And then he’s out of his chair and striding toward me with such speed that I stumble back. He catches me around the waist and pulls me into him. His mouth crushes mine with furious intensity.
He kisses me long and hard. When he breaks away, I’m left breathless and weak. There was so much contained in that kiss—so many words and feelings that can never be spoken—that it’s a wonder I’m still upright.
He peers at me through dark, long-lashed eyes. If there’s one thing I find in his gaze, it’s the first semblance of real, unquestionable truth.
“I’ve given you the keys to the kingdom,” he says. “There is no one else. Nor will there ever be. You are all I have and all I will ever want. But this?” He nudges the torn-up sheet on the floor with his foot. “Has a propensity to frighten me.”
“What?” I whisper. It is the first time I’ve heard Jeremy admit to such vulnerability.
“My mind is dark, Lilly,” he says. “My thoughts are black. Always. You are the light that parts them and shines through. You reach to my very core. I have no defense against you.”
He lets me go, walks to the window, and gazes out. He keeps one hand on the sill. “Nor,” he says softly, “do I want one.”
“What are you saying?” I ask carefully.
“I’m saying that there are triggers—the letter, for example—that cause me to revert to old habits. I fight them, Lilly, as much as I can. But they are an integral part of me. These flaws, these reactions, are instinctive. When we are apart, when I feel like I’m losing control, all of them come rearing up. I cannot help it. I do not want to change. Those reactions—the very things you loathe about me—contribute to my success.”
“I don’t loathe them, Jeremy,” I say softly. “And you don’t have to explain. I understand.”
“Do you?” he turns to me. “No.” He shakes his head. “You do not. How can you? You haven’t seen the things that I’ve seen, haven’t lived through what I have. You don’t have the experience to recognize the evil stewing beneath. I try to keep it in check, Lilly. Truly, I do. Only around you. Yet every so often,” He exhales, “it bubbles out again.”
“Like with the letter,” I say.
“Like with the letter,” he affirms. “Only you managed to defuse it in time. Before I could do something …” He gives a crooked smile. “…very, very rash.”
I saunter up to him. “Oh?” I say, feeling both powerful and proud of myself for achieving my intended effect on him. “And what would that have been?”
“Trust me,” he says, turning away. “You do not want to know.”
I touch his arm. “But I do, Jeremy,” I say. “I want to know. Because I want to know you.”
“You do. You’ve seen me.”
“I want to know what goes on up here,” I brush the hair off his forehead. “What goes on in that strongly-guarded mind of yours?”
He takes my hand. Turns it palm-up. And touches his lips to each pad of my fingers. “No,” he says. “You do not. I’m all sorts of fucked up, Lilly. If you knew even a tenth of who I really am, I would lose you forever. I am not willing to risk that.”
“I’ve already seen you at your worst,” I whisper softly. “And I’m still here. Aren’t I? How much could it really push me away?”
“Much more,” he says. “Yet that makes me wonder. Why are you still here, Lilly? Why do you remain with me?”
“Because I…“
“No.” He silences me by pressing a finger to my lips. “Don’t say it. Not now. Our journey together through this lonely world is just beginning. Don’t say it until you know what you mean.”
“I do know,” I insist, my stubbornness kicking in. “You can’t dismiss me with a reason like that.”
“I have my reasons,” he says. “As I’m sure you have yours. And your reasons, Lilly, have nothing to do with love.”
Chapter Two
I spend the rest of the day pondering Jeremy’s last words to me.
There was a definite implication behind them. It was the same one he alluded to when he first told me the story of how he claimed his father’s company in court.
That he can recognize someone angling for revenge.
It’s been a long time since I thought in those terms. There has been no opportunity in our recent time together in this wonderful retreat.
But, now, that underlying current of suspicion is back. The poisonous gulf that threatens to undermine all that we have between us.
Maybe I have been too naïve. Maybe I have stuck my head too far into the sand. Maybe I have become so enraptured with the silent brilliance of my own revenge plan that I lost all sight of the big picture.
