by Cameron Dane
No secrets up here.
“Damn.” Colin coughed as he breathed in a layer of dust. He inhaled, and his throat and nostrils filled with more grit. Moving back to the window, he stood on his toes, grabbed at a handle on the frame, and pulled. It didn't budge. Colin put down his lantern, used both hands, and with strength and clenched teeth, the handle released with a screech. The round window protested but shifted, opening inward a bit at a time, slowly letting in daylight, until it opened as much as it would go and fresh air breezed into the attic. “There.” With his face up to the window, he sucked in clean air. “That's better.” Colin turned and was about to swing his hand down to grab the lantern when a band of light flickered over the edge of the beam closest to the window, and the sight of a small bundle tucked in at the edge stopped his heart.
“What the hell?” Colin moved closer and raised his arm as high as he could, but his fingers didn't quite reach the beam.
No way am I leaving whatever that is up there.
He backed up a dozen feet or so away from the beam, gave himself a running start and leaped in the air, smacking his hand up against the wood as high as he could. His palm knocked the bundle with a solid hit, and it crashed to the floor with a thud. Dropping to his knees, Colin touched his fingers over the soft leather of a satchel that looked to be no more than eight by eight in size. He turned it over and noticed a metal buckle held the bag closed. His heart racing and his fingers unsteady, Colin opened the bag and withdrew the contents, laying them out side by side on the floor. Three leather-bound volumes and one tiny painting, done on canvas but unframed, set the tingling in his blood to a full-on roar. The painting was a simple rendition of this house with its fancy blue tile roof and gleaming red door.
Breathing, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself, only when he was ready did Colin open his eyes and turn back the cover of the first book.
I knew it. Flipping through the first few pages, Colin searched for a name to identify the owner of the diaries, and it didn't take long. The third entry started… “I met a man tonight. His name is Stewart.”
“Beatrice.” Colin spoke the name with reverence and care.
His legs buzzing like crazy, Colin crawled to the wall and leaned back against it. He rubbed the wood, and heat settled into his palm. “You somehow made him leave that door open earlier, didn't you? This is what you wanted me to find, isn't it?”
Sitting down on the floor next to the lantern, right under the window, Colin flipped back to the first page and started to read.
* * * * *
A few hours later, Marek jogged up to the house from the beach, no Colin at his side. For a couple of minutes after stepping outside to tell Colin it was time to start getting ready to leave, Marek had raced up and down the beach shouting the man's name, panicking when he couldn't find Colin anywhere. Marek forced himself to stop and think, realizing that no towel, book, or sunscreen lay anywhere in the sand or on the dock, so it was very unlikely Colin had gone for a swim and met with trouble.
Still, Marek tore up the porch steps and rushed into his home, his heart thudding painfully as he checked all through the downstairs to no avail, calling Colin's name. Marek took the grand staircase three steps at a time. When he hit the second floor, Colin's voice reached him with an “I'm in the attic. Come up here.”
“Be right there.” Thank you, God. Instead of rushing to Colin's side, Marek took hold of the stair railing and rested his weight into it, waiting for his breathing to return to a steadier pattern before he faced Colin. Marek wanted to blame his breathlessness on his run up and down the beach, but he knew the truth. For a second, when I couldn't find him, he scared the shit out of me. I thought I lost him. The truth rocked a shiver through Marek where he stood. This man was already so important to him he couldn't imagine a life without him.
But it's not real because he doesn't know the whole truth.
Marek scrubbed his face as the spontaneous, stupid choice from his youth reared its ugly head again, piling another layer of guilt on what he already carried in his heart every day. Now, every minute that passed with Colin in this house, Marek added an extra deception through omission of his sins.
“Marek? Are you coming?” The muffle of Colin's voice reached him again. “I found something pretty spectacular.”
Those words got Marek up and moving. “What?”
