by Leanne Davis
He shrugged. “Sure. If you want to.”
She was thrown off by his natural ease, but annoyed over his denial about his talent. She pictured any artist as being sensitive, and always unsure about the true value of their work. Some artists cherished their isolation and privacy. Not Chet. She wondered why she never considered that side of him before. The brooding, solitary, quiet, reserved, dark artist. Only he wasn’t exactly quiet, not when he had something to say. His constant habit of never changing his facial expression made him dark and brooding to her before, but now, she doubted if it was that at all. She had no way to describe him, at least, what she knew of him. He was unique, but not exactly odd. Not a strange odd anyway. He wasn’t easy to define.
She glanced down, pulling out a painting of a docked sailboat as he said, “I’m going to finish drying off and dressing. So, will you wait for me?”
She nodded. As if she would run out as curiously as she showed up. He held her gaze for a long, pregnant pause before stepping backwards and disappearing through the door he came through. Bedroom? Must have been. His bathroom must have been further away than that because she hadn’t heard his shower running or any of his movements until he appeared.
He came out a few minutes later, toweling off his hair until it no longer dripped but stayed in place. He came closer and she straightened up to stand. His gaze held hers, prodding her to respond. “So, what are you really doing here? Scanning my collection of pretty pictures couldn’t have been your purpose.”
“It could have been if I’d known.” She scoffed. “How come you don’t advertise or even talk about this?”
“It’s no secret. If it ever came up in conversation, I’d have said something to you.”
“What is a secret? What else don’t I know about you?”
“How am I supposed to answer that? How do I know what you know? Only you know that.”
She scowled. “That is some skewed logic.”
He flashed a smile, showing his beautiful white teeth. “Ask me something then.”
“Why did you paint me?”
“For the same reason I slept with you: I find you attractive.”
She scowled. He refused to leave that subject alone for very long. “Not—not that one. Was the picture how I looked at the funeral?”
He didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
“Why would you paint that?”
“Because that’s what you looked like. I told you, I paint what I observe.”
That’s it? As much as he could express about it? His paintings revealed an uncanny perception and view of the human experience and condition. He managed to reflect her grief in a two-dimensional representation, which even complete strangers could see. He made it so tangible, people could feel her sadness. Tapping into the emotions of their souls, Chet had the gift of accurately portraying real pain. He did it so well, he could allow any casual observer to experience the anguish he captured. It was a deeply troubling sensation, but it proved he was a genius when it came to interpreting the human psyche. In all modesty, he simply replied “that’s what he observed”?
“And that’s it? That’s all you have to say about it?”
“Well, if you expected a dissertation on the neoclassical styles and other points of view, or the underlying symbolism in my work, I’m not your guy. I already told you; I’m not an artist.”
She scowled at him. He was so obviously wrong she couldn’t get a handle on his logic. She sighed out of frustration. Fine. They’d leave it at that; he painted whatever he saw. Being woefully under-advertised and unappreciated doomed any future he could look forward to.
“How’d it go with the police?”
Sighing, Chloe turned and dropped down on the couch. “Long. Exhausting. I had to discuss every last detail of my sister’s life, routine, and her personality as well as every possible person who might have crossed her path and then I had to repeat it with myself.”
He nodded, but she saw no sympathy in his expression. “You want some alcohol?”
A half smile tugged at her lips. The first of the day. “Yeah. That sounds pretty good.”
From the kitchen, he offered her a glass filled with clear liquid. She glanced his way. “How did you know what I like?”
“You drank it at an office party or two.” He nodded toward her. “You and Ryder obviously made peace.”
She drank her cocktail liberally and sighed when it quickly zinged in her bloodstream. “Yeah. It happened in the middle of the night actually.”
“And Tara must have loved that on the day she got bawled out and fired by you before getting engaged to that very same man.” Chet spoke with levity, raising his eyebrows comically.
She shook her head, and actually began smiling at his dry sarcasm. “No, no. I personally spoke to Tara at 3:30 in the morning for about fifteen minutes. At the time, I was cowering in my bathroom, a butcher knife in one hand and my phone in the other.”
He jerked at hearing her enigmatic words, just as she supposed he would. “What the hell? Were you trying to kill yourself?”
She sputtered on the second cocktail he made for her. Coughing, she shook her head to the negative. “No, oh, my God. No. I was hiding. Someone was trying to get into my house. And I wasn’t on sleeping pills either,” she added before he, like Ryder, dared to ask or assume the worst.
“What do you mean? Who was trying to get into your house?”
“The obvious answer is: I don’t know. That’s why I was hiding with my weapon and calling the only cop I knew would come and help me. I woke up and ate the dinner you made me and thank you, by the way. And as I walked around, marveling at the clean, uncluttered, scrubbed, disinfected, and tidy house, I heard someone outside. First, they were trying to open the front door, then a shadow passed by the front window and ended up at the back sliding door, doing the same thing, trying to get in. I saw his shadow lurking. It was a man’s. I do not doubt that. Not from the silhouette that I saw. It wasn’t a cat or dog either before you ask me that or dare to accuse me of not knowing the difference. And thank you again for cleaning, cooking, and locking up. Most especially, for locking up. I hadn’t been very careful about that during the last few weeks.”
