As the Light Fades (ARC)

by Catherine West

  “A stress reliever. I’m not really much of a fighter.”

  “Living with a teenager must be stressful.” Especially when that teenager was Mia Stone.

  “Add my parents to the mix and it’s a wonder I’m in here and not at a firing range.”

  Liz smiled. “Then perhaps it’s just as well Nantucket doesn’t have a firing range.” She wondered what he’d think if he knew she’d been considering purchasing a firearm. She’d never been a fan of guns, but since her run-in with Laurence . . . it might not be a bad idea.

  Liz pushed aside anxiety and wandered around the garage, trailing her hand over dusty boxes. Bicycles lay stacked against a folded ping-pong table, beach umbrellas and chairs piled in another corner, a rusty lawnmower lay on its side. “I bet there’s a lot of history in here.”

  “I guess so. Never thought of it that way.” He scanned the room, his eyes coming back to rest on her.

  “Looks like you’ve a chore ahead, if you plan to go through all this anytime soon.”

  Matt grunted. “So much junk. My grandparents threw everything in here when they moved back to the mainland and rented the place out. I don’t think it was ever used for cars. Just a place to store the stuff they didn’t want. It was all locked up when I got here. So nobody could steal anything worth taking, I guess.”

  She walked back to where he stood, heaviness descending again. “I imagine someone like Mia likes to keep her feelings pretty tightly locked up too. So nobody can steal anything worth taking.”

  His eyes held hers for a long moment. One corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Are you comparing my niece to a garage?”

  Liz smiled back and shook her head. “All I’m saying is, she might have good reason for acting the way she does. She doesn’t like to draw attention to herself. This afternoon, she let her guard down, she had fun, she showed off her talent, and people noticed. And she didn’t like that. Maybe she doesn’t like to be noticed, doesn’t like to admit she’s actually good at something?”

  “She draws enough attention to herself at school. You want to know how many times I’ve been called in to talk to the principal since she started? And how do you explain the piercings, the hair, the makeup? Everything she does screams ‘look at me’!’”

  Liz took a slow, measured breath. “Or ‘help me.’”

  Matthew’s eyes flared. “Wow.” He finished his water in two deep gulps and crunched the plastic bottle in his hand. “I’ve been trying to figure her out for months, you just meet her and what, a week or two later, you nail it?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’ve nailed it. I’d say there may be more to her attitude and smart mouth than she’s willing to talk about. She can hide behind all that makes her Mia, the hair and makeup and the don’t give a crap persona, but sooner or later, that thing she’s running from? It’ll catch up with her.” Wind rattled the old windows around them, and Liz shivered.

  “Speaking from experience?” Matthew moved toward her.

  She shrugged, her heart pounding at the idea of actually confiding in him. “Maybe.”

  “Want to talk about it?” His eyes stayed on her, his face serious, unspoken questions floating like the dust in the beam of light from the hanging bulb above them.

  Hesitation hitched the words in her throat until at last, she shook her head. “No.”

  His lips parted in a smile. “Well. If you ever do . . .”

  “Thanks.” She was trembling. He was a foot away; she could feel the heat from his body and his breath as he spoke. It was too easy to get lost in those searching eyes. Too easy to forget that they barely knew each other, that she couldn’t give him what he might want. That she would never give any part of herself up to a man again.

  “Are you okay, Elizabeth?” He touched her, his fingers briefly brushing across her hand. She pulled her hand away in automatic reflex. Her muscles tensed, and her brain kicked into high gear.

  Matthew stepped back, understanding creasing his forehead. “Sorry.”

  “I should . . .” Go. Run. Get out of here. But she couldn’t move. All she could do was stand there and stare at him. That unflinching gaze of his sucked her in. Told her she didn’t need to be afraid, he could be trusted. Attraction woke again and almost pushed aside fear.

  “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Like he could read the inner workings of her mind. The tenuous moment stretched the silence between them. She fought sudden confusion and found reality again.

