They lay there, breathless. “Now I feel guilty,” she said at last.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t satisfy you. I can’t give you what you need.”

  He took her hand, and laid it over his erection. “Are you sure?”

  She gripped it tightly. “Is it enough?” she asked.

  He said nothing, but moaned slightly as she began to move her hand.

  Sometime later, sated, they lay in each other’s arms, him idly stroking her hair, her lying still, passively reveling in the closeness of their bodies, feeling the aftershocks of her orgasm, stunned and surprised that she could enjoy sex so much after she had written off that part of her life.

  “I wasn’t expecting that,” she said, after a few minutes.

  “Do you regret it?”

  “No. I loved every minute of it. And if you say ‘all part of the service’ I swear I’ll hit you.”

  He laughed. “Above and beyond,” he said. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I met you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” she said. “I could give you a long speech about me thinking my life was over, about how I’d never experience anything like that again…”

  “But?”

  “All true, but you’ve banished all those negatives. Better still…”

  She reached for her cigarettes on the bedside cabinet and lit one, blowing smoke up at the ceiling.

  “Better still?” he said.

  “You’re a great fuck.”

  “Well, technically we didn’t actually…”

  “I will hit you,” she said, and laughed. “The doctors said I would never have any sensation below the waist.”

  “But you did?”

  She touched his face. “Oh yes, couldn’t you tell?”

  He nodded. “But if you felt…all that, do you think you might regain the use of your legs?”

  That was her dream. The specialists had been so vague, so intent on not raising her hopes, even though they suggested there might be some improvement.

  She smiled. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. I’ve heard of healing hands but…”

  “You read about medical diagnoses being proved wrong all the time. Doctors are wonderful but they can’t see into the future. Maybe…”

  Beth held up her hand. “Let’s not get carried away.” She laughed suddenly and richly. “God, I was going to tell you to take it one step at a time…”

  James laughed. “Time for that coffee now. I’ll make it.”

  He launched himself from the bed and padded out to the kitchen. She heard him switch on the coffee maker, and then he returned to the bedroom. He reached for his shirt, dressing quickly.

  “Can you fetch my chair?” she said.

  “Of course,” he said, and left the room.

  He returned within seconds, and parked the chair at the side of the bed.

  “This will take a while,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He walked to the door. “Your coffee will be waiting for you.”

  She watched him go, closing the door behind him. Her mind was racing. James seemed to have an innate understanding of her doubts and insecurities, and she loved him for that. She pulled herself up short. Loved him for it? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Beth.

  Just like she had told him about hoping for a normal life. She wasn’t going to lose herself in false hope.

  When she finally emerged from the bedroom, the coffee was poured; two cups of strong espresso sat steaming on the kitchen table, but of James there was no sign. She fought down a momentary panic that he might have taken off, but was relieved when she heard him coming down the stairs.

  She looked at him as he crossed to the table, and picked up his cup. He saw the question in her eyes.

  “Sorry, I thought I heard something. Just went up to have a look.”

  “What did you hea
r?”

  “Thought I heard,” he corrected her.

  “Okay. What was it you thought you heard?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down, holding his coffee cup between his hands.

  Daylight was beginning to fade. She snapped down the light switch, and went to join him at the table. He looked pale in the glaring overhead halogen light, pale, but there was something else. Fear?

  “I thought I heard a woman crying.”

  “Woman or girl?”

  “I couldn’t tell. It might even have been a cat.”

  “That’s a bit of a difference. I think I could tell the two things apart. A cat, no matter how distraught, doesn’t really sound like a woman crying.”

  “Okay,” he said defensively. “It wasn’t a cat, but I couldn’t tell if it was a woman or a girl.”

  Beth was leaning forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table, cupping her chin in her hands. “So you went upstairs to investigate. What did you find?”

  He shook his head. “The sound started to fade away as I climbed the stairs and stopped as I reached the top. Nothing was different from the last time I went up there.”

  “You look pretty shaken up though,” she said. “If there was nothing there.”

  “I kept expecting Jessica to jump out at me,” he said with a half smile.

  “Jessica? Not Dolores?”

  “Definitely Jessica. I told you, I didn’t know Dolores that well. I think she was only here a couple of times when I came with Jess, and even then she kept herself to herself. Barely spoke a word to either of us. So I don’t really associate her with Stillwater, but I do associate Jess.”

  “Was it Jessica you heard crying?”

  He avoided her gaze. “Yes, I think so.”

  She sat back, shaking her head. “I think something happened here, James. Something terrible.”

  “Something more than an accidental drowning, you mean?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Something much worse than that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  For the next hour they talked, and Beth told him everything she had experienced since moving in there: the incident in the bathroom, the imagined attack by her wheelchair, seeing Jessica being caned by her mother. She left nothing out, and by the time she had finished, James was rocking in his seat, looking paler than before, and ever so slightly nauseous.