Chailali’s Curse

by Anna Leigh Keaton

  “I don’t get this,” Christy said. “How is this supposed to help me? I’m still in a house. It’s not inside a house that bothers me, it’s out there.” She pointed out the window. “You know that.”

  Beth pursed her lips and tipped her head to the side, a sure sign Christy was on her last nerve. “It’s a start. You’ve been holed up in my house for almost two years. It’s time to get out of there.”

  Christy rolled her eyes. “Eighteen months.” She didn’t bother telling her sister she still had no plans to go anywhere outside the house. Beth had told her that all of Mike’s food and stuff was delivered. No need for her to go anywhere. She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. So there.

  Jeez. You’re acting like a two-year-old. Christy dropped her hands to her lap. She couldn’t exactly demand that Beth take her back to L.A. She was no better than a two-year-old because Beth and Roger had been babysitting her for months and months. The airport had nearly sent her into a coronary.

  “It’ll be okay,” Beth said, laying her hand over Christy’s. “I’m only a phone call away if you need me.”

  Christy nodded, wanting to squeeze Beth’s hand and beg her not to leave her, but the sound of Mike’s cane thumping down the hallway toward the living room stopped her. Damned if she’d let anyone but her family see her turmoil. She wasn’t so far gone that she’d debase herself in front of a total stranger, even if it killed her.

  “Here’s the manuscript,” Mike said, coming up to the back of the couch.

  Beth reached out and took it. “Another bestseller, I’m sure.” She stood and rounded the couch to lay a hand on Mike’s now-clothed shoulder. “I’ve got to get back to the Coos Bay. My flight leaves in a couple hours.”

  Christy’s heart lodged in her throat, and the initial tingling of a panic attack settled into her gut. She stared at Mike’s wide chest covered by a thin, tight T-shirt, and breathed deeply.

  Beth laid her hand on Christy’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Christy nodded. It was the only response she could give right then. She took a couple more deep breaths until her heart rate fell back to seminormal, then pulled her gaze away from Mike and looked up at her sister. She tried to tell herself Beth only had her best interests at heart, but this abandonment still seemed a betrayal.

  Beth leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You’re safe here. Mike’s a good man.” Then she stood up and gave Mike a hug. “I’ll call in a few days and see how everything’s going.”

  Mike returned the hug and gave a nod, though he looked a bit less than pleased. “Have a safe trip.”

  And then Beth was gone, the door closing behind her with an ominous click.

  When Christy looked back at Mike, he was staring at her, or at least in her general direction. She stood up, and his gaze followed the movement. Beth had told her he wasn’t completely blind in his right eye, but could see little more than light and shadow.

  She licked her lips and folded her hands together. “Thank you for the job, Mr. Horton.”

  He shook his head. “Call me Mike. If we’re going to be living in the same house, formalities are useless.”

  “Okay...Mike.”

  His brow furrowed, and the scars on his face puckered, making him look fierce. “I have some ground rules.”

  After another steadying breath, wondering if she should take one of those blasted pills Beth had been trying to push on her for months, she said, “Okay.”

  “Don’t move anything. I don’t want to be tripping over shit that isn’t where it’s supposed to be.”

  His voice was hard, and Christy wondered if he was a bit less sweet than Beth thought.

  “My office and bedroom are completely off limits to you. Do not enter them under any circumstances. Everything is exactly where I need it.”

  “Bedroom and office. Gotcha.”

  “Your room is the only room on the third floor. It has a connecting bathroom, but you’ll have to turn the water on. You know how to do that?”

  He sounded awfully condescending, and she didn’t like it. “Under the toilet and sink and stuff?” When he nodded, she said, “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

  “Fine. Look.” He sighed and shifted his weight, leaning heavily on the carved wooden cane in his hand. “Your sister has been trying to get a housekeeper in here for a while now. None last long. There’s a reason I live alone. I like being alone. I don’t want idle chatter, and under no circumstances are you to bother me if I’m working. I don’t want to hear you. Do you understand that?”