  “The alarm. I wanted to ask when it was being installed.” Good. Get them back on safe ground.

  “Right.” He nodded. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I’ll make sure it’s on the schedule tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Well, goodnight then.” Liz turned and pushed through the door before he could say anything else. Because if he’d come any closer, he might have seen the longing in her eyes. Might have picked up on her fluttering heart and traitorous mind. Might have known that, God help her, she had wanted him to move closer. Wanted him to kiss her. Wanted . . .

  “Elizabeth?” His voice stopped her as she crunched across the crushed shells of the courtyard.

  She drew in a breath and slowly turned to face him. “What?”

  He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “I didn’t mean to frighten you in there. I mean I . . . I let my emotions charge ahead sometimes. I like you, and I like talking to you, but I know—”

  “No. You don’t know.” Liz held up a hand. “Let’s just leave it that.”

  “Okay then.” He shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  He looked away for a moment, then captured her eyes again. “I understand we don’t know each other well yet, but I’d like us to be friends. What do you think?

  No. Never. Not happening. Liz folded her arms and opened her mouth. “Of course.”

  “Good.” His smile shone through the semi-darkness and somehow breathed light into her shattered soul. “Sleep well, Elizabeth.”

  Liz sighed as she watched him jog back to the house. That was a joke. She hadn’t slept well in years. And becoming ‘friends’ with a nice guy like Matthew Stone? That was probably the stupidest thing she’d ever thought about doing.

  Well. Not the stupidest. Not by a long shot.

  “You are a complete idiot, Elizabeth,” she muttered as she marched up the steps to the cottage and locked the door firmly behind her.

  Later that evening, her nerves still singing like livewire, she sat cross-legged in the living room, staring at the boxes in front of her.

  “You’re being utterly ridiculous.” If she didn’t stop talking to herself soon, she’d end up as Dad’s roommate, like it or not. She retrieved a pair of scissors from a kitchen drawer and marched back to the boxes, slit open the packing tape on all three, and sat back on her haunches.

  The first box was mostly office stuff, tax receipts and other items from her desk. The second, memorabilia from her time with Laurence. Why had she kept all this stuff? Menus, postcards from places they visited, friends’ wedding invitations and ceremony orders-of-service. Liz scowled at the contents and pushed the box aside. She’d toss all that out. Burn it. The last box . . . she knew before she flipped the lid . . . would contain her photo albums and jewelry box—an elaborate mahogany piece, a gift from her parents on her twenty-first birthday. And in that jewelry box, an envelope that contained photographs she hadn’t looked at in years. Photographs she wished she hadn’t kept.

  Photographs she wished had never been taken.

  A handwritten note lay on top of the albums and screamed through the silence.

  Overwhelming fear fell over her, tears stung her eyes, but she reached for the note anyway, already knowing what it would say.

  Ah, Lizzie,

  I did enjoy looking at all your photos of days gone by. Quite the collection, I must say. Especially the ones hidden at the bottom of your jewelry box. Ones I expect you don’t ever want anyone to
see. My, my, my. What a naughty girl you were. I always suspected you had another side to you. Shame you never really let me see it.

  I do miss you.

  L

  Liz stared at the note for a long while. Fumbled through things with trembling hands, found the old mahogany jewelry box, and carefully laid it on the floor in front of her.

  There, beneath the top drawer, was the white envelope. The photographs would be inside.

  ___________

  Scott Howarth. Liz studied the name written in white chalk on the blackboard at the front of the classroom. Their new art teacher. She glanced around the room at her classmates. The sophomore girls were ogling the man as though they had never seen one before. The boys looked bored. She wasn’t sure how she ended up in this class, really. Her guidance counselor suggested she take it for extra credit, and after all, she was Drake Carlisle’s daughter. She must have some artistic ability. Liz was pretty sure she didn’t, but here she sat anyway.

