Fearsome

by S. A. Wolfe

  “Feel better?” he asks, stepping up on the porch.

  “I wasn’t sick. Seventy million,” I whisper.

  “You do that around me a lot.” His shirt is soaked with perspiration and his face has droplets that I’m tempted to touch.

  “I’m sure I’ve done it around many people, but they were polite enough not to mention it. I know Dylan caught me at it.”

  “Do you only do it around guys you’re interested in then?”

  “Hah! I don’t think that’s how it works,” I tell him.

  “I do. I think it’s a nervous tic that happens when you’re with—”

  “Why are you here?” I cut him off.

  “What do you mean? I told you I’d come clean the storm debris.”

  “No, I mean in general. You have a contracting crew that does all this work. I know that because Lauren told me you never handle the work at a client’s home.”

  “Gin was more than a client. She was a friend, like a second mother.”

  “She’s not here. I am. And you’ve been coming to my house for months doing an awful lot of work when you could have had your men handle it.”

  “They’re working up at the Peterson house and the Tuturro place. I need them on those big projects. Is there a problem with me being here?”

  “No,” I answer. We look at each other quietly for a moment and then he looks at the pretty little gift bag in my hand. “The ring.” I hold it up for him. “Take it with you.”

  “It doesn’t feel right, but I will. I’ll give it to Dylan.”

  “Thank you.”

  He takes the bag and his calloused fingers brush against mine. The sensation of his rough skin against mine sends a firestorm of lascivious signals screaming through my body. Carson lets his fingers linger and at one point we’re both holding the ring bag.

  “I like being around you,” he finally says. “That’s why I’m here.”

  I consider his words for a moment, trembling with joy that he would say that, however, I’m realistic enough to know that I had already made my choice when I slept with Dylan. I sabotaged this from the beginning. To think I could then move on to the next brother and start over sounds incestuous and ugly. I don’t want to be a woman who does that.

  He looks frustrated by my unresponsiveness to his confession while he stands there a bit longer, waiting for me to acknowledge him.

  “I have an errand to run, so I have to get back inside, but thanks for doing this and tell Dylan… well…”

  Carson regards me with disappointment.

  “Never mind.” I head back into the house so I don’t have to see Carson’s confused, handsome face.

  Twenty-Four

  As the yoga class ends, I’m doing one last stretch when I see Dylan look through the front window, directly at me. His face is expressionless. It’s similar to viewing someone who has the same disease as me, the loss of will to move on quickly and the ability to flounder in one’s own world. Like me, he’s lost some weight and his general spark has been diffused. I hear Lois call my name and I turn away for a moment. When I turn back to the window, Dylan is gone. Perhaps he wasn’t really there to begin with and now my guilt is haunting me.

  I leave Beyond The Pants and head across the street to Archie’s office. We spend some time on the investment accounts and he hands me another check from the trust. There are investments that Archie was instructed to liquidate upon Aunt Virginia’s death. The taxes take a huge chunk, but the remaining balance is supposed to go into a special interest-bearing account to cover house maintenance, Bert’s expenses, and general needs for living in a home that’s much too big for me with property that extends beyond what any single person could possibly need.

  “What do you think the house is worth?” I ask Archie.

  This catches him off guard and he studies me with a slight frown before responding.

  “I’m not sure exactly. Comparable properties in the area have sold between six and seven figures. It would have to be appraised. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “I’m not sure I should stay in Hera.” I try to think of a way to explain it without all the dramatic parts included, yet it seems impossible.

  “That would be a tragedy,” Archie says softly. He places his hands on the stack of papers in front of him and lets out a deep, wounded sigh. “I thought life was going well for you here. Am I mistaken?”

  “It’s a wonderful town. I’ve made some very nice friends.”

  “But that whole business with Dylan didn’t help,” Archie includes.

  “You know about that?”

  “This town has no secrets. That’s what you get with a small place like Hera, but it’s also one of the reasons to live here. Ginnie thought this would be the perfect remedy for you.”

  “Remedy for what?’

  “Oh, let me see how Gin put it,” he says, thumping his fingers. “Ah, yes. She said ‘your life in New York was utterly conventional with you being one of the many Generation XYZs or whatever they’re called today. They’re all working long hours in jobs that make them miserable while being saddled with student loan debts in a terrible economy which only makes the recipe worse’. She wanted Hera to be a refuge, a home where you pursue art and all things grand. Nice, isn’t it?”

  “That’s a lovely idea, but I actually have a good job. I’m kind of the exception for my age group. Plus, I went to school on an academic scholarship and my parents helped cover whatever else I needed, so I’m not buried in debt. I had a few lousy jobs during school, but I’m not one those college grads who can really say I’m struggling.”

  “Point well taken. How about this then? Gin wanted to give you something wonderful. It’s certainly your right to sell the property and you could put a tidy sum of money in your savings, but would you really be happier?”

  “It’s not about happiness. It’s about getting out before I cause more damage.”

  “I see you have a talent for the dramatic flair like your aunt. Let me stop you before you go any further with your creative storytelling. I have an idea I think might appeal to you.”