Honestly, how brilliant can my plan really be? There’s nothing to it at this point. No substance. No accountability. No… no nothing, really.
I had this vague notion that I had to get close to Jeremy Stonehart before plotting my revenge. That was step one. At the time, the prospects seemed so miniscule that I didn’t even think ahead to step two.
‘Silent brilliance?’ I scoff. More like ‘silent idiocy.' What did I think I could achieve, even if I got close to him? Would I kill him? No. That was never on my radar.
Hate and loathing were what made me pretend compassion, understanding, at first. Hate and loathing were what made me set my sights on worming my way into Jeremy Stonehart’s heart.
Well, I’m there now. I have been there for months, actually—if the story of my being in a coma for so long checks out.
Yet, something about Jeremy’s version of events doesn’t jive with me. There’s a piece missing. If I really had brain damage, wouldn’t I be able to know it, somehow? Wouldn’t it manifest itself in some way by hampering my mental abilities?
The story about it affecting my emotions only is too convenient to check out. It’s too simple, too easy. Too clean.
Why would I have fallen into a coma in the first place? That makes no sense. I haven’t pressed Jeremy for answers, only because I know he would stick to the same script.
For all that, how do I even know that it’s March? How do I know that we’re truly in Colorado? All the information I have about my situation comes directly from Jeremy. And he is a master of twisting lies into truths.
We could be anywhere in the world. It could be any week of the year. I haven’t had access to any outside information. We’re completely isolated here.
I haven’t let it bother me yet because there hasn’t been anything I could do. And I needed to give myself time to enjoy being around Jeremy.
Well, we’ve had that time. From Wednesday to now. If it was Wednesday when I awoke. Nothing I know can be taken as the absolute truth.
Jesus.
I bring a hand to my forehead and close my eyes. My thoughts are going round in circles. Paranoia is exerting its hold on me. I’m going to go crazy if I’m cooped up here for much longer.
I set out to find Jeremy and demand he take us home.
But he’s not where I would expect to find him at this time of day. I scour the entire first story, calling out his name. There is no response.
I climb the stairs to the second level and try again. He’s not there, either.
“Where did the dratted man get to?” I mutter to myself.
Then I see a small doorway, expertly hidden in a nook in the wall. It’s been left slightly ajar. I never noticed it before.
I push it open. There is a small set of dark, curling stairs leading up. I feel a tiny bit of radiant warmth, as if from a fire, coming from up there.
“Jeremy?” I call out, one hand on the railing. “Are you there?”
I don’t get a response but I head up anyway.
The staircase seems to circle forever. As I climb higher, the heat becomes more pronounced.
At the top, I emerge into an unfurnished hallway. There are no rugs on the floors, no paintings decorating the walls. Just a long, empty stretch of wooden floorboards and cedar walls leading to what must be the attic.
I walk
forward, curious yet cautious. “Jeremy?”
I turn a corner, and see the source of the heat.
There is an enormous fireplace on the far wall. It’s bigger, even, than any of the ones downstairs. By the looks of it, it was part of the original house.
There is a single armchair in the room. It looks tattered and old. A set of closed French doors on the opposite side complete the scene.
Jeremy is in the armchair. He does not look at me when I enter. He does speak.
“Come here, Lilly. Sit in my lap.”
I do.
“What are you doing up here?” I ask.
“Thinking,” he says solemnly. The flames crackle and burn before us. “Reminiscing.”
“About what?”
“Many things,” he sighs. He sounds both contemplative and morose. I’ve never seen him in such a state.
“Do you know what’s behind those doors, Lilly?” he asks, tilting his head in their direction.
“No,” I say. “How could I?”
“It’s nothing frightening, I assure you. Come.” He stands and takes my hand. “We’ll face it together.”
“Face what together, Jeremy?” I begin. But he’s already halfway across the room.