  She sighed, determined to make the most of it, and took another look at their new teacher. She’d heard he was young, and that was true. He’d come over from England. This was probably his first teaching job. He was tall, good looking, with a head of thick dirty-blond hair. He probably worked out, judging by the biceps bulging under his navy shirt. When he turned to face the class, his eyes landed on her. Cobalt blue eyes that glinted with a hint of mystery.

  “Good morning, miscreants.” His grin reached right through her. “My name is Scott Howarth, and I bring you greetings from the other side of the pond. This is my first time in America, and I am extremely happy to be here.” Liz straightened in her chair, soaked in the lovely British accent he spoke with as he rattled off the names on the register, and jumped when she heard her own. “Elizabeth Carlisle?”

  “Here.” Slowly she raised her right arm until his eyes locked with hers.

  “Hello, Elizabeth,” he said softly. And it was at that precise moment she fell completely in love.

  ___________

  Liz picked up the envelope, her throat burning. How many years had it been? How was it possible to still feel such shame and guilt, to feel like it happened yesterday? If she closed her eyes, she’d be back in the school’s art studio. See him drawing the blinds, locking the door, and crossing the room with that smile that melted every inch of her body and made her want to do . . . everything. At seventeen, she didn’t care that it was wrong. Didn’t care what might happen if they were caught. All she cared about was being loved.

  She flipped the envelope and froze.

  The seal had been ripped.

  And the envelope was empty.

  eighteen

  MIA

  Letters to Dad.

  Hi, Dad,

  I should have written before now. This week totally sucked. Thank God tomorrow’s Friday.

  I guess you should know I have a really bad temper. Sometimes I feel like I just want to explode. And this week I really could have. But I don’t want to get in more trouble, so I . . .

  Mia put down her pen, pulled up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and scratched the bits of dried blood on her arm. Her stomach clenched as she stared at the thin cuts. So many times she’d tried to stop. Told herself she’d never do it again. But when that anger hit, the feeling was so overwhelming, so all-consuming, there wasn’t anything she could do to stop it.

  The backs of her eyes burned. What was the use in thinking about it? She was such a loser. She pulled her sleeve down, sniffed, and picked up her pen again.

  . . . Anyway. So Tuesday wasn’t a good day. We had to go to this old folks’ home and do stuff with the residents. I mean, I guess the idea was pretty cool. The old people really seemed to be getting into it. Some of the kids played cards with them or just talked. Uncle Matt brought along some easels so some of them could draw or paint. And I ended up painting with this old dude. Who was totally amazing. Turns out he was Drake Carlisle. Ever heard of him? He’s a really famous artist here on the island. Used to be anyway. He’s pretty loopy now. I had no idea who he was, and I’m pretty sure Uncle Matt set the whole thing up. When it was time to leave, everyone was staring and looking at our painting, saying how good it was, and it was so embarrassing . . .

  A knock on the door startled her, and Mia snapped her head up. She shut her journal, shoved it under the covers, and opened her laptop. “What?”

  Uncle Matt poked his head around the door. “Can I come in?”

  “You will anyhow.” She gave the dramatic sigh he hated and tried to ignore the way her heart lifted at the sight of him. She loathed that feeling. Because she couldn’t let herself get sucked in, couldn’t trust him again. He’d already let her down, walked out of her life once.

  Uncle Matt crossed the room and perched on the end of her bed. His hair was damp and messy, and he smelled like soap, fresh and clean. The scent took her back to the bathroom of her childhood. Something about that smell always made her feel safe. He had always made her feel safe.

  She rubbed her eyes and looked away. She’d been pretty much ignoring him since Tuesday, and he’d given her space. What she’d said about getting her period had been genius. She’d file that away for future use. Last night she’d pretended to have a headache and stayed in her room. But the anguished look on his face now made her feel sorry for him. “Say what you want to say.”

  “I didn’t set that up on Tuesday, Mia. I swear it. I had no idea that guy was Drake Carlisle until Elizabeth showed up.”

  She wound her thumbs and finally met his eyes. Eyes that had told her a million times how much he cared. Even after all the years apart, she knew he still did. Her uncle was either a real sucker for punishment or he really was one of the good guys.