  She folded her arms over her chest and scowled. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” she shot back. If he didn’t want anyone here, why was Beth so damn determined that he hire help?

  “Good.” With that, he turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall.

  Christy sank down on the couch again and fought the tide of worry, anger and sadness coursing through her. She didn’t want to be here any more than he wanted her to be, so she supposed that made them even.

  After a few minutes of self pity, she pushed to her feet, grabbed her bags, and headed for the stairs. She saw Mike sitting at his computer when she passed the open office door. He sat straight and tall, his fingers poised over the computer’s keyboard, but he wasn’t typing. She wondered how a blind guy ever knew what he’d written.

  She shook her head. Not my concern.

  The bedroom assigned to her was spacious, with a big bay window, window seat, and a king-sized, four-poster bed. The en suite bathroom, sporting two sinks in the marble countertop and a deep, claw-footed tub, led her to believe it had once been the master bedroom. She wondered why Mike didn’t use it now. Maybe he didn’t want to deal with all the stairs.

  Either way, it was pretty, if a bit dusty. She went to the bed and pulled back the comforter. A puff of dust rose, nearly choking her. Well, first on her To Do list was to wash the blanket and linens. She stripped the bed in short order and hauled the blankets down the stairs in search of the laundry room. As she passed Mike’s office, he was still staring at nothing, his fingers unmoving.

  Chapter Two

  Mike sat at his computer, listening to the sounds of Christy move throughout the house. She was quiet, but not silent. But then again, with the old, creaky house, one couldn’t take three steps without a floorboard squeaking. Damn it, he didn’t want her in his house.

  He realized he shouldn’t have been such a bastard when he laid down his rules, having been able to tell by her tone of voice and words used that she didn’t appreciate his demands. But he figured it better to state everything now before she went messing with things that weren’t her business—like his office. The last maid Beth had hired for him had decided to rearrange his private space. He’d nearly killed himself, and then her, when he couldn’t find his desk, let alone anything that was supposed to be on it.

  What did he care if his house was a mess? It wasn’t as if he could see it. He did all right. He fed himself and—“Shit.” She was probably going to rearrange the damn refrigerator, too. Then he’d be totally reliant on her for food.

  He grabbed his cane and stood up. His thigh protested with a thudding ache to the sudden movement. The cold, wet weather didn’t do a damn thing for his banged-up body.

  “Christy?” he called as he entered the kitchen, knowing she hadn’t passed by his office again to go back upstairs.

  “What?” she snapped. “I’m sorry. I have to walk, you know. I can’t help it if your house is so old it squeaks every time I move. How the hell does this washer work? Where’s the knob?”

  Mike bit his cheek to hide his smile as he went through the kitchen to the mudroom where the washer and dryer were. She didn’t sound so sweet and sexy now. “Use the pliers. Three clicks to the left, then pull.”

  He heard a huff of breath. “Thanks. Sorry,” she muttered. With the light coming in through the wall of windows, he could see her silhouette better.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything about the noise. I was coming
to tell you not to move stuff around in the refrigerator or cabinets, either.”

  The washer clicked then started. “Fine. Don’t move anything. You’ve made that clear.”

  “Look,” he said on a sigh. “I don’t mean to sound like a jackass, but as you can tell, I can’t see. If things get moved, I can’t find them.”

  “I thought I was hired to do your cooking,” she said, her tone one of a woman who didn’t want to be there.

  “Well, you don’t have to. I don’t need anyone taking care of me. Beth thinks I do, but I don’t.”

  She sighed. “What, exactly, do you want from me?” she asked, and she moved past him back into the kitchen.

  He caught another whiff of the spicy scent that clung to her, and his body responded to her question. At least his penis did. This was why he didn’t want a woman in his house. It was a reminder of all the things he could never again have.

