by T B Audrey
“I see,” Dave replied. He looked like he might jump up out of his chair and head for the door if I didn’t do something quickly, so I offered him a bite of my fruit to remind him of the delicious food.
He took it reluctantly. He hadn’t touched his own yet.
“You still haven’t told me what these ‘activities’ are,” he said around a mouthful of strawberries and whipped cream.
I popped a blueberry into my mouth. “Well, you heard her, there is no activity this afternoon,” I replied.
“Huh,” he grunted. “So when is the first one?”
“Tonight.”
I paused and Dave didn’t say anything. He turned to look out the window. The view was quite spectacular, but I had a feeling that that wasn’t what drew his attention. If a dirty, oily parking lot full of abandoned cars and waist high weeds had been outside that window, he probably would have preferred to look at it over me in that moment.
“I’m sorry, babe,” I said. “I know you don’t like this stuff. But it’s only a few fun things for us to do during the week while we’re here. We would be bored just sitting here all week, wouldn’t we?”
He glanced at me and rolled his eyes. “What are we doing tonight?”
“Ice skating at midnight!” I exclaimed, trying to sound enthusiastic. In truth, I had glanced over the activities listed in the itinerary and decided to only do a few of them. Most of them seemed ridiculous, unpleasant, or just plain boring. Ice skating on a freezing February night when you could be snuggled up in bed under a thick quilt definitely landed in the unpleasant category, but had a strong air of ridiculousness about it as well.
Dave stared at me. “Ice skating? At midnight?” he repeated.
I nodded slowly, sipping my coffee.
“Jesus! That sounds like a terrible idea!”
I burst out laughing, nearly spitting coffee all over him.
“Who came up with that? I don’t want to go out in the cold at midnight and bust my ass on the ice!”
I put a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. “Neither do I.”
“Then why are we doing it?” he said, looking at me like I had lost my mind.
“Well,” I replied. “I actually wasn’t planning on it. I just wanted to see how you would react.”
He frowned at me. “You are bad, bad person.”
“I know,” I sighed.
I pushed my half-empty bowl of fruit away and stood up.
Dave drained his coffee, retrieved his baseball cap, and followed me to the lobby. We waited in front of the desk while Bianca retrieved our key from whoever had carried our luggage up.
“They are really doing that? Ice skating at midnight?” Dave asked suddenly, looking askance at me, like he was afraid I would change my mind about wanting to go.
I raised my eyebrows and nodded. “Really.”
He whistled and shook his head. Turning toward me, he pointed a thumb back toward the dining room. “Most of the couples in there are pushing ninety. It’s going to look like a battlefield out there. Broken hips. Concussions.”
I snorted with laughter just as Bianca reappeared. She looked disapprovingly at the two of us.
She must have overheard the last part of our conversation while coming down the stairs because as soon as she reached the lobby she asked us rather coldly if we would be participating in the ice skating that night.
“I think we are going to stay in tonight. We need to catch up on some sleep,” I replied, smiling as sweetly as I could.
“Well, if you would like to get out this afternoon, you can go skating on the pond anytime you wish. We have skates in there.” She pointed toward a door on the right side of the lobby. “Or you can visit the stables for a ride. We also have a library on the second floor if you would like to read. There is a billiards table there as well. Feel free to take books back to your room.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said. “I may take you up on that. Dave may have some work to do while we’re here, so I may be on my own for a bit.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate.” Bianca inclined her head to the side and frowned. Her chin-length brown hair grazed her shoulder. “But we will find plenty of ways to entertain you.”
She held a small brass key out to me and I took it, admiring the unique engravings on the handle.
“No key cards for us,” Bianca said. “We try to stay old-fashioned. It’s room 213. Your luggage has already been taken up.”
“Perfect,” I said. Dave thanked her and we trudged up the stairs slowly.
Dave glanced at his watch. “Time to get back to work,” he said, when he saw me watching him.
As soon as we reached our room, Dave pulled out his laptop and started typing. I sighed in a resigned, and a bit of a dramatic, fashion. It earned a pointed stare from Dave, who had warned me many times that he would be working during parts of our vacation.
I heaved two of my suitcases onto the plush king-size bed. The room was more tastefully decorated than the lobby, but still a bit too opulent for my tastes. A delicate gold pattern traced its way across the crimson red comforter and four pillows sat at the head of the bed instead of the usual two. All four of them appeared plump and were tastefully suited up in ivory white pillowcases that matched the sheets.
I sat down next to my suitcases, sinking into the bed with a totally different kind of sigh than the one from a minute before, and looked around. Dramatic crimson drapes with gold cords matched the bed coverings and hid the windows along the far wall completely. Two landscape paintings, the dark and theatrical sort depicting wild English moors and craggy mountains, hung on either side of the bed. On the wall opposite hung a rather badly done portrait of a young woman with dark hair.
I got up to inspect it further. No signature. I slipped my heels off and dug my toes into the carpet. It was as thick as the one in the lobby, but white instead of burgundy. It gave the impression of a floor covered in several inches of snow.