He strode into the unused room and up the stairs, careful of his step in the shadows. There shouldn't be anything in the attic. Marek had only been up there briefly once, but it had been completely empty.
He followed the ray of light as he emerged into the attic, and found Colin sitting on the floor under the window, a book in his hand. “What is that?”
“You won't believe it.” Colin crossed his legs and leaned forward, and the light caught the excitement in his eyes. “It's Beatrice's diary.”
“No shit.” Marek dropped to his knees and fingered the spine of the tome he held. “Seriously?”
“I know. Right?” Colin leaned back against the wall and cocked his head to the side. “Although she is a young woman, and then eventually a married woman, so maybe I should call them her journals. It seems more adult and serious. There are three. I'm still on the first one because the writing is so tiny, and it has faded, and the scratch of the cursive handwriting is hard to make out in some pieces.” He turned the book around, holding it open so Marek could see the tight lines of text on the yellowed pages.
Unable to help it, Marek lifted his hand and touched the flowing script, unduly fascinated by Colin's discovery. “Where did you find them?”
“They were in this bag”—Colin held up a tooled brown leather satchel—“tucked in the corner of that beam.” He indicated up and to his right. “There was a small painting in the bag as well.” Down went the bag, and up came a tiny portrait of the house.
Marek stared up to where Colin had pointed, his mind in a whirl. “What in the hell do you suppose they were doing up there?”
“I don't know,” Colin answered. “I would tend to doubt Beatrice put them there herself, as I couldn't even reach it without jumping to knock it down. Of course, I suppose she might have had furniture up here and climbed up and down to retrieve the bag when she wanted it. But it was just her for such a long time so why hide them?” Sliding his finger into the book as a mark, Colin tucked the small journal to his chest. “I think it more likely, after she died, the realtor came in to clear out the house, and someone probably set it up there out of the way as they were cleaning and removing whatever was up here and then just forgot about it.”
Marek arched a brow. “You could always go back and chat it up with the realtors again, see if they know what was here when Beatrice passed, and what their father removed.”
“I already thought about that,” Colin said. A frown pulled at his mouth. “But they might stake a claim or want ownership of the stuff, and I don't want to give it up.” He clutched the book even tighter to his body.
Of course. “Then as the owner of this house, and thus I would think all of the contents within, I say go ahead and hang onto it and keep your mystery.”
“Thank you.” Colin smiled so big Marek would have thought he had just offered the man a million dollars. But Marek already knew, for Colin, these little treasures connected to this house were a thousand times more wanted and valued than money.
Shifting to a more comfortable position, Marek leaned in and pried the book away from Colin's chest. He opened it, but left it in Colin's capable hands. “Have you discovered anything interesting about our Beatrice and Stewart thus far?” he asked.
“Yes.” The man practically jumped to attention and saluted. “Okay, so this first journal starts with Beatrice's journey to Australia. She is the friend of a wealthy young woman, Minnie, and acts as a traveling companion for her during the month-long trip; Minnie's father is in Australia to learn about and possibly invest in a huge ranching operation. The girls are nineteen. Anyway, on the third night in Aust
ralia, they all attend this big fancy party. Stewart is there, and Beatrice finds him very attractive from the moment she sets eyes on him. She keeps searching for where he is the entire evening and eventually manages to get right beside where he is engaging in a conversation with some other people.”
“Enterprising young woman.” Marek grinned, responding to the little-kid joy in Colin's voice. “Good for her.”
“Right. Well, turns out everything is almost ruined before it can begin.”
“What happened?”
“Beatrice overhears Stewart talking with great confidence and authority about something to do with agriculture; I couldn't quite figure out what the talk was about exactly. Anyway, she knows what he's saying is wrong, and in her head, she's lecturing herself to keep her mouth shut, but that's not who she is, so she ends up butting into the conversation and correcting him. Very nicely and with respect, she insists.”
“Absolutely,” Marek agreed, his voice sage. “She had a crush on him already, after all.”