  He turned and followed her, stopping at the doorway to the hall. “I guess you can clean. Just make sure everything is put back where it was before.”

  “What about the pile of papers on the table? They’re very old. Do you need them?”

  He knew they were old bills—ancient, from just after the accident. Now he had his accountant pay his bills for him so he didn’t have to deal with it. “Shred them and toss them.”

  “Where are the cleaning supplies?”

  “Under the sink, I believe. At least that’s where they used to be kept.”

  He heard her moving around the kitchen, opening cabinets. “Not much of anything here. A can of Lysol isn’t going to do a heck of a lot for this place. You said you’ve had other housekeepers? Did they actually do anything?”

  Once again he had to stifle a smile. Little Christy had some of her sister in her after all. Beth was never one to pull punches.

  “I’ve had a few,” he answered honestly. “But as I said before, they didn’t last long.”

  “Wonder why,” she muttered.

  He ignored her snide remark. “The grocery store is just down the road about three quarters of a mile. I’m sure you passed it on your way in.”

  Silence greeted his statement.

  “Christy?”

  “Um. When is your next delivery from the store? Maybe it can be added on to your shopping list?”

  Her tone had changed from sarcastic to...what? Her voice had gone soft, as if the thought of grocery shopping was something distasteful. Big city girl like her probably had all her groceries delivered, though not out of necessity as he did.

  “Tuesdays is delivery day. It’s Ryan’s Grocery. You’ll have to call directory assistance to get the number. Tell Ryan what you need, and I’m sure he’ll throw it on the standing order.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice still quiet. “Mike...?”

  He raised his eyebrow and waited. When a full minute passed and she hadn’t said anything, he offered, “Maybe if we just try to avoid each other this will work out. What do you say?”

  “Yeah.” The word came out on a breathy sigh that had his blood pumping too hard. “I think that might be best. How about if I just cook supper, and you deal with your other meals?”

  He nodded. “I can live with that.” He turned to leave the room, but then stopped again. “I’m partial to baked chicken and beef.” Lord knew he didn’t want some fancy L.A. vegan cooking. “And you’ll have to tell Ryan to double the order so there’s enough for both of us. I only order enough to get me through the week.”

  * * * * *

  Chailali sat on the clean kitchen counter and frowned as she watched Christy on hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Things were not going well. Five days had passed since Christy arrived, and Mike and she had only spoken a handful of words once they agreed to stay out of each other’s way.

  Christy muttered to herself, which Chailali realized was a norm for her since she did it constantly when she was alone. Her words weren’t loud enough for Chailali to understand, but she didn’t sound happy. Then again, who would be happy cleaning up the mess of ten years of neglect to the house? Since Ryan delivered the groceries and cleaning supplies three days ago, Christy had been scrubbing every inch of the kitchen, starting at the top and working down. The appliances gleamed, the granite counters were shiny enough to see a reflection in, and now...the floor.

  Chailali wondered what room would be next on Christy’s list.

  Christy dropped the sponge in the bucket of sudsy water and sat back on her heels to survey her accomplishments. She heaved a sigh, pushed to her feet, and lifted the bucket to haul to the sink.

  “All done?” Chailali asked.

  Christy stopped moving so suddenly brackish water sloshed on the floor from the bucket. She turned and looked in Chailali’s direction.

  Had Christy heard her?

  Christy shook her head, rolled her eyes, and proceeded to dump it down the drain.

  “You...spilled some,” Chailali said aloud.

  Christy’s back tensed mid pour. “Great,” she muttered. “Now I’m hearing voices.”

  She had heard her!

  Christy set the bucket in the empty sink then went to the mudroom and grabbed the new mop Ryan had delivered the other day.

  “I think you should go talk to Mike,” Chailali said softly as Christy passed her on the way back to the sink. “You can’t ignore the man you share a home with forever.”

