A Keeper's Truth

by Dee Willson

  Seconds into pleasantries Bryce asks, “What’s wrong? Something has changed. I can’t read you. You have walls up,” he says, peering into my eyes.

  “For real?” I’m surprised to hear this. I didn’t even know I could do that, block his intrusion into my head. I glare right back, losing myself in his hypnotic glow. “I had a chat with Thomas,” I say, shaking my head clear. Bryce’s expression evolves to concern in an instant. “You were right, your brother has an interesting perspective.”

  I don’t need to repeat Thomas’s position. I doubt he’s ever held back with Bryce.

  “Yes,” he says, pulling his spine straight and rolling his shoulders back.

  He doesn’t look shocked in the least, and for the first time I wonder if his sudden departure was legitimate or just a ruse to get me to speak to his brother. I study him, suspicious, but my stance doesn’t prompt a confession and I’m out of energy to bicker.

  “You knew Thomas would try to talk me out of . . . everything.” I’m struggling to find the right words. Having had days to toil over my thoughts and emotions, my lines are well rehearsed. But now, now that he stands before me with the face of a god and the ability to melt my every defense, I can’t bring myself to rant.

  “Yes,” he whispers, the sound barely distinguishable from the swish of ceiling fans. “I wanted every option presented to you. As much as it pains me to see you torn and confused, you needed to hear my brother’s point of view, your choices. That is life’s gift, the freedom of choice.”

  The studio falls silent. Minutes tick by. Even the blowing wind seems to halt while I process.

  Bryce steps closer. “You can tell me anything, you know.” His expression desperate. He looks past me, taking in my canvas. Then looks to the floor. “Thomas is a good man. He can give you the life you want, a good life, a different life than . . .” The obstruction in his throat clears. “He’d make you happy if you gave him the chance.”

  “I don’t understand. You want me to be with Thomas?”

  “No.” He inhales a mouthful of air, moving closer. “I want you to be—” He looks away, studying my canvas, obviously troubled. “If you choose to be with Thomas or to live his way of life, now that you’ve learned the truth, I will respect your wishes and leave.”

  “Leave for where?” I ask on a whim.

  Bryce deflates, obviously assuming I’d prefer he move from Carlisle, leaving me with Thomas. This is not an option. There is no future for Thomas and me. Since our heated discussion, I’ve thought about all he said—thought of nothing else—and although some of it scares me, frightens me to the core, I’m not about to let fear choose my path in life. Thomas’s picture-perfect existence sounds beautiful. Knowing he’s great with Abby even makes it tempting. But I’m not in love with Thomas. And although I’m sure he’s being forthright with me, at least some grains of truth in his speech, I know his words are tainted with jealousy, fear, and anger.

  I cross my arms, the air suddenly thick with determination. I’m not sure what I want from this life, but I’m sure of what I don’t want. And right now I want answers.

  “You leave town and Thomas watches over me,” I say, standing tall. “How long do you think I’ll tolerate being babysat? Maybe I shouldn’t learn your truths. Maybe I should learn to run and hide? Maybe I should get as far away from Carlisle and Keepers as possible?”

  “You are free to pick any course of action you wish,” says Bryce. “But I doubt even Thomas would suggest you abandon the life you’ve made here. Lost souls are everywhere.” He sighs and steps toward me. “I can’t find a single reason this particular lost soul was here in town. As far as I can tell, he had no connection to Sonia, and no reason to be here, no family, no friends, not even employment. And I’m not sure if his interest in you is coincidental, spurred by curiosity, or planned, in hopes of eliminating a possible threat to his freedom. But I think he was satisfied with what he saw in your home and left town for good.” Bryce sighs. “Look, you want and deserve your independence, your freedom. I can give you that. I can help you. There are worse out there, and there is much you don’t know. But I am sure if you don’t learn, your nightmares will eventually catch up with you.”

  He knows. Bryce knows I have gruesome nightmares. And that these scenes, these deathly reenactments are real: history, my history, moments my soul’s past had to endure as its body was tortured and stripped of its will. Thomas was telling the truth.

  Suddenly I’m pissed, fed-up with feeling powerless.

