by Rome, Ada
Eventually, Aunt Lu married a good and kind-hearted man named George, and they started their own family in the rambling old house. My mother and I remained as guests in the upstairs bedroom. In the evenings, I would stare up at the slanted ceiling, the soft light peeking through the sheer lilac curtains, while she combed her shining golden hair, humming a tune to herself as she planted a peck of a kiss on my forehead and headed out of the house. She wore orange blossom perfume that surrounded her like an aura. The scent of orange blossoms would forever remind me of those hazy childhood moments.
Then one day, with the abruptness of a thunderclap, she was gone. I was six years old. When I opened the door after trudging home from the bus stop, I found Aunt Lu seated at the kitchen table gripping a folded paper in her hand, her knuckles clenched white. My entrance startled her. In the instant that she raised her head, I saw a burning fury in her eyes. She stood and slammed the paper into an open trash can. Then she knelt in front of me, a look of the deepest compassion overtaking her face, placed her hands on my shoulders, and wrapped me in the safety of a protective bear hug.
Later that night, when I was sure Aunt Lu was sound asleep, I fished the paper out of the trash and recognized my mother’s handwriting. I saved the note in a drawer until my developing reading abilities enabled me to decipher her slanting script. She wrote that she was leaving Hallow River with a man named Trance who was “a creative genius” and “the love of her life.” She committed my care to Lu’s capable hands and declared that she would retrieve me when the time was right. That time never came. Her last communication was a birthday card that she mailed from a postmark in Arizona when I turned eight. She enclosed a losing lottery scratch ticket and a picture of herself, baked tan and posing outside of a dust-swept truck stop in a breezy white cotton dress and a string of turquoise beads. A part of me never stopped looking for her in the back of every theater and auditorium when I danced. She was never there.
From the day my mother left, Aunt Lu and Uncle George raised me as one of their own. They clothed me, fed me, supported me, and treated me as a natural addition to their own pair of high-spirited daughters. I poorly repaid their generosity by leaving for New York only one month after my high school graduation and never returning. I could still picture myself running headlong down this same path ten years earlier, shouting goodbye and ducking into the car, conscious only of my own hopes and dreams shining in the distance. It seemed like yesterday and it seemed like a million years ago. The world had moved full circle since then.
“How long are you staying?” Aunt Lu now asked.
“A while,” I said with a glance back at the car. Inside the trunk was a suitcase with the few belongings I had been able to pack in a hurry the night before.
She tilted her head to the right and narrowed her eyes in appraisal. Then she straightened up and relaxed her arms.
“Well, come on in then.” She made a scooping gesture for me to follow and turned toward the door. “C’mon, Georgie,” she said to the little boy on the stairs. He grasped the fire engine in his chubby hands and tottered after her. I exhaled in relief and followed them inside, the porch steps making sharp cracking noises under my feet.
The house looked almost exactly the same as I remembered it. In the front hall hung a picture of Aunt Lu and Uncle George on their wedding day. I was a blur in the back of the photo, darting through the frame in a yellow taffeta dress and a white flower garland. Next to it was another picture of the two of them, this one taken shortly before his death, when cancer had already thinned him to a specter of the hale and hearty figure I once knew.
I felt a stab of guilt. Upon learning of Uncle George’s passing three years earlier, I’d called Aunt Lu to offer my condolences and apologize for not being able to come down for the funeral. The reason I gave was a big rehearsal that I simply could not miss. It sounded so callous in retrospect. It was also a lie. The real reasons were a bruised eye socket and swollen jaw courtesy of the man who was now buzzing my phone with another insistent burst of messages.
Aunt Lu leaned a bit crookedly and favored her right leg as she walked in front of me. Little Georgie’s sneakers pattered across the floorboards and made a soft thump-thump when he ducked into the living room.
“You hungry?” she turned and asked.
