I’d gotten through another five or six pages before I saw another underlined passage.
I have to run.
The sentence was referring to the character needing to jog but it was only those four words underlined. It puzzled me to the point that I decided to forgo reading and flip through the next few pages to see if there were any more. The next one had my heart stop.
He will kill me.
These words weren’t highlighted because the reader loved them, because they wanted to remember those particular parts of this mediocre book, I was absolutely sure of that. I wanted a piece of paper and a pen. I rushed to the living room and opened the top drawer of a sideboard. I didn’t care whether Beau would be angry I’d disturbed his things, I rifled around. Not finding what I wanted, I went to the next drawer, and then the next.
I climbed the stairs two at a time and ran to the bedroom I was allocated. Each drawer in the cabinet was empty. There was another flight of stairs to a third floor and that time, I took them one at a time. I hesitated in front of the only door on that floor. I placed my hand on the doorknob and gently turned it. Beau had lied; the door creaked open.
That room was obviously the master bedroom. A huge bed with wooden bedposts and ornate finials dominated the room. The whitewashed wooden floor creaked as I walked across. At first I stood in the middle of the room. Floor to ceiling sheer drapes were artfully arranged over a large window. The pool of white material as each met the floor reminded me of a lake. Two large wooden wardrobes, similar to the one in my bedroom, stood against one wall. It only occurred to me then, they looked like something I’d see in a chateau or stately home. I remembered a magazine I’d scanned through, on homes across Europe. This room seemed to be modeled on one.
I backed out, not wanting to intrude any further. There was serenity about the room and I felt like I would tarnish that if I disturbed anything.
There had to be a piece of paper and a pen somewhere. I headed back to the kitchen and opened drawers. One contained some mail. I hesitated but decided I needed to write these lines down. I wasn’t sure what was compelling me so much, but somewhere I just didn’t accept this was underlining passages that were liked, more that they meant something.
A thought occurred to me. I ran back to the bathroom and opened a cupboard under the sink. I found what I was looking for; a makeup bag that contained an eyeliner pencil.
I sat at the kitchen table and started the book from the beginning. I flicked through each page, writing all the underlined text until I had a list. As it was, it didn’t make sense but my blood ran cold. It was a message, I was sure of that. I sat and reread it many times. I debated whether to call him or not.
Frustrated, I left a message on Beau’s voicemail. I tried to keep my voice calm and simply told him that I found something in a book I thought he should take a look at. I paced, sat, pulled more books off the shelf, and flicked through many pages. I paced some more, constantly checking my cell to see if Beau had replied.
I could have called Cecelia but she wasn’t aware I was at Beau’s house, and I didn’t want to alarm her, or give her any reason to think we’d struck up a friendship.
I picked up the envelope and turned it over. It was addressed to Rachel Summer, I guessed they weren’t married after all.
I sat and watched the clock, getting more impatient by the minute. Darkness crept over the kitchen until, eventually, I turned on the lights. The more time that passed, the more I wondered if I was overreacting, if I’d come up with something so far wrong, Beau would laugh at me.
“No, it’s a message,” I said aloud.
“What is?”
I screeched. “Shit, Beau. Why the fuck are you creeping around? Did you get my message?”
“I’m not creeping, it’s my house, I can walk around however I want, and yes. Which is why I’m here.”
He walked toward the kitchen counter and picked up the envelope. “Where did you get this?” he asked, angrily.
“Turn it over. I'm sorry, I needed something to write on, I wasn’t snooping.”
He flipped the envelope over and read.
“What is this?”
“Look, I found those lines highlighted in a book.” I picked up the book, he took it from me.
“That was Rachel’s favorite, she read it over and over. So, I’ll ask again, what is this?”
“In the book are lines of text that have been underlined. I didn’t think anything of it at first, until I got to the third one. I wrote them all down. Why would someone underline that?”
“What is that?” he asked, pointing to something on the envelope.
“Let me show you.”
I took the book and the envelope from him and turned to the first line that had been highlighted.
“This is for you, not me, for you, please remember that. It’s been underlined in pencil, see?” I then listed the others.
I have to run.
He will kill me.
I want to keep you safe.
I hope you’ll find / this / one day.
I love you, never forget that.
One day / I’ll come / back.
“What are the slash marks for?”
I flicked through the book until I came to the right page.
“See here, someone underlined that little piece of text, skipped the next, underlined that bit, as if to make up a whole sentence.”
Beau pulled out a stool and studied the envelope. “And you found this book where?”
“On a shelf in your living room. I just wanted something to read, I wasn’t…”
He waved his hand cutting off my sentence.
“What the fuck?” he whispered, I guessed to himself.
“It’s a message, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
He placed the book and envelope on the counter and the scrape as he pushed his stool back across the tiled floor set my teeth on edge. I followed him back to the living room and watched as he pulled book after book from the shelf. He flicked through each one, dropping them to the floor when he was done. The more he didn’t find what he was looking for, whatever it was, the more aggressive he became. He started throwing the books around the room, eventually, when he’d run out of books, he kicked his way through the pile, scattering them around the room.