Colin crossed his arms and pulled a funny face. “And now you're humoring me.”
“No, I'm not. I swear. I really am interested.” Marek forced his face and voice to sober. “Go on.”
“Okay, so Stewart heartily disagrees with her, insisting he's right. Beatrice knows he isn't. She's quite certain. So much so that she knows Minnie's father can answer the question with authority and dares Stewart to go to the man and settle their disagreement once and for all. Stewart very confidently agrees, and the whole entourage that has gathered to hear this dispute follows along.” Colin stopped, and the soft light captured the twinkle in his green eyes. “Who do you think turned out to be right?”
“I'm going to guess since you're reading Beatrice's journal that she was the victor.”
Colin nodded. “Indeed she was. And with that win, and the raucous ribbing Stewart took from the other men at the party afterward, Beatrice figured a man put in place in public by a woman wasn't likely to ever seek out that woman for conversation again.”
“But he did.”
“The very next morning, in fact,” Colin shared. Such pride filled his voice Marek would have thought Colin a direct descendant of Stewart's, if he didn't know better. “Stewart was a big, brash man. He located the house the family was renting for the month and walked right up to the front door, knocked, and asked Beatrice to accompany him out for a meal.”
Marek scooted in closer and spread his legs on either side of Colin, seeking additional intimacy. His body rolled with tension, and he knew he was getting caught up in the story. “Would that have been proper back then?” he asked.
Colin shrugged. “I don't know, but Minnie's father wasn't home, and Minnie and a maid went with them, so I guess in that sense it wasn't too scandalous.” He put the journal down in his lap and laid his hands to rest on Marek's thighs, squeezing. “Turns out Stewart got a charge out of Beatrice challenging him, and he appreciated her balls.”
“Well…”
“You know what I mean.” Colin pushed at Marek and smacked his leg. “You see, at that point, Stewart only owned one sugarcane plantation and not a terribly large, profitable one at that. He had big plans, though, and he knew any woman he brought into his life would need to be strong and willing to suffer through some lean times before he would be able to put her in a grand house and give her the world. Stewart was a bit of a gambler, you see, and probably shouldn't even have been let into that fancy party. Turns out, he didn't have an invitation. When Minnie's father found out Beatrice had been stepping out with Stewart, he forbade her to see him again, calling him an upstart, coarse, and unworthy of Beatrice's time. By that point, Stewart had already charmed the knickers off Beatrice—not literally, but emotionally—and she was in love with him. In the middle of the night, Beatrice slipped out of the house and went to Stewart. When she told him what happened, Stewart told her to stay with him in Australia, and he married her shortly thereafter. She only saw Minnie one more time, when she went back to the house to get her clothes. She never went back to America.”
“Man, that's quite a story.” Marek whistled, and the sound echoed in the attic. “Beatrice made a bold, risky choice.”
“She trusted her gut. They did go through hard times and had very little in terms of money and lifestyle for a while, but then Stewart acquired a second sugarcane operation, this one in Fiji, as a win in an all-night card game, and they never looked back.” Colin's smile altered from exuberant to wistful. “From what I can understand in these journals, Beatrice truly was Stewart's partner in every way. She believed in him and encouraged him, and in turn, he sought her advice regularly and she gave it to him openly, never fearing he would dismiss her thoughts and opinions because she was a woman.” Opening the journal to the back third, Colin smoothed his hands over the text. “I'm only up to the part where Stewart has finally hit it big with taking over a third huge operation that was mismanaged, and he has asked Beatrice once again to describe her dream house, because he's going to build it for her, in Fiji, using the profits he's going to earn from this next venture.” Colin brushed his hand along the dusty wall and floor, and Marek figured the man somehow felt the house again. “They haven't actually broken ground on the land for the house yet, at the point where I stopped reading.”
“So it's not exactly the story of wealthy newlyweds that floats around Fiji, but the gist of it is in fact quite close.”