“Yeah, everything was wide open. Shit. What happened then?”
“Nothing. I hid. Tara talked me through it until Ryder showed up. He looked around, saw nothing, and Tara and I buried the hatchet. Ryder took me to the police station.” She shook her head, drinking more swiftly and staring at her glass before swirling the last few sips. Her eyes were riveted on the liquid. “And then, I felt compelled to come here.”
He was quiet, staring down and seemingly lost in thought.
“Chet?”
He glanced up. “That’s freaky. Do you think—?”
“Do I think what? I don’t know what to think about anything.”
“Do you think it’s someone connected to… to Ebony?”
She jerked her spine upright and slammed the glass down, sloshing the liquor. “What? Like… like her murderer?” Her voice rose, getting high and sharp.
“Yeah.”
She winced. No cutting corners or toning down what he thought might possibly allay her fears, was he? She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Other than that he was honest and she could certainly attest to it. No bullshit. Not from Chet.
“Did he try to break in?”
She frowned. “No. He tried both doors then stopped. Very quiet.”
“Maybe… maybe he’s been in there before. The last few days, while you slept, everything was messy so it would be hard to tell if he moved anything or took anything. And you were doped up and out of it on sleeping pills. Perfect recipe for him to come in.”
“Why?” her voice was a squeal. “Why would that happen? Why would anyone do that? No. Oh, my God. No. That’s so sick.” She shuddered, picturing someone just coming into her house as she slept, clueless and vulnerable and oh, GOD! “Do you think? Do you think that could be?”
“I h
ave no idea. But it is strange, not to mention, creepy. But maybe not totally out of the realm of possibility. Consider this, the body was found and it set off a flurry of gossip. From word of mouth, the news of her death and her remains being found and all the gossip it generates is being shared on social media as well as more formal avenues, like the community newsletter. Ebony is being talked about a lot, where she hadn’t been for years, correct?”
“Yes. I mean, other than Ryder and my own family.”
“Well, it’s all anyone around here is talking about lately. There is even some fear about who could have done this. It’s brought more attention to it. And to you. You look just like her. The resemblance is… mildly shocking. Maybe—”
“You think my face could draw whoever murdered my sister to me?” Chloe’s voice rose even higher.
“Yeah. I would consider it. Sane people don’t commit murders, right?” Chet paused, sliding his gaze to her and gentling his tone. “I know she was murdered. But I didn’t hear how.”
She shut her eyes for a prolonged moment. “Yes. Not many did. She was shot. In the back.” Her voice wavered and she felt as if she were choking as she spat it out.
“You should report what happened.”
“I did. Today, while being questioned.”
“Good. Did they have any thoughts or suggestions?”
“They all seemed to think it was just someone randomly breaking in. A stranger or kid or whatever. Nothing connected to Ebony.”
“Possible. All is possible, of course, because no one knows. But it’s also possible it’s connected and therefore, far more serious.”
“What should I do?” She glanced outside. The twilight was setting in and the thought of night drifting over the land and her house made her shudder.
“Stay here.”
She licked her lips. “That’s not why I came.”
“Then why did you come?”
She had to drop her gaze from the heat of his intense eyes. She shook her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know why I came. I just wanted to. I felt raw after the interview and Ryder went home to Tara, of course, and my parents are in no condition to help me, since they can’t even help themselves. Things haven’t been good between us actually. It’s like they want me to be Ebony.”
“I didn’t know that. You were always so close to them, or so it seemed.”
She stared at her thumbs, picking the cuticle of one as she sighed. “We were. Until this. Now I get the feeling—no, now I’m sure, my mother especially finds it painful to even look at me. I’ve never been a source of pain to them, so I’m not sure how to handle it. I mean, I know it isn’t my fault. But that doesn’t help how inadequate and strange I feel around them now. I’ve never felt self-conscious just for being alive. But today I do. I feel bad being around them or trying to be myself. I feel like I need to hide my face. I find myself averting it from them, lest they stare at me, looking for Ebony. Their dead daughter. It’s kind of a cruel, life-long torture, huh? Every time they see their only remaining daughter, they have to endure another gut-check reminder of their dead daughter.
“But you always did look alike. It can’t be that confusing to them. Maybe to strangers, but your parents know you two as different people. I mean, Ryder loved Ebony and not you, because he knew you were different people despite the physical similarity. He could separate you and he didn’t meet you two until you were in your twenties. Your own parents owe it to you to work that out and quickly.”
She shrugged, flopping her hands up into the air. “God, I hope so. But it doesn’t change anything right now, and they don’t seem to be able to. I can’t seem upset about Ebony’s murder investigation because how could I expect them to comfort me? And yet, there’s no one else.” She stared down at her palms, sucking in a deep breath. “I didn’t know that. Not until today. That my world was so limited and I had become too cocooned with my parents and Ryder. I think it happened because of Wyatt, but as adults, we got along so well and we also did share Ebony, so it was natural. But when Tara came along, I realized how much I isolated myself from most of the community. And I didn’t know… I didn’t know you were even a possibility until now, too. So I’m confused. I have no idea why I came here.”