“What are you looking at?” Dave asked, glancing up curiously from the glowing computer screen. His face looked white and pinched in the light.
“This painting,” I replied, not taking my eyes off of it. “It looks like it was done by an amateur. It doesn’t really fit in here.”
Dave studied it for a moment from the desk chair, his head tilted to the side. “Probably done by a family member or guest.”
I nodded. The young girl’s face was turned slightly away from the viewer, like she was staring out into the distance, and her brown hair hung straight and long down her bare back. I tore my gaze away.
“Well, is this going to be our afternoon, then?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dave shrugged and rested his chin on his fist, his eyes back on the screen.
I walked back to the bed and zipped open the suitcase containing my shoes. I had brought plenty: heels for dressing up, walking shoes for hikes, boots in case we decided to go on a ride, and some comfortable slippers for the bedroom.
I pulled out the slippers and slid my feet in. “If you are going to be absorbed in that all afternoon, then I’m going to visit the library. I’m going to grab a few books, settle into a nice bath and enjoy.”
Dave stood up and came over to me. He kissed me on the forehead. “Look, I’m sorry. You know I don’t want to do this… It’s just….”
He made a noise of frustration and rubbed his face vigorously with his hand. His promotion and subsequent sharp rise in workload six months before had been causing strain, not only on our relationship, but on his mental health as well. It was one of the reasons I organized this Valentine’s week excursion.
“I’m worried about you, Dave,” I said. I could feel the tension radiating from him. I reached up and caressed his cheek, then ran my finger along his brow. Creases had begun to form there. Wrinkles come with age, I myself even sported a few, but those deep lines had no place in Dave’s young face.
“Since I’ve been promoted, it has been constant pressure. I don’t mean to ignore you. I wo
uld never neglect you.” He kissed me gently. “There just always seems to be more on my plate than I can handle.”
“And you are beginning to hate it?” I asked, trying to catch his eye. He looked down at the carpet.
“It’s just too much,” he said. “I never get a break. I am always there, even when I’m not.” He gestured at his laptop. “I hate being on-call 24/7, but I don’t have a choice.”
I grasped both his hands in mine and looked him straight in the eyes. I could see the despair there and the fear.
“We can do without the extra money, Dave. We’ll get by. I told you to take the promotion because I thought it was what you wanted,” I said.
“I know.”
“Then why stay when it is making you so miserable? You know I’ll support you wherever you go.”
He groaned and closed his eyes. “But this is what I have been working for the last ten years. Since I graduated college, this is the job I have been trying to get.”
“But it isn’t what you expected.”
He shook his and head and leaned against me. “Not at all. I thought I would enjoy it. I thought it would have some sort of meaning for me, but all it means is another paycheck. Another mortgage payment or car payment or load of groceries. There is no feeling of success. I just feel… disappointed.”
I grimaced. “Then you shouldn’t stay. It’s hurting us. It isn’t worth it.”
Dave let go of me and ran a hand over his stubbly chin. He hadn’t had time to shave that morning. “It’s not so easy just to give it all up. Something you have worked so hard and long to achieve, to just throw it away like that. I’m not sure I won’t regret it.”
“Well, all I can do is tell you that I will support you whatever you decide,” I said, lifting onto my tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. At 6’2”, he stood almost a foot taller than me. “I believe in you.”
He smiled and his jaw relaxed slightly. “Thank you.”
“You could always freelance like me,” I said, winking. “You might actually be successful at it.”
He laughed, returning to the Victorian style roll-top desk and his open laptop. “You are successful.”
“Only occasionally,” I replied. “I think it is my turn to be the dependable one. I’ll go out and conquer the world.”
He laughed again and turned resignedly to his computer. “Go get your book.”
The library looked nothing like I expected. I had imagined a large, grand affair, possibly like the Beast’s library, which he so kindly gifted to Belle. Instead, I found a solemn little library decorated in muted colors. It looked like a library you might find in an ordinary home, assuming ordinary people actually installed libraries in their houses.
A few oil paintings, mostly boring scenes of flowers or fruit, hung on the walls, but that was really the only decoration. No crimson drapes with gold cords here. The pale green curtains on the library windows were pushed aside to let in the light.
I breathed deeply. I’d always loved the scent of old books. I ventured in. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases stretched along the length of the walls on either side of me. I went left, avoiding the centerpiece of the room, the billiards table.
It was Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick, I thought, giggling childishly to myself. This house was obviously designed and decorated by someone very dramatic. Joanne?
My slippers, which I had worn to the library hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone, slid pleasantly on the hardwood floor. I ran my hand along the headrest of a comfortable looking green chair as I walked by. It felt soft and velvety and looked perfect for curling up in with a good book. It was only one of several chairs scattered about the room, all of them different shades of green.