Without looking at me, he walked back to the kitchen. I jogged to keep up.
“Is it from Rachel?” I asked.
“How the fuck would I know?” he spat.
“It was her book…”
“I know! Just…” he shouted, and raised his hand to silence me. “I know, just let me think, please,” he added, gentler.
I listened to him read aloud the words, slowly, as if digesting every syllable, every letter. I let him be and as quietly as possible, sat back down. It felt an eternity; eventually he looked up at me.
“It’s a message, for sure.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“She left a year ago, nearly to the day. Which is why, when I first saw you, it freaked me out a little.”
“But you weren’t freaked when you picked me up?”
“It was the only reason I stopped to pick you up. I saw you dart into the woods, the way your hair moved, your body. The way you closed your eyes, as if you couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see you. I thought it was her.”
“What shall we do?”
“We?”
“Sorry, I mean, I’d like to help if I can.”
He didn’t answer but fished his phone from his jean pocket. He swiped his finger over the screen and dialed a number. He looked at me before he spoke, then picked up the envelope and left the kitchen. He obviously didn’t want me to hear what he had to say. I waited until he returned. He moved around the kitchen like a man possessed. Opening drawers until he found a set of keys, undoing the buttons of his white shirt and shrugging it off his shoulders, he also kicked off his shoes. He grabbed a t-shirt from a pile off the counter. Despite the situation, I coul
dn’t help but watch his stomach muscles tighten and ripple with the movement. I had to turn my head when he grabbed a pair of jeans from the laundry pile and started to undo his trousers.
“Boots,” he mumbled to himself.
His tan work boots were by the back door, still muddy from when he’d worn them previously at Cecelia’s, I imagined.
“Stay here, you hear me?” he said, finally acknowledging me.
“Beau, what can I do?”
“Nothing, just stay here. I don’t need to be worrying about you on top of this.”
Worry? I thought.
“Okay, I’ll stay here.”
He left, not before picking up the book as well. From the whirlwind that had just occurred, the calm that came with his absence unsettled me. At first I wasn’t sure what to do. I looked at drawers left open, the pile of laundry in a mess, and decided to do the only thing I did well. I cleaned his house.
I refolded his clothes, occasionally getting a waft of a fresh smelling detergent; I wiped down the dusty cupboards and the pots hanging over the stove. Then I started in the living room. I replaced all the books back on the shelves, adjusting them in height order. I picked up my phone, surprised to see the time. It was getting close to eleven p.m. Maybe it was seeing the time, but I failed to stifle a yawn. My head had begun to pound, partly from hunger, mostly from tension. Stress headaches were something I’d suffered from since a young age.
After turning on a couple of side lamps, I sat on the sofa and picked up the TV remote control. I flicked through channels of crap until I found the local news. There had been no new reports about Philip’s murder for over week. I didn’t believe the community or the press had forgotten about him and wondered why no one was shouting for an update. Even his son had gone quiet. I turned it off and just sat in the dimly lit room.
I wasn’t sure what it was that woke me, maybe a snuffle or a snore? I had fallen asleep on the sofa and now found myself covered with a quilt that hadn’t been there before. The room was dark as I tried to stretch out my legs, I stilled when I hit something, or someone. I shuffled into a sitting position, and once my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I saw Beau sleeping at the other end. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his head rested back. He looked very uncomfortable and I imagined he’d have a stiff neck in the morning.
I stared at him for a little while, noticing all the French features I’d not seen before. He had a straight, ‘Romanish’ nose and light olive-colored skin. Dark stubble framed his jaw. His bicep strained against the cuff of his t-shirt sleeve, and my thoughts were instantly taken back to his sculpted stomach. I shook my head gently to rid myself of any unwanted thoughts. Even if I weren’t the person I was, if this was a different time and place, there would never be anything between us.
I rose, picking up the quilt with me; I wanted to place it over him. The room had chilled significantly, but I also didn’t want to disturb him. I took the gamble. I pulled the coffee table slightly closer and raised his feet to rest on it. He groaned as I did, I thought that he’d mumbled a name but wasn’t sure. He shifted down the sofa a little, and as he did, my eyes were drawn to a line of dark hair that ran from his navel to the top of his jeans. When I thought he was a little more comfortable, I draped the quilt over him and left the room.
The kitchen was colder than the living room and I shivered as I refilled the coffee maker. Its gurgle and hiss of steam as it percolated was a welcome disturbance to the silence. I wrapped my arms around myself and rubbed some warmth into them while I waited for the coffee to brew. On the kitchen counter were the book, the envelope, a set of keys, and a wallet. I picked up the envelope, and in the dim glow of an under-cupboard light, I read the list again.
This is for you, not me, for you. Please remember that. In my mind, that was Rachel telling him she had no choice but to leave, another line, further down seemed to confirm that. I want to keep you safe. From what, or whom? Was she in fear of her life, or his?
