“Well, someone looks happy today.”
“Remember when I told you about that opportunity as a managing consultant in London?”
As he speaks, his throaty voice is jubilant, and his bright beryl eyes shine into dusk sunset.
“Yes? You met with the people today?”
“I did. I received a call from Matt Lewis who is working out there now. He told me that his assistant was in town and, after looking over my portfolio, he wanted to interview me. So, on my lunch break, I sat with him outside my office and, at the conclusion he just flat out told me, ‘George. You are going places and I can see you as a great fit with our business. If you’d like the position, it is yours.’ And so, I accepted.”
“That is great news, George! I’m so proud of you! Um, so, w-when are they expecting you in London?”
“Well, because of their faith in me, they gave me an advance so, the decision is up to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“How soon can you pick our new house?”
“Well,” I gawk and can’t refrain from smiling. “I guess we should start looking!”
We spent two weeks in London before we found our dream home. George received a great advance and, though we could have found a decent home, we wanted something more than exceptional so we dug into our savings and put the two together.
Our new house rests atop a cliff which overlooks the horizon. It has five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a welcoming fountain at the front entrance, a large dining room, and a kitchen that could accommodate a vast number of line cooks.
“I love it!” I tell him. “There’s more than enough of everything. Do we really need this place?”
“I thought you said you loved it?” George asks with a laugh in his voice.
“I do!”
“Good, because since we’ve already paid for it, we have no choice but to turn this house into our home.”
I was proud to find a garden on the side of our house, much larger than the one we had back in the States. I’ve practically developed a schedule for myself already. I would get up each morning at eight am, do my freelance work, finishing the writing projects before eleven am, have lunch, do some unpacking until around two pm, then tend to the garden until George would walk in the door at five.
I served him a steak, mashed potatoes, and mixed vegetables for dinner with white wine. Sitting at our new dining table enjoying a great meal seemed like a great way to start our life in the new house.
“So, do you love it?” he asks.
“I do,” I say after taking another sip from my glass. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Indeed it is,” he says cutting into his steak. “So, tomorrow I get to work. Will you be alright here by yourself?”
“Well, of course, I mean it won’t be much different than how it was before.”
“But it is,” George says as he points with his fork. “The difference is, we’re in London, my dear.”
“I have a great feeling that everything will be just fine, George.”
~
These past few weeks have been, well, okay, I guess. As George works during the day, I do the unpacking. It isn’t much trouble, though. The problem is, since we’ve moved in, I’ve realized I haven’t been sleeping well. Our bedroom is comfortable, to the eye at least, but I’ve been waking in the middle of the night unable to fall back asleep. Following the schedule has been troublesome due to exhaustion, and because George is at work, I’ve been moving about the house like a slug, unpacking everything.
“How was work today?” I ask him as he walks in the door.
He’s quiet and places his briefcase on the living room floor as I sort through our box of miscellaneous items. He sighs and shrugs.
“It was fine.”
“What’s the matter, George?”
“Nothing. I just—I just need to lie down for a bit.”
Without another word or even a kiss, he heads upstairs to our bedroom. He’s been doing that often; coming into the house, barely saying a word besides, ‘I need to lie down.’ Ever since he started this new job, at least since his second day, he seems troubled. And in the morning he seems irritable. He’s giving me the impression that he doesn’t want to be here and I had reason to believe that each day he’d come home proud.
I’ve spent another hour unboxing things and begin to wrap everything up to continue tomorrow. As I close a box, I hear footsteps coming from the kitchen.
“George?” I call. No response. Still not into talking I guess. “Well,” I say. “I’ll be starting dinner soon. Lasagne. Does that sound good?” No response again. I rise out of my chair and head for the kitchen.
“George, I sai—“
All the kitchen drawers, cabinets, oven, and the refrigerator are open, but George isn’t there. I hear footsteps again, only they are heading up the stairs. I leave the kitchen and stop at the bottom of the stairs.
“George?” I call up. No response. I hadn’t even heard him come down. When I get to the bedroom, George is sound asleep in bed as if he hasn’t moved. I climb into the bed beside him and he curls the covers up to his neck.
“George?” I whisper. “George?”
“Hmm?” he replies in a sleepy, throaty voice.
“What were you looking for in the kitchen?”
“What’s that, dear?”
“What were you looking for in the kitchen? You left all the drawers and cabinets and the fridge open just now.”
“What are you talking, Eva? I’ve been in bed since I came home.”
“Well, I didn’t do it.”
“Maybe you did.”
“But I didn’t.”
He opens his eyes and rolls onto his back. “Come here.”
I smile and rest my head on his hairy chest. He puts his arms around me and caresses his hand through my hair.
“You know, since we’ve moved in we haven’t exactly broke everything in.”
“What do you mean?” I ask him. He lifts my head by the chin with his index finger and presses his lips against mine. As our lips fold and dance, before I knew it, George was making love to me.
The story continues…
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Copyright Notice
The Haunting of Westmore Hospital - Behold the Doctor of Death
By
Riley Amitrani
http://www.rileyamitrani.com
http://www.beyondoriginal.com
PUBLISHED BY:
Beyond Original LLC and Riley Amitrani
Copyright © 2018 Beyond Original LLC, Riley Amitrani. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
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The Haunting of Westmore Hospital - Behold the Doctor of Death Page 8