  “Thomas is not divorced,” I say. “His wife is dead.”

  Bryce neither confirms nor denies this fact, which in itself says plenty. The thought of death overwhelms me, and a vision of Sonia lying naked and bloody in the snow attacks my conscience. I snap the paintbrush in two and hurl it and the palette I’d spent hours mixing across the studio, splattering several shades of red across the floor.

  “Had I . . . had I . . . in the café . . .?”

  Bryce reaches out. “Oh, Tess—”

  I push him away. “Tell me the truth, would Sonia be alive?”

  “No, absolutely not.” He groans. “You can’t believe you had anything to do with Sonia’s death. Tess, there is nothing you could’ve done. There is nothing anyone could have done.”

  Lifting my canvas from the easel, I hitch up my chin. “Your last girlfriend, is she dead?”

  Bryce tips his head back and closes his eyes. “Yes.”

  He flinches as I thrust the wooden frame over my knee, breaking it in half. Bits of wood, paint, and staples fly this way and that.

  “How did she die? Was she killed by a lost soul? What happened? And don’t you dare lie to me.”

  “Her name was Lilith and I loved her,” he says, voice pained. “I loved her for all the wrong reasons. She was wild and sexy and kept me on my feet, but she had no interest in being a Keeper’s wife, and I didn’t have the heart to try and change her, to make her into something she wasn’t. I didn’t have the right.”

  I shrink back, realizing I’ve forced him to talk about something private, something heartbreaking, something Thomas shouldn’t have told me.

  “Lilith lived life on the edge, like every day was her last. It was intoxicating, and I was drawn to her, to the way she soaked up every teeny morsel of every minute, hour, day. But Lilith also liked to play with fire, with danger, with lost souls, and her choices ultimately got her killed. I tried to help her, as a person I cared for dearly, not a student. I told her she’d lose, that her life was worth more than the thrill of the game, but she wouldn’t listen. She never listened.”

  My focus on destruction has faded, ire gone. The canvas in my fists drops to the floor in a heap. Red paint is splattered everywhere.

  “These previous lives, when you and I were . . .” I can’t say the word lovers while he stands within arm’s length. “Was I killed before we could have a family?”

  Bryce sways before me, the look of horror tensing his face. He inhales a gust of air, holding it captive. Seconds pass before he regains his composure.

  “Yes. I’m sure your nightmares have given you more than enough detail.”

  Oh my God. I’ve dreamt over a hundred lifetimes, all ending in death. I look to the canvases gently swaying from the ceiling on delicate chains. Creatures of mythical proportion stare back at me, daring me to rip them from their godlike positions. A renegade tear slides down my cheek and in an instant Bryce closes the space between us, holding my face against his warm chest and enclosing me in his jacket.

  “Oh Tess.”

  We stand like this, me in Bryce’s embrace, for countless minutes. His scent is calming, drug-like, sending me over the edge of the precipice to weightlessly drift in the abyss.

  When Bryce finally loosens his grip I cling to him. I want to crawl under his shirt and fall asleep on his bare skin. At this moment I want to pretend. I want to live in a world where everything is as it seems. I want to forget these new discoveries and go back to thinking my visions ar
e delusions and my nightmares are nothing more than an overactive imagination. I want Bryce to be a man, not a Keeper.

  “What happens if I don’t want to learn anymore?” I mumble into his chest.

  “This is my fault. I let your eagerness and enthusiasm set the pace. I should’ve known not to go so far, to give you time to think on it all. No more for now.”

  “But I want to know.” My mind is running in chaotic circles.

  “We’ve been moving too fast in your lessons. We’ll slow things down. You need time to absorb. You need to think about what Thomas has told you.” His words get lost in my hair, his lips warming my scalp. “I’d prefer you come to terms with your choices without a Keeper’s influence. And if you still feel the same about me . . .” He takes a step back so he can peer into my eyes, still holding me tight. “Come to dinner with me. Better yet, come to my place for dinner. Valentine’s Day. No kids. No talk of Keepers and souls. Just you and me on a real date.”