  “You’re a crafty one, aren’t you?” I tease him. “I’m listening, Bixby. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  The idea of grilling pizzas like they do in restaurants sounded like a good idea, but we burn three crusts until they are nothing other than charred, black discs. Imogene and Lauren launch them like Frisbees across the yard. Upon the failure of our brilliant plan, we decide to take our unused pizza toppings and make an antipasto plate along with a pot of linguine swimming in olive oil, garlic and herbs. We feast in the dining room and open a nice bottle of red wine that Lauren brings up from the cellar for our special celebratory occasion.

  After Archie told me his idea, I couldn’t wait to share it with Imogene and Lauren. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. Having them in the house instantly lifts my spirits as we gorge ourselves on our rich cuisine. We’re reaching for a toast when the front door slams open and Imogene plunks herself back down in her chair.

  “Not again,” she says.

  Carson and his angry testosterone army of one comes whirling through the living room and pushes a dining chair aside to lunge across the table at me. His fists are on the table and his face is inches from mine. “So you’re going to run like a coward?” he shouts at me.

  I’m frozen, holding my glass of wine as my mouth remains hanging open.

  “What the hell are you doing, Carson?” Imogene yells back. She stands and yanks him away from the table. “Where do you get off storming in here in your goddamn muddy boots, yelling at Jess in her own home?”

  “Archie said you’re thinking of moving back to the city.” Carson points a finger at me. He’s really good at dramatic entrances and he never hides his anger. This makes the night he wrestled Dylan to the ground look pretty tame.

  “Get your finger out of her face and calm down,” Lauren interjects.

  He puts his hands on his hips and leans fo
rward like he’s getting ready to smash the table, the only barrier protecting me from him. I put my wine glass down and walk around the table to meet him. “We can discuss this outside so my friends can enjoy their meal,” I tell him. “Let’s go.”

  “But I want to hear what’s going on,” Lauren whines as Carson follows me out to the porch.

  “First of all, don’t ever talk that way to me in front of my friends.” I am terse, though not shouting. “Second, stop walking into my house whenever you feel like it. You don’t see me storming into your home, ever. Third, you don’t know the full story, and even if you did, you have no right to judge what I do with my life.”

  “So you’re moving back? You’re selling everything Gin worked so hard to give you, just like that? You’re going to take the money and run?” He looms over me, but speaks in a much more measured tone.

  “Archie didn’t tell you that.” My fingers nervously fiddle with the key necklace Carson gave me. He glances at the necklace and then back at my face.

  “Not in so many words. He said you inquired about selling the property and that you have reservations about living here. Why? Because of Dylan? Or is this place too boring for you?”

  “No and no. I am a little worried about how I’m going to talk to Dylan and for a while there I did tinker with the idea of moving back to the city. There were a few weeks where I thought this place was a bad idea and that I had really screwed up. I hurt Dylan and I’ve never felt responsible for someone else. No matter what you told me, I did think that I had some serious part in his breakdown or whatever it was. Being here, alone in this house, became pretty oppressive. I didn’t know what to do. That’s why I went to talk to Archie about selling the house.”

  “But you’re not?” he asks and I think I see something that resembles hope in his eyes.

  “Why do you care so much about what I do, Carson?” My voice cracks as I ask it. “You’re really good at showing up and giving me a piece of your mind.”

  “You think I’m an asshole, don’t you?”

  “No. I have never thought that about you, but I’m not Dylan. You can’t force your way in and tell me what to do. I can’t stand your lectures.”

  “That’s understandable,” he says.

  “So why do you care so much about what I do? Is it the house? Are you afraid of losing a pleasant part of your childhood? At least, I assume the time here with Aunt Virginia was a nice time.”

  Carson smiles a little. “I love how you analyze and try to get in other peoples’ heads like a shrink, but sometimes you miss the bigger picture, Jess.”

  “Then what’s the big picture? What’s lit a fire under your ass?”

  He’s quiet for a moment and we stare at each other. Yelling or not, his beauty upends my reserve. He cranks my anxiety dial up to the maximum and the excitement of being near him draws me in.

  “It’s you. I don’t want you to leave.” Carson says it more as a demand and my stupid insides swoon a little bit. “I told you I like coming around here to see you. I meant it.”

  Every thought and image I have of Carson, from the first day I saw him in Archie’s office scowling to this moment, plays like a montage in my head. The nerves in my body swirl with elation and I want him to hold me close like he did that night on Barron’s Creek, yet the woman in me says I’m rushing into something blindly again. Dylan is no longer in the picture; however, it would be vulgar for me to throw myself at his brother while Dylan is in the midst of working out his issues. I’m not supposed to be going near Dylan or talking to him, but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be doing anything with Carson, either. Anything that gives off a romantic vibe has got to be off limits.

  I maintain my composure and give away nothing. “I’m not leaving. In fact, Imogene and Lauren are moving in. They need to get out of their parents’ homes so they’re going to pay rent while also setting up their jewelry business upstairs in the old playroom, since I never use it. It was Archie’s idea and I think it’s a pretty great one. We were celebrating our new living arrangements when you came in and blew a gasket.”