“No, Ma’am.” I marveled at how rapidly I had regressed to the accent of my youth. “I ate lunch over at the diner. I ran into Cami Talbot. She’s a waitress there, but I guess you know that. Anyway, it was a shock to see her all grown up. Her brother Cayne is a mechanic now? She told me to go see him about my car.”
Aunt Lu raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “Cayne Talbot, huh? Be careful with that one.”
Once again, I was having trouble squaring my memory of the geeky kid I knew ten years ago with the image of a dangerous ladies’ man. I waited for Aunt Lu to elaborate, but instead she just pointed up the stairs.
“You can have your old room. Might as well bring your things inside.”
I appreciated that she wasn’t asking questions yet. My appearance on her doorstep must have come as a complete surprise, but Aunt Lu was used to dealing with surprises in stride.
My phone buzzed in an emphatic rhythm within my purse. He was calling again. Aunt Lu glanced at my purse and then up at me. I swallowed hard and felt my cheeks get hot. I leaned on one foot, trying to appear nonchalant, and ignored the buzzing. Her eyes narrowed again. The years had carved two deep furrows from her nose to her mouth and a crease of worry into her forehead.
“You in some kind of trouble, Brinley?”
Words threatened to flow out in a torrent, the truth nearly rising over the walls I had built to contain it. But I pursed my lips and stayed silent. Keeping secrets was a habit I found difficult to break.
Aunt Lu stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder. I was reminded of that long ago day in the kitchen, the day that my mother left and Lu’s hand on my shoulder told me that everything was going to be alright before I even knew that anything was wrong. I took that same comfort now.
“Go on, then. Get your things and get settled. Dinner is at six.”
She turned into the living room, where Georgie was once again making bubbly “vroom-vroom” noises and rolling his fire engine across the carpet. I went outside to retrieve my suitcase from the car.
***
After a dinner punctuated at times by awkward silence and at other times by the slapping of Georgie’s hands on his highchair table, I climbed the familiar steps to my old bedroom.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the slanted ceiling and lay down on the twin bed that was covered with a soft handmaid quilt in pale shades of pink and green. Staring up at the ceiling was like looking into the face of an old friend. Every knot and splinter above my head was a window onto the past. I must have spent thousands of hours as a teenager in exactly this position, gazing upward and wondering about the future.
My purse lay discarded on the desk chair. My phone buzzed once more from within it. I got up and retrieved the phone, seated myself on the edge of the bed, and took a deep breath.
The screen showed seventeen messages and five missed phone calls from Granton Langley. A part of me knew that I should erase the messages and put the phone away. Nothing good would come of allowing myself to be dragged back into his orbit, even with all of the miles now between us. Another part of me was so accustomed to letting him dictate the terms of my existence that my fingers operated with a compulsion that I could not control. I also needed to know whether he had any clue as to my whereabouts. I hastily swiped open the messages and began reading.
Where are you?
Seriously where the fuck are you?
You better come home soon. I’m not fucking around.
I know your suitcase is gone.
You can’t leave without my permission. You know that.
You worthless bitch. You took my fucking car.
If you stole anything else, I will fucking kill you.
Who do you think you are? You think I won’t find you?
You’re going to fucking pay for this. Worse than ever.
I can destroy you.
If you come back now, I’ll forgive you.
How could you do this to me? To us? This is all your fault.
I never did anything to you that you didn’t deserve.
Worse is coming. You just wait.
You can’t escape. I won’t allow it.
I’ll trace the car and find you. You can’t hide.
I know where you are. I’m coming for you.
The last message caused a flutter of panic in my stomach. I pictured him storming around his penthouse in a designer suit, furiously typing out messages and burning with frustration at the knowledge that I had finally slipped from his iron grip. In my mind’s eye, I saw his coldly handsome face going scarlet with anger and his hand whipping feverishly through hair that he normally kept coiffed in perfect formation. In moments of extreme rage, he often reminded me of an irate child. I would stifle a perverse urge to chuckle just before a fist slammed into my cheekbone or fingers grabbed my throat, plunging me back into reality with the shock of an ice bath.