  The sparks in his eyes ignite and I hold tight to this energy, this escape from reality. Valentine’s Day. My first Valentine’s without Meyer. I have feelings for Bryce, no doubt, but a date on such a day is making a statement.

  “I understand,” Bryce mumbles, looking away.

  His lack of confidence when it comes to my affection baffles me. “You can’t possibly think that my hesitation has anything to do with Thomas?” I see his reply in his eyes. “For someone so smart you are awfully dense.” I fiddle with my wedding ring. “I don’t know if I’m ready for the whole dating thing. And Valentine’s is such a . . .” My words die off.

  What am I saying? Valentine’s is a day like any other, a media inflated holiday meant to boost the sales of overpriced roses that die in two days. I can handle a nice, quiet dinner with Bryce. We can discuss normal things like average men and women do on dates. I can wear that new skirt Grams bought me for Christmas along with my kick-ass red heels. I can put my hair up and dig out the audacious scarlet lipstick I haven’t worn in ages.

  “Maybe another day would be—”

  “Valentine’s is fine,” I say, peeling the canvas stuck to his pant leg. Red paint drips over his shoes.

  “My place, six o’clock.” He places a finger under my chin. “Just a date. Just you and me, two ordinary people sharing each other’s company.”

  He’s trying to sound reassuring but the grin plastered across his face proves how big a deal it really is, and I start to second-guess myself.

  Bryce disappears before I can change my mind. The canvas strip sways in my grasp, and the wind stirs branches into a chorus that sounds kind of like a death march.

  Apparently my walls are down.

  Be Mine

  Valentine's

  Thomas doesn’t give up. Even though I’ve made my feelings painfully clear, he still called and asked me out for Valentine’s. It was nice of him, and he made a grand effort to show his sweet side until I mentioned I already had plans. Then he got cranky. He didn’t ask whom my plans were with. There was no need to. If I’d be anywhere other than home on the day of romance, I’d be with Bryce.

  Still, my nerves are on edge, jumpy. I’m relieved Bryce suggested a hiatus, but our professional relationship has made it easy not to dwell on my feelings for him. This also includes what these feelings mean long-term. Am I ready for a serious relationship, especially one so convoluted? I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m not interested in a fling or a dead end—both figuratively and literally. I’m a mother. A single mother. I need to think about Abby.

  Then there’s the beaten-and-left-for-dead thing. According to history, odds aren’t in my favor. I’m a strong woman, but come on, that would freak anybody out. I truly refuse to allow fear to dictate my life, but I’m not an idiot, I’m not about to gamble with my life either. I try to remember that my nightmares show only flashes of the past, not my future. And I don’t believe my future in this life is predestined. Bryce doesn’t either. If he did, he would have left Carlisle the minute he met me.

  But what if we’re wrong?

  I miss Meyer and our uncomplicated life.

  I’m wavering at Bryce’s front door, heart pounding a mile a minute, glancing over my shoulder at Magic Carpet. Part of me wants to bolt. I can’t start a relationship with Bryce. I look up, the impressive mansion daunting. My hands are clammy, even after rubbing them on my coat. I turn back to the door and draw a mouthful of February air. This is just a date, nothing more. I can go home if I want, cower from change, swallow the poor widow pill.

  But I am not a coward.

  The door opens before I even knock.

  “Hey,” says Bryce.

  I don’t know if it’s anxiety or the almost six and a half feet of in-your-face masculinity, but I can’t keep my thoughts straight.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  Bryce takes my hand and leads me inside. “Dinner is ready,” he says, helping me with my coat.

  I examine my watch, tapping it in confusion. Where did thirty minutes go? I left on time. I think back to the drive over. Maybe I did wander down a few wrong streets while lost in my head.

  “You’re far away,” whispers Bryce, gently dusting snow from the hair that has fallen over my eyes. He hangs my coat and scarf on the elegant wrought iron swirl that makes up the entryway coat rack. His scarf, the scarf, is there, calling out to me, but Bryce gently guides me through the elaborate stained glass arch showcasing the dining room. He doesn’t mention my tardiness. No comment regarding my pathetic smile. I think he’s even staying out of my head.