“People often like to leave the part out about the hard work that comes first in anything.” Colin picked up the painting of the house and handed it to Marek. “Once Beatrice described the house, Stewart painted this rudimentary likeness of what she envisioned, added what he wanted as his touches, and scrawled a note on the back.” He tapped the edge of the canvas. “Take a look.”
Marek turned the small painting to its back side and grabbed the lantern so he could read the faded words.
This will be yours by our next wedding anniversary. I promise you. You gave me your heart, and I give you your dream. One fancy red door included. My love forever, Stewart.
Looking up after reading, Marek said, “That's nice.”
Colin's face suddenly scrunched in puzzlement, and he grabbed the picture out of Marek's hand. He studied the painting intently, and his finger rubbed back and forth over the patch of red. “A red door, a red door, a red door.” Suddenly, Colin froze. “Oh my God.” He looked up, and it was like a whole new level of understanding and awareness deepened his gaze. “We talked about this once. You wanted a red door too.”
Oh no.
“I remember now,” Colin went on. “Son of a bitch. I can't believe I forgot. I can't believe it didn't come back to me the first time I saw you again.” Colin held the picture up and tapped his finger against the small red rectangle that represented the door. “Remember that day?”
I remember every detail like it was yesterday. I can never forget.
As Colin shared his half of the memory of that tiny, insignificant, best conversation in Marek's whole teenage life, Marek closed his eyes and relived it…
* * * * *
“Bye.” Peter Sumter shook Marek's hand. “Thanks again for everything. You have a great evening.” Marek stood on the stoop of the Sumters' house with Peter just over the threshold.
“I will.” Marek dipped his head, and his overlong hair fell in his eyes. Pushing it behind his ears, he said, “Thank you. I'll be here around ten on Saturday morning. Okay?”
“Sounds good.”
Three kids of varying heights, two boys and one girl, all surrounded their father's legs and poked their heads out the front door. “Bye, Marek!” and “See ya, Marek!” and “I wanna play cars with you!” all came respectively out of mouths, from oldest to youngest.
“Bye, guys.” Marek waved at the two oldest but stooped down to the four-year-old's level and stuck out his hand. “We'll definitely play cars next time. I promise. Deal?”
Rather than shaking on it, the youngest child smashed down on Marek's ha
nd with a super hard high five. “Deal!”
“Okay, kids.” Peter had a lecturing tone to his voice. “Marek has to go home now, and you guys need to go wash your hands and faces for dinner.”
The kids grumbled.
“Come on, guys,” Mr. Sumter pleaded. “Marek will be back soon enough. Give him a chance to miss you.”
The kids all gave Marek another enthusiastic round of good-byes, then untangled themselves from their dad's legs and disappeared into the house without further complaint.
“Sure you don't want to stay for dinner?” Peter asked. “Joan always makes plenty extra, and you know you're always welcome.”
The tangy scent of barbecue wafted through the air and created a silent rumble in Marek's stomach. Barbecue sandwiches were enticing enough all on their own, without the prospect of sharing it with a nice, kind family like the Sumters. Marek could see himself sitting down at their table and never getting back up; he liked being at this house that much.
You can't invade their lives just because yours sucks.
“Thanks anyway,” Marek finally answered. “I should get home.”
“Maybe next time,” Peter said. “See you Saturday.” He closed the door, leaving Marek standing on the porch alone.
One red door separated him from a lovely dinner with a fantastic group of people.
People who don't belong to you, Donovan; stop confusing work with your wishes for a sweet, supportive family to come home to every night. This is not your life.
Still, Marek stood staring at the door for a drawn-out moment and even lifted his hand to knock, wanting to reverse his decision about dinner. With his knuckles poised an inch away from the red painted wood, he dropped his hand to his side. He spun away before he changed his mind again…and his gaze collided with Colin Baxter's. The guy watched Marek from the sidewalk.