I browsed the library for almost half an hour, but no one interrupted me. I could tell the books were not often used. The bookshelves themselves were clean and dusted meticulously, but every book I opened to rifle through smelt musty and old and some of them sent up plumes of dust when their pages were disturbed. Most guests probably preferred outdoor pursuits to staying in and reading on their vacation.
I found an old adventure novel that seemed to have some promise and set it aside on a nearby table. After several more minutes of searching, I added a rather saucy looking romance novel. It was almost Valentine’s Day, after all.
While looking for a third choice, I spied a book on the top shelf that looked very old. Its binding appeared loose and was so faded I couldn’t discern the title. Only a few gold flakes of lettering were left.
I pulled over a nearby chair, wincing as its wooden legs scraped against the hardwood floor, and positioned it under the shelf the book sat on. I climbed up carefully, holding onto the built-in bookcase for balance.
My husband would have been a great help here. I stretched my arm as far as I could stretch it and still could barely grasp the book with my fingertips. I stood on my tiptoes, my leg muscles aching, and pulled it inch by inch toward me.
Just as I got the book to the edge and it tipped toward me, the door slammed open. The noise startled me and I jumped, almost knocking the chair out from underneath me. The book fell off the shelf and crashed to the floor as I wobbled precariously. I clutched the bookshelf desperately, just managing to hang on.
After I regained my balance, I clambered down as quickly as I could. I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants and turned around. “Cicily!”
The young woman stood, her face white, with the young brown-haired waiter from lunch just behind her. “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. We didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You shouldn’t be climbing on the chairs like that.” The young man offered with a smirk.
I frowned and took a shaky breath. “I’m aware of that.”
“Are you alright?” He looked me up and down, taking his time. He paused at my slippers and raised his eyebrows.
I assured the pair that I was unharmed and Cicily helped me move the chair back to its place. After that, I retrieved the troublesome book from the floor. A few pages lay scattered about, possibly knocked loose by the fall. I gathered them up quickly without looking at them and stuffed them inside it. The couple still stood staring at me warily. I got the feeling that they were not supposed to be in the library in the first place.
I picked up the other two books I had set aside and, my face feeling a bit hot, excused myself. I rushed out of the library and into the hallway through the still open door.
“It was so embarrassing!” I told Dave when I got back to the room.
He laughed, but continued typing. “What was so compelling about that specific book?”
“I don’t know. It looks so old.” I picked it up from the bed where I had tossed all three books when I walked in.
As I opened it, the torn out pages fell out and scattered all over the floor again.
“That’s going to be a difficult book to read, isn’t it?” Dave asked, getting up to help me pick up the pieces of paper.
I began stacking them on the desk next to his computer. “I’ll have to sort out where they go,” I said.
I held my hand out for the papers he had picked up, but he didn’t look up at me. He was reading one of the stray pages with a strange look on his face.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Don’t approve of my choice in literature?”
He frowned and glanced up at me. “I think you’ve stumbled on someone’s personal literature.”
“What does that mean?” I walked over and stood just behind him. I rested my chin on his shoulder and scanned the lines on the page quickly.
My love,
I am afraid my letter must be short today as I have only a few minutes to spare. I hope you are reading this letter while sitting in that ratty chair by the window, surrounded by the books you adore so much. When I get lonely, I think of you there.
My heart aches at the thought of the distance between us. I would traverse it gladly were I certain of a happy reception upon my arrival.
I am glad,
however, that despite my distance we can still continue our discussions of literature. If I cannot be with you in person, I will take joy in negotiating pages of prose with you and delving deep into our imaginations to make up stories of our own.
In my next story, we will be happily together. You will be away from Samson’s Corner, and I will be out of this terrible place.
Write me soon. I will think of nothing but you until I see you again.
With love,
Your Romeo
“A bit dramatic,” my husband said dryly. “And no real names or dates. I wonder whose letter this is?”
I shrugged and went over to the table, going through each page slowly. “There must be at least twenty letters here,” I said, looking up at him with wide eyes.
“Impressive,” Dave said. He came over to peruse them with me.
We spent the next hour reading through each letter. Some of them were lengthy with an arrow drawn on the bottom of the page and the back of the paper filled with writing as well. Others were only a couple of paragraphs written in a hasty hand.
Only as I sat down the last one did I feel a twinge of guilt about invading someone’s personal thoughts. These letters were meant for one other person, not for our prying eyes.
I looked at the thick stack of letters on the bed, twenty-two of them total, and sighed. “I wish I could get these back to their owner.”
“How would you know who it is? There’s not a single date or name in the bunch.”
It was true. Most of the letters had been thorough, but one-sided, discussions of different books and short stories with a few loving phrases thrown in. Regret at the couple’s separation was often a theme. The last letter I read was especially bitter, the last line being: The coldness with which you treat me injures me to a degree you cannot imagine.
“Well, let’s see what we can put together from what we’ve read.”
“Okay,” Dave agreed. “Since the letter is always signed Romeo, I am assuming the receiver is his Juliet. Therefore, it is probably a woman. He also refers to her as living at Samson’s Corner.”