  I pause in the doorway, the setting so breathtakingly beautiful I’m rapt. The stunning glass table is illuminated with a dozen tapered candles supported by dainty silver candlesticks, crisp white linens, silver plates, and crystal wine glasses that glow bright in the candlelight. A bottle of wine patiently waits on ice and a crackling fire toasts the atmosphere to perfection. I inhale deeply, reveling in the aroma wafting from the kitchen. My fingertips glide over the soft, finely woven linen. I luxuriate in the sensations, soaking in the ambiance, and my worries ebb away. I can’t help but wonder what I’ve done to deserve this.

  Bryce dances to my side and bows regally. “Twenty-nine Chateau Latour,” he says, filling my wine glass. His jet-black sweater accentuates his palpable virility and combined with his dark hair sets a dramatic stage for chiseled facial features and combustible silver-gray eyes. I sample the wine, watching him. He’s trying to act casual, but I can see he’s nervous too.

  I smile and Bryce smiles back.

  Now there’s my white knight.

  The nervousness is short lived, and as the hours fly by, we enjoy three courses of meticulously prepared plates of edible art and effortless conversation. We chat about Bryce’s renovation woes and geothermal heating. We talk about all the foreign places we’ve traveled, his list endless. I comment on the embroidered chairs and the grand buffet, their antiquity intriguing, and Bryce weaves a fantastical story filled with discovery and nostalgia. We discuss the many schools we’ve attended, and Bryce tells me about his parents and his childhood, seamlessly maneuvering around anything out of the ordinary. I discover Bryce knows Mrs. Maples, has known her his whole life. Her late husband was an archeologist and close friend of Bryce’s father.

  We don’t talk about Thomas. No one mentions Meyer. We laugh over the uncanny similarities in our favorite books, and joke about cinematic duds, the movies that drove us crazy for one reason or another, and the few that made us sprint from the theater. We delve into music, songs that make us dance around like fools, lyrics that inspire us, and instruments we wish we’d learned to play.

  Bryce pours the last of the wine and we hold our hands to the candlelight, playfully debating the pros and cons of our long slender fingers vis-a-vis musical brilliance. “You win,” says Bryce, tenderly stroking the sensitive underbelly of my wrist. “Your hands are beautiful and talented.”

  My head struggles with conflicting desires. Part of me wants to su
rrender, to get lost in the feel of Bryce’s touch, the liquid quality of his accent. Another part warns of trouble, of the danger lurking in those silver eyes that cavort with the flicker of candlelight, of a past we might not shake.

  You have been killed in every life that mingled with his.

  Bryce rises from his chair. “Let’s relocate,” he says. “I’m dying to show you something.”

  His exhilaration is contagious and I laugh in spite of myself, the wine rushing to my head.

  With our wine glasses in hand, Bryce pulls me down a long winding hallway into a dark room. For a moment I panic, wondering where he’s leading me, until alcohol dampens my sense of self-preservation and I really don’t care. With the flick of a switch a row of pot lights and several wall-mounted lamps jump to life.

  At first glance it looks like some sort of sitting room. Within seconds my mind registers the sight and my breath catches in my throat. Gliding to the center of the room, I spin in circles, taking in the spectacle. Magnificent oil paintings are professionally displayed and illuminated. The space is largely standing room only with a few scattered antique benches and an elegant oversized settee richly upholstered in striking earth tones, offering visual impact against the ebony floors and creamy-white walls.

  “You have your very own art gallery,” I mutter in shock.

  Bryce watches me, grinning. “I thought you might like this.”

  Overwhelmed, I shut my eyes and randomly pick a work of genius to admire first. “Hieronymous Bosch, Garden of Earthly Delights, circa 1504,” I regurgitate from memory. I step closer, absorbing the painting’s power. The smell of ancient oils pummels me and I tangle my fingers in the back of my sweater to keep from reaching out. “You have all three panels,” I say, peeking at Bryce for a split second. “This can’t be the original.” Minutes pass without a response so I steal another quick glance. The look on Bryce’s face is priceless, and I shamelessly swallow a huge gulp of wine. This is the original. “I thought this painting was at the Museo del Prado in Madrid?” I can’t tear my eyes from the masterpiece in front of me.