He brings me in front of the doors. He places one hand on them, almost reverently. “These haven’t been opened for nearly twenty years,” he admits. His voice is so low I’m not sure I was intended to hear.
“Why?” I ask. I’m not scared. Not really. I can read the situation, and I don’t think there’s a nasty surprise waiting for me on the other side.
This is about Jeremy. Something about these doors, and whatever room they lead to, holds meaning for him.
“Because,” he says, tightening his grip on my hand, “they lead to my mother’s sanctuary.”
With that, his free hand falls to the handles, and he presses them down to push one door inward.
Unlike the bare room behind us, this one is fully furnished. There are, however, large white sheets thrown over everything. The air is stuffy, yet somehow not stale.
I see the impression of a bed in the middle. Drawers, closets, standing wardrobes on the side. Something that might be a vanity, with a large oval shape, reminiscent of a mirror behind it.
The light from the fire behind us reaches into the room. Our shadows are thrown on the floor like those of haunted spirits. Even with Jeremy at my side, even with him taking the lead, it feels like I’m trespassing. Worse than when I stumbled into Jeremy’s secret surveillance room thinking it was his office.
It feels like I’m intruding on a sacred place. Almost like this is a temple in which I don’t belong.
“Jeremy…” I say.
“I would never have done this without you,” he tells me. He takes a step forward, and—for a moment—seems almost to stagger.
It passes in less than the time it takes to blink. But Jeremy—Jeremy Stonehart, always so firm and sure of himself—actually misplaced his step.
He releases my hand and strides across the dust-covered floor. Almost as if to make up for the momentary weakness.
He stops before a long set of drapes and flings them open.
Dust flies everywhere with the disturbance. And suddenly we have pale moonlight shining in, clashing and contrasting with the warm orange glow of the fire.
Jeremy opens the window, and a draft immediately blows past him. The cool air sweeps through and cleanses the room.
And then Jeremy turns around, and begins to methodically, silently, take the sheets off the furniture.
I move to help him. We work in an understanding silence, neither of us saying a word, but neither of us needing to, either. Knowing his mother’s influence on him, I can only begin to imagine what coming here must mean. I wasn’t even aware this was his family’s house, and not something he bought only after he became Stonehart.
It takes us a good half hour to restore the room to its former grace. Jeremy does not just throw the sheets on the floor after he’s uncovered the furniture. He folds them all, in tight, compact squares.
I don’t know why he does it. But I’m not about to interrupt his reverie. There is an undeniable softness to his motions. A gentle tenderness. He functions in an almost dream-like state.
Finally, there is only one white sheet left. It covers the mantle of what must be another fireplace. I noticed Jeremy purposefully avoiding it before. Now that it’s the only one remaining, it cannot be ignored.
He stops before it and regards it for a moment. “Come here, Lilly.” Those are the first words he’s spoken since we entered. “This is something I want to do with you.”
I glide up to him. While we were working, I’d intentionally averted my eyes from any personal belongings. The figurines on the shelves, the items inside the drawers and the paintings on the walls would be pointed out to me by Jeremy, in time, if he so chose. I did not want to spoil the first impression by reading anything into them.
“This is important to you?” I state, more than ask.
“Very,” Jeremy says. “I did not think I would be capable of returning here, ever again. This room…holds so much meaning. There was so much pain. These walls have known so much suffering. But there was also good. There was love. And kindness. It could not overcome the darkness, Lilly. But it made it just a little more tolerable.” He looks at me. “Does that make any sense?”
“Of course,” I answer him, slipping my fingers through his. “But whose pain, Jeremy? Yours, or…”
“Hers,” he says. With that, he pulls down the last remaining sheet.
It flutters to the floor slowly, like a silk ribbon caught on a breeze. I understand immediately why Jeremy left this sheet for last.
Above the fireplace, atop the mantle, is a glorious portrait of a beautiful woman. She looks a queen, sitting straight-backed in a gilded chair. Long black curls fall just past her shoulders. The ebony tresses cover the bit of skin exposed by a low-cut dress.