I stared at the last line the longest, One day / I’ll come / back. That line brought me back to thinking that she’d been gone a year, and yet hadn’t made it back, that wasn’t good. The coffee maker beeped, letting me know it had finished, and I poured myself a cup. The light of the fridge as I opened the door caused me to squint against the brightness; I reached in and grabbed a carton of cream.
“I take mine black,” I heard. Beau had startled me enough that the cream slopped from the container down my t-shirt.
“Shit,” I said, placing it on the side and grabbing a cloth.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Chucking cream down myself,” I replied, scrubbing at the stain.
He chuckled, and it was a pleasant sound, not one I heard that often from him. I poured the cream into my cup before pouring another coffee and handing it to him.
“I was reading the list again,” I said, not that it wasn’t obvious, I was still holding it.
He leaned on the counter and took it from my hand. He placed it at an angle so we could both read.
“This is for you…” he said, reading aloud. “What was for me?” I didn’t think he was asking me the question.
“Was there anything that happened just before she’d left?”
He gently nodded his head. “She was pregnant, and I wasn’t happy about it.”
“Not happy?”
“I wasn’t convinced the child was mine, I was always so careful. We argued over it.”
“Why would you think the child wasn’t yours, mistakes happen?”
“Because all the while she was with me, she was also with someone else.”
“Did you know?”
“Do I look like someone who would date a woman in a relationship?”
I could feel the hurt in his voice disguised as anger. I shook my head. Whatever Beau was, I believed him to be fiercely loyal, so, no, I didn’t think he’d deliberately date someone who was an adulterer.
“When she left, did you search for her?” I thought either he or Cecelia had said he’d spent ages searching for her.
He didn’t answer, but he did take a deep breath in and released it slowly.
“Of course I did. Not immediately, though. I think it was after a week when she hadn’t returned for any of her things. That was odd, she didn’t return for any clothes, toiletries, nothing.”
I remembered the makeup bag and realized it was strange to have left home without it. Unless she was in a major rush, of course.
“Did you fight really bad? Scare her?”
He stared at me. “She fucked someone else, got pregnant, and I’m the bad guy? No. We argued, and I left for work. When I got home, she was gone, simple as that.”
“You looked at her family, obviously, to find out if she’d gone home?”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “I’ve searched every single inch of her existence, trust me with that. Not just to find her, but to find out who the father was as well.”
“Someone was after her, though. Maybe the father of the child? Perhaps she ran from him, too,” I said, quietly.
“I need to sleep.” He drained his cup and left it on the side.
I picked up the book and stared at the cover. Why this book? I thought. Beau had said it was Rachel’s favorite and being a reader myself, that seemed strange. There were books on those shelves far superior to this one. I turned it over to read the back.
There was nothing remarkable about the story. A young couple fall in love. His father is the small town sheriff, and doesn’t like her family. Like I said, nothing remarkable about it at all. I blinked a couple of times, wondering if the light was playing tricks on my eyes. I ran my finger over the words, feeling the slight indentation in the paper, which confirmed what I thought I was seeing.
“Beau,” I said, sliding from the stool and rushing from the kitchen. We collided in the hallway.
“Look,” I pointed to the word, ‘sheriff’. “It’s underlined.”
“How can you see that?�
��
“Pencil doesn’t show on gloss covers but you can just about see the indentation, feel it.”
“Why would she underline sheriff?” he asked.
“Maybe that’s who she’s running from?”
“I doubt it, I know him well. In fact, we were all in high school together. They dated before we did.”
“So?”
“Charlotte, I’m tired. I can’t think about all this right now. She cheated, and then she left me.”
He turned and walked back to the sofa. I watched as he lay down and dragged the quilt over him. He turned his back to me, I guessed as confirmation our conversation was over. I climbed the stairs to the first floor bedroom but was too fired up to sleep. I lay on top of the bed just thinking. The list had been a welcome distraction from my own troubles, but I knew I’d have to address those soon. I needed to let go of Rachel, she was Beau’s problem, and concentrate on my own.
Beau was gone the following morning, I decided that I didn’t want to stay cooped up in his house, so I packed up my things and walked back to my apartment. I had work to do, I had to be at Cecelia’s that morning, and then I was on the late shift at the diner. I wasn’t complaining. I was working to pay the rent on the apartment and my savings pot was growing nicely.
I showered and changed into what I’d kept aside as my working clothes, an older pair of jeans and a slightly washed out t-shirt.
“Good morning,” Cecelia said, when I walked into her house. After everything that had happened I was wondering how to broach the subject of her locking her front door.
“Morning, where do you want me to start today?” I asked.
She handed me a cup of tea, one of the reasons I arrived ten minutes early, so as not to spend working time drinking tea.
“I need to strip down the beds in the guest rooms. I’ve got one guest arriving later. I haven’t decided yet, but I might have a rest from taking in guests for a while.”
Harlot Page 10