  Christy made a sound, a snort or something close to it, and ran water over the mop. “He doesn’t want to talk to me,” she muttered in response. “And what the hell...?” She turned around and scanned the room. “Oh, Lord. Maybe I should take those pills.” She wrung out the mop then plopped the end on the floor and began to swipe it over the tiles. “Anxiety turned into schizophrenia? Great. Just what I need.” She glanced around the room again. “I will not listen to voices in my head,” she said louder, with force. “I’m not so far gone that I’ll do that.”

  Chailali frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. Christy obviously thought she was hearing things, imagining the words Chailali spoke. There’d been only a few people throughout the centuries of her limbo who could hear her. Even less who responded as if she was real.

  What in the world could she do to get these two people together? She knew Mike didn’t hear her; she’d tried to communicate with him many times before. Only when he was asleep could she sometimes slip into his subconscious and get through to him. Once in a while he responded in his sleep, but she knew she was nothing more than a dream to him.

  Shaking her head again, she floated off the counter and headed for Mike’s office. There had to be something she could do, and she didn’t want to scare Christy by talking to her too much. The woman seemed awfully fragile as it was.

  * * * * *

  Christy waited until Mike was seated at the table before she set the plate in front of him. “Steak at three o’clock, potato at seven o’clock, and green beans at eleven o’clock. There’s a cup of milk at twelve, and a mug of coffee at one.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured as he felt around his plate for the knife and fork she’d placed there.

  They’d worked out the system of telling him what food he’d find where at their second meal. For a blind guy, he was very self-reliant, and she admired him for that.

  She took her seat across from him and cut into her prime rib steak. Mike ordered quality food. Chicken, seafood, and the best cuts of beef, along with fresh vegetables. He seemed to know what she liked working with, and she’d briefly wondered if Beth had anything to do with it, but then decided not. She didn’t think Mike was a person to change anything about his way of life to accommodate another person. Especially not the hired help.

  Talk to him...

  Christy scowled and stuffed a green bean in her mouth. That damn voice. She’d been hearing it for almost a week. It kept urging her to talk to Mike. She’d gone to take one of those damn pills Beth left for her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wasn’t having panic attacks, and that
was what they’re for, not voices in her head.

  Talk to him, Christy.

  Maybe she needed to find a psychiatrist in the area. Then again, the thought of leaving the house terrified her, so that would just lead back to more panic attacks, which she’d enjoyed the loss of this past week and a half.

  Look at him sitting there eating. Why do you two ignore each other?

  Christy put a huge scoop of baked potato in her mouth. Because he doesn’t want to talk. He’s made that clear. Though, she was getting mighty tired of her own voice, and that of her...her what? At least the voice hadn’t told her to get a kitchen knife and murder her employer. If that happened, she would seek professional help.

  She swallowed the potato, waited until Mike was cutting another bite of steak, then asked, “How’s the book coming?”

  “Fine.” He put the meat in his mouth and slowly chewed.

  She rolled her eyes. See, that’s why I don’t talk to him, she thought with a nasty sneer. The man was beyond anti-social.

  “What’s it about?” she asked, unable to figure out why she bothered.

  “Same as the rest of my books.”

  She licked her lips. “I...um...haven’t read any of your books.”

  He looked at her, though she knew he wasn’t looking at her but in her general direction. She appreciated the effort he made. He raised his right eyebrow in query. She had to admit one thing to herself—the more time she spent sitting across the table from him, the better looking he got. The scars were hideous, but the part of his face left untouched was...gorgeous. Strong jaw, straight, aristocratic nose. And his right eye was as green as the northern pines.

  “Sorry,” she said as she cut another bit of steak. “I stick mostly with romance. It’s my one vice.” She chuckled at herself. “Give me a mushy love story any day. I seriously doubt that’s what you write. I know Beth doesn’t represent romance authors...says they’re a dime a dozen.”

  He shook his head. “Suspense.” He reached for his milk, and she winced when she thought he’d knock it over, but he didn’t.