Still, I suspected that he was bluffing. My past, or really any aspect of my life, was never a priority for him. He may have asked once or twice about my origins in the early days of our relationship, but I was certain that the information flew swiftly out of his brain as soon as I spoke. My value to him was never as a person with a unique history, but as a tool to be manipulated. There was no way he would remember the name Hallow River. He wouldn’t know to look for me here, at least not yet.
As for the car, it was not exactly stolen. I had my own key. He’d purchased it as a “gift” the previous year, my reward after an especially vicious assault left me with several broken ribs and a chipped incisor. He owned it, of course, but he permitted me to drive it around the city, always keeping within the narrow bounds of his allowance. How many times did I sit behind the wheel, freedom at my fingertips, skirting the edge of the open road, only to turn around and go back?
We existed in a constant seesaw between abuse, threats, and violence on the one hand, and protestations of love and remorse on the other. Time after time, I returned to him despite the voice in my head that told me to run away for good and never look back. His gifts always came with an apology and a tear-stained promise that he would never hurt me again. One of them now hung around my neck – a circular gold pendant etched mockingly with the word “LOVE.” I did not wear it out of sentimentality, but as a haunting reminder of the evil that can lurk behind sweet words and shiny things. It was also a promise to myself that I would never again be so cruelly deceived.
I placed the phone on the nightstand, lay back on the bed, and drifted off to sleep. I hoped that tomorrow would begin a new life without Granton Langley’s shadow darkening my every footstep. It was a naïve hope. I should have known better.
Chapter 3
TALBOT AUTO BODY. The sign had the gloss of a fresh paint job. I found the place with no trouble. Hallow River looked largely the same as when I’d left it. A few more shop windows were boarded over with planks, but the essential landmarks remained in place. The town square still featured a central bandstand with a statue memorializing beloved World War I dead. Girls in short-shorts still giggled and whispered in front of the ice cream shop. Boys in backwards caps still bounced basketballs toward the nearby courts.
I eased into a space in front of the shop. A few mechanics in grease-stained overalls leaned with their backs to me under open car hoods. I smoothed a few flyaways of hair in my rearview mirror, tucking one section behind my ear, and stepped out onto the gravel driveway. My wedge heel immediately sunk into the uneven surface, and my knee buckled awkwardly.
“Whoa, watch out there!” said a voice from behind.
I reached for the driver’s side door and attempted to right myself. I felt ridiculous for having worn these shoes, along with the gauzy periwinkle sundress that stuck to my thighs in the heat and rode dangerously up toward my crotch. I’d chosen my outfit that morning with half-formed notions of impressing Cayne. Those notions now seemed silly and stupid. Was I seriously prettying myself up for a guy whose existence I had nearly forgotten until yesterday?
“You ok, ma’am? We didn’t rake this driveway with fancy shoes in mind.” The voice sounded deep and droll. A hand wrapped securely around my waist. I spun around in surprise, my heel once again dipping into the gravel. My arms flew out in panic, and I found myself gripping a pair of solid biceps in a thin gray cotton t-shirt. I looked up into a set of amber-flecked green eyes as a second strong hand grabbed the other side of my waist.
“Well, if you wanted to dance, you should have said so.” His mouth curled into a sideways smirk, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. “Though I think your footwork could use some help.”
“Umm, hi,” I stammered. Noticing that I was still clasping his sturdy arms, I jerked my hands away in embarrassment like I was recoiling from a hot stove. “I’m looking for Cayne Talbot.”
“Are you now?” He leaned backwards with the same dimpled smirk still in place. His eyes traveled down the length of my body. A warm flush rose from my neck up into my face. My dress suddenly felt too tight and flimsy over my breasts and far too short where it curved over my hips. My bare legs were exposed and pale from the city summer. “And what would you want with Cayne?”
One of my slim dress straps had slipped off as I tottered in the gravel. He pinched it between his fingers and delicately replaced it, the skin of his palm brushing lightly against my shoulder. When we both stood straight, my eyes were level with his chest muscles. I could see the outline of his pecs underneath the t-shirt that I now realized was a faded relic from Hallow River High School, the letters “HRHS” half-obliterated by time but still detectable.