It’s impossible to guess her age. She might have been no older than I am when this was painted. Or she might have been fifteen, twenty years older. The fine lines around her eyes, so expertly painted, do not provide clues. Rather, they make her seem elevated. Elegant. Transcendent, somehow of both time and space.
I don’t need to look at Jeremy to see the resemblance. It stands out right away.
The eyes, I think. It’s the eyes that are the same.
I thought—assumed, quite rightly—that Jeremy had inherited his eyes from his father. I thought so because of the way he spoke of Hugh, because of how powerful he made him sound. I could not imagine a strong man with a tepid stare.
I should have realized this was not the case after I’d met Hugh. He has small, sneaking, darting eyes. The eyes of a con man. The eyes of a trickster.
The eyes of a foul, dirty rat.
Jeremy’s eyes, on the other hand, are magnificent. Just like his mother’s. They are full of pride and strength and knowledge. Knowledge in a sense of self, not knowledge of useless facts and figures. Knowledge of who you are as a person. Knowledge of your place in the world, and confidence in the scope of your abilities.
“She’s beautiful,” I breathe. I wince and immediately regret my choice of words. Beauty is so transient, so passing. So meaningless even, if it is not backed up by anything more. Beautiful sounds like an empty, hollow word to describe the radiance of the woman in the portrait before me.
But Jeremy seems not to mind. In fact, I think he’s shifted to some deep, faraway place. “Yes,” he mutters, only half-aware of me anymore. “Yes, she is. Isn’t she?”
He reaches out and touches the border of the painting with one hand.
So many questions come to mind. How did a woman with such obvious strength succumb to a man like Hugh? How far must she have fallen to give in to the same drugs that claimed my father’s mind? How bad must her life have become? How desperate?
All of a sudden, a great swell of pity rises up inside me. Pity, mixed with something else,
something I try to deny but cannot. Something dark, sharp, and very dangerous:
Resentment.
This was the woman who caused me so much pain. This was the woman who made Jeremy seek me out. She lies at the heart of all this, at the very core of the nightmares I’ve had to endure.
But she also led you to some good places, a voice reminds me. She led you to Jeremy—not to Stonehart—and all the good that that brought.
Yes, something counters, but without her, my life would still be my own.
I have an almost irrepressible urge to claw at the painting and fling it into the fire. To erase Jeremy’s mother’s confident, self-assured smugness.
Then I catch myself envisioning that very scene. I stop, and shudder. It is not who I am. I am not vain or stupid enough to feel threatened by the painting of a woman who has been dead for twenty years.
The depth of emotions conjured by looking at this woman surprise me. And if those are but a tenth of what Jeremy feels, relating to her…then all of his actions make perfect sense.
Resentment rears its ugly head again.
Is this the woman I am competing with? Is this the one who has such a strong hold over Jeremy’s mind? How is it fair to be compared to someone whose beauty is everlasting, captured forever in a painting like this?
Yet that is precisely the struggle going on inside Jeremy’s mind. He’d said so himself. There were only two women he’d ever truly loved: his mother, and me.
Does he in some sick, deprived, and twisted way, view me as a…as a replacement for her?
Goosebumps rise on my skin. I can do nothing to cast away the icky unpleasantness of that thought.
I’d heard it said that boys, when they grow up, want to marry women who remind them of their mothers. I never considered the veracity of that thought. I’d imagined maybe the opposite is true: Girls want to find someone who reminds them of their father. However, having no such figure in my life, I could never judge for myself whether that was true.
And yet everything that Jeremy’s done, all that’s led him to me, seems to have emanated from the woman I am looking at now. Perhaps it’s even worse. All that Jeremy’s done stems from his memories of her. Memories that have doubtlessly made her seem more perfect than she ever was. More perfect than anybody could be.
Uncovering You 9: Liberation Page 2