  “I’m not like Dylan. I don’t fly off in unexplained rages,” he defends. “Okay, I admit I can yell, but that in there was me being mad. Nothing more. I don’t hold it in when I’m pissed off. I say something.” Carson’s fear of being compared to his brother is unnecessary. After knowing him for several months, I would never consider them to be alike in any way.

  I smile. “You do mad really, really well.”

  “It gets old,” he confesses. “I spend too much time trying to control things, trying to contain Dylan.”

  I lean against the porch railing and Carson walks closer, perching himself next to me.

  A confidence soars in me. I am more like my true self when I’m with Carson than I ever was with Dylan, who took attentiveness to a painstaking level. Dylan couldn’t wrap his head around my art and my need to paint at any given hour of the day or night.

  It’s exciting being near Carson and I know he has made a point of figuring out my likes and dislikes with a genuine interest in what makes me tick. I am deeply moved by his declaration of I don’t want you to leave. He may not be interested in me beyond a simple affection, but I matter to him and that’s something significant to my weak ego. Yet I also want to be more realistic about men in general, right down to reading the signals correctly and owning up to my poor decisions.

  “You know, at some point I will need to talk to Dylan. I owe it to him and to myself. We can’t live in the same town and pretend we’re strangers.” I study Carson’s face for any sign of jealousy, but of course, there is none. I suppose he’s not that kind of guy and I’m not the kind of girl he’d feel that way about.

  “Do you think you still have feelings for him?” he asks in a very clinical, non-emotional way.

  “No. I told you no. I’m concerned about him, though.”

  “You should see him, but not now. There will be a better opportunity when the time is right, to clear the air. Dylan is going to get better. He’ll be fine.”

  Carson picks up my hand and looks at it while holding it gently in his own. “You’re wearing the necklace.”

  I nod.

  “Would you come see my house?” His steely eyes are serious as he waits for my reply.

  “Ninety million,” I whisper.

  Carson chuckles. “Am I making you nervous?”

  Yes, and if you keeping holding my hand and caressing my palm, my body is going to shatter.

  “Maybe. This doesn’t seem like a good idea. I haven’t seen Dylan in over a month and I should probably talk to him before I see your house,” I say and then realize how idiotic that sounds.

  “You want to ask Dylan for permission to see my house?” Carson laughs.

  “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I’m joking. I know what you meant. You don’t want him to see you with me. You’re afraid he still has feelings for you, no matter how irrational they may be. Like I said, Dylan will be fine.”

  “How do you know? Before today, you were pretty sure I needed to stay away from Dylan. Now, you think he’ll be fine. You seem awfully sure about all of this.”

  “We’ve already looked into a residential treatment program and it looks like a good fit for Dylan.”

  “Dylan is agreeing to this?” I ask. I’m both amazed and ticked off that Carson didn’t tell me this sooner. “Carson, this is the news you were supposed to lead with when you came crashing through my door.”

  “So, now will you come over to my house?”

  Twenty-Five

  I drive up the solitary road that narrows with trees arching over the dirt road like a secret entrance. It’s September and the autumn colors are beginning to take over the closer I get to Carson’s home. I navigate my car through the heavily wooded patch of red and yellow trees before I burst upon a scene of unbelievable beauty.

  With the trees behind me I am overlooking the valley, the same view I have from my
home, but I’m more elevated up here, therefore, everything appears more majestic and vast. In the middle of it all, before the drop down to the valley, is a lone house.

  Carson’s home.

  It’s a contemporary design with straight lines and glass, but instead of looking grotesquely modern like an “office building” type structure, it has organic qualities of wood and shades of neutral tones that give it an earthy appearance. It’s huge, bigger than my Victorian house.

  I park near his detached garage, which is a low structure covered by a green screen of living plants. As I get out of the car to view my surroundings, Carson steps out of the house and walks towards me with a casual gait. No tool belt hanging on his hips and no muddy boots. He’s barefoot, in jeans and a white T-shirt.

  “Hi,” he greets, smiling. His intentions are clear. He wants to be with me and I have every inch of desire in my body and brain pushing me towards him. The way he looks at me is all I need to feel wonderful and special.

  We’re surrounded by clean, crisp, cool air and it makes the mood incredibly promising. It’s just us with no pretext of doing anything else. I’m here to see him and he looks happy. I don’t know what to make of this homebody. I’ve only known the work-driven, hard-edged Carson who’s usually covered in saw dust or dressed for an unwanted occasion. This is the most relaxed I have ever seen him and it causes me to smile in return.

  “I’m really glad you’re here.” He puts a hand on my back and guides me towards the house.

  “I had to see the house that is forbidden to all of Carson’s dates.”

  “That sounds like something Imogene and Lauren cooked up.” He leads me through the front door. The first thing that strikes me is the thirty-foot high ceilings, the polished concrete floors and the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “This is amazing,” I say with my head swiveling around.

  “Thank you. I know most people think it looks too stark, kind of bleak, but it’s really very comfortable. I wanted a casual place. I don’t have a lot of possessions, but everything is made for comfort, not show.”