“I ran into his sister yesterday. My name is Bri---”
“Brinley LeClare,” he interrupted.
“Cayne?” I said in disbelief. “You’re Cayne?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” He spread his feet apart and crossed his arms over his flat abdomen. “Would you recognize me if I were choking on a soda?” I winced at the memory, but his robust laughter dismissed any lingering awkwardness. “Relax,” he said. “I’ve changed a lot since then.”
This seemed like quite an understatement. How could the hulking figure before me actually be the same person as that scrawny teenager from long ago? Ten years had worked a transformation in Cayne Talbot that bordered on the surreal.
Gone were the owlish glasses. Cayne’s green eyes sparkled with mischief as his dimple dissolved and reappeared with each shift of expression. His formerly skinny physique was replaced by a strong and virile form, the once bony back now encased within an armor of well-worked muscles that rounded his shoulders and snaked down into his forearms. His skin was smooth and tan. Part of a tattoo peeked out from his shirt sleeve. His dark brown hair was cut short, but a small section dipped rakishly over his forehead. He exuded an air of calm self-assurance and an undeniable sex appeal.
I suddenly realized that I was staring. Cayne cocked his to the side and smiled.
“I never would have recognized you in a million years,” I said breathlessly.
“Well, good,” he replied, shuffling some gravel with the toe of his boot and gazing at me from under his brows. “I would have known you anywhere, Brinley. You haven’t changed a bit. Beautiful as always.”
My heart did a small flip of elation. Aunt Lu’s warning echoed in my brain – Be careful with that one. Cayne had clearly turned into a charmer in the years of my absence. I certainly did not want to make a fool of myself. Still, after being treated like a non-entity for so long, I could not help but melt a little with his compliment.
“So, what can I do for your today, Brinley LeClare? I know you didn’t come all the way back to Hallow River just to say hi to me.” He edged a bit closer. I inhaled a whiff of engine grease. His jeans
were frayed to threads in places and splotched dark on the thighs from a thousand absent-minded swipes with oil-stained hands.
I looked bashfully at my shoes, now steadied on the treacherous gravel, and straightened the hem of my uncooperative dress. When I raised my eyes again, I saw that he was staring at the gold “LOVE” pendant hanging just above the crease of my cleavage. It stuck to my chest, damp with sweat under the summer sun, and flashed like a signal. I instinctively wrapped my fingers around it and clutched its burning heat within my palm.
“I’m here about the car,” I said. “The engine was making rattling noises all the way down from New York yesterday.”
Cayne turned toward the car, ran a hand over the roof and whistled. I didn’t know much about cars, but I knew that this one was a rare model and had set Granton back a considerable sum. Not that he cared. Money flowed like water for him. The silver finish gleamed with a metallic flash. The contours ran fluidly from front to back, giving an impression of speed even when parked.
“Damn, that’s a nice car. It’s yours?” Cayne raised one eyebrow quizzically.
“Yes.” The words threatened to catch in my throat. “It was a gift.”
“A gift, huh?” He appraised the car’s body from top to bottom in much the same way he had unselfconsciously appraised my body only moments earlier. “What does a girl have to do to get a gift like this?” That tantalizing dimple appeared again as he grinned sarcastically. He walked to the front of the car, lifted the hood, and peered into the nest of machinery.
I froze. “Get punched in the face by a monster” was probably not an appropriate answer under the circumstances. I pursed my lips and hid behind my cocktail party face, a well-practiced mask that often helped me escape from painful conversations with the wives and consorts of Granton’s Wall Street colleagues at stuffy social gatherings. They would inform me in conspiratorial whispers how “lucky” I was to have “snagged” Granton and how he so clearly “adored” me. In response, I would adopt the blankest slate that my facial features could assume and take another swig of martini. I shook off the memory and changed the subject.