  “You just happened to see my sketchbook last week and all of a sudden I’m painting with one of the best artists in the country? Awful convenient.”

  A pained look passed over his face. “I know it looks that way. And yeah, I was hoping you’d enjoy the painting. Because you’re good. You have a gift, and I want to encourage that. But I didn’t know who he was. Really. Sometimes . . .” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure whether to say any more. “Sometimes things happen the way they’re meant to.”

  “Right. Like karma.” She threw that in on purpose.

  “Something like that.”

  Mia shook her head. Uncle Matt didn’t go to church, but she knew he believed in God, that it was important to him.

  When she was around ten, back in Arizona, Mom had tried church for a while. Tried to get clean again that year. They’d made friends with a family in the apartment across the hall. Yvonne Jones. Mia remembered her as an overweight, smiley woman, always giving great big long hugs, which annoyed her at the time. Her three kids were loud and funny, and Mia got close with them, especially Sierra who’d been the same age. Yvonne and Mom talked long into the night while the kids played or watched cartoons, then Mia and Sierra whispered together in the big bed when they were supposed to be sleeping.

  Eventually, Mom gave in to Yvonne’s invitations, and they visited her church. To Mia’s great surprise, her mother said she’d liked it and wanted to keep going. Which was cool with Mia because she kind of liked it too. Until Joe got sick of them not being around every Sunday to wait on him, knocked Mom around, and told her they couldn’t go anymore. Yvonne and the kids moved away a few months later, and that was the end of it.

  “Okay, karma, God, whatever.” She managed a small smile. “Maybe I overreacted.”

  “You?” His grin popped out. “Never.”

  “Whatever. Let’s just forget it.”

  “So you’re talking to me again?”

  “Probably.” He made a big show of looking all relieved, and she tossed a stuffed animal at him. “Don’t be so lame.”

  “I’ll try.” He stretched his arms over his head. “You, uh, you doing okay in school? Haven’t heard from the principal lately.”

  She huffed and scowled when he looked her way. “I’m doing okay.”
>
  “Good. Making friends?”

  “Some.” As if.

  “Okay. Well, you know. If anyone ever gives you any trouble, you can talk to me.”

  “I said I’m good.” She answered too quickly and saw the way he picked up on that. He was too smart.

  Mia scanned the room that had been hers since the beginning of summer. It was the smallest room in the house, with two dormer windows overlooking the ocean. The curtains were flowery and faded and matched the poufy chair in the corner. There was an old desk complete with an ancient typewriter that didn’t work but was kind of cool. The worn rug might have been red-toned once, but now seemed a sorry mix of grays and browns with one or two splotches of magenta that somehow managed to escape the sun’s rays. There wasn’t a built-in closet. Just a hulking wardrobe that took up space at the far end of the room. The dark wood was worn and scratched but still smelled good, and each time she opened it, Mia held her breath a little and looked for Narnia.

  Uncle Matt followed her eyes with a quiet smile. “You sure you don’t want to take down that wallpaper?” He scrunched his nose at the pink roses climbing up and down the walls. The yellowed paper peeled in places and had probably been put up years before she’d even existed.

  “Maybe. It’s kinda gross.”

  “We could paint the walls. Whatever color you want. Within reason of course.”

  “So not black?” Mia leaned back against her pillows and allowed a smile. It felt good to smile.

  “Let’s go for something a little more cheerful. I’ll pick up some paint sample books tomorrow. Yeah?”

  “Okay.” She pushed her hair behind her ears and studied him. “How long are they staying?”

  “Your grandparents?” He raised his eyebrows and scratched the stubble on his chin. “God only knows. Look, I’m sorry about that, at dinner the other night. My dad. He . . .” Uncle Matt’s words got lost in the thickening air, and Mia tapped her nails on the top of her laptop. Rain began to tap the windows, and she listened to the wind’s song for a moment.