His stare was overbearing. “Perhaps I could have been a little more obvious about some things—”
“Ya think? Like maybe letting me know that you could speak English?” She popped up her head with a snarky smile. He laughed, taking the joke as she meant it.
“Perhaps by talking to you more.”
Still puzzled by her true purpose for being there, including her willingness to put herself in such a situation, she finally asked, “Why did you clean my house, Chet?” She stared into his eyes, trying to find something familiar. An answer. A reason. An explanation for what felt weird and unexplainable to her. For why he could be both an exciting stranger and a comfort to her. It was an incongruous combination that she felt with him.
“Because it was dirty.” Simple. Crisp. Clear-cut. It was dirty.
“But that was a really considerate thing to do. Unusually considerate, since you hardly know me.”
He shrugged. “It was dirty so I cleaned it. I wouldn’t read too much into it. Plenty of other things a person could do for you. Much more important things.”
“Really? When someone’s hurting? Like what? Just being there? Helping them? Letting them grieve and be like you’ve been to me?”
“It’s easy to do the obvious.”
“It doesn’t seem to be obvious though to anyone else.” She studied him and her gaze was probing. He shrugged, but let her. He didn’t seem uneasy from it. How could he take that without flinching, twitching, blushing or even seeming to care? She really didn’t know this man. All she knew so far had shocked and surprised her, especially the sex. And even now, tonight, his blunt behavior and words somehow cut straight to the heart of her situation. Her fears of the intruder no longer made her feel like she was wigging out. Chet made her feel, hell, supported, noticed, and cared about. Something she didn’t receive from anyone else.
“You hungry?”
She blinked when his question pierced her curious appraisal of him and nodded. “Actually, I am.” The alcohol hit her system and made her head spin.
“I’ll make you something, but no harsh criticism. I’m no cook.” He jumped up and over the back of the couch, his long legs clearing it easily, then sauntered into his small kitchen. She laughed at his comment, sinking down to the end of his couch, and resting her head on the arm. She sighed, closing her eyes. Normally, she’d jump up and offer to help. She had a talent for blending any ingredients into something good. But her desire and motivation to do so escaped her. It had for a while now, it seemed. After some clanging and banging, Chloe heard the food sizzling. Her eyes closed and his quiet movements in the kitchen soothed her by not making her feel lonely. His presence was enough for her. Comfort without any pressure. He didn’t require platitudes, chatter, or idle babble for the sake of conversation. He could have just been quiet. And right now? She wanted that too. But then again, she dreaded being alone. He was fast becoming the best of both worlds.
She drifted off at some point and awoke suddenly to stare out towards a wall of darkness. Sitting up, she glanced around. Chet clicked the TV remote to pause what he was watching and glanced her way. He was stretched out on the opposite end of his couch, his feet resting on the ottoman.
“What time is it?”
“Past midnight.”
She flopped back down. All she did was sleep. But at usually odd hours. “It’s freaking dark out here.”
“Yeah. Not many neighbors here. You get lights from the passing boats once in a while.”
“I actually thought you lived with Dok.”
He laughed and leaned forward. “No, I don’t live with my mother.”
“You work with her.” Chloe yawned, her curiosity piqued by Chet. She got up so she could sit while facing him. Of late, every morni
ng when she woke up, she felt a punch in the gut with one word: Ebony. Now, however, Chet had her undivided interest. For the first time in weeks, her primary thought was not attached to her sister.
“Only because she made you hire me.”
“Why? Why did she do that? What were you doing before?”
He shrugged, crossing his arms. “You want some dinner now?”
She eyed him as he brushed off her question. “Sure.”
He got up and so did she, following him through the gloomy room. The paused TV was the only light. He pulled a plate from the fridge, covered it in wrap and set it in the microwave.
“So? What were you doing?”
He leaned a hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, raising one eyebrow. “Not much. I was painting. Hanging out. Did some classes here and there at the community college. I was only twenty-one. So not that old. I worked a bunch of jobs, similar to what I do for you. This was just closer to my mom. She needed help at the time. She was struggling.”
He wasn’t that young anymore however. Was this his life’s ambition? The only future he saw for himself? All he wanted from life? She bit her tongue to keep from asking such questions and sounding more like his mother or a school career counselor.
She switched tactics. “Are you guys from around here?”
“Where? America?”
“I meant Silver Springs.”
He nodded. “I know. Just giving you shit for the ‘do you speak English’ question. No. We lived in Oregon, just outside of St. Helens.”
“Why come to Silver Springs?”
“Me? I told you. To help my mom. She came here to work in a friend’s quilting shop. Then the shop closed and coincidentally, right then, you and Ebony opened the café. She was so excited, she immediately put in an application.”
Chloe tilted her head. “Why would she be so excited to work for us? Our wages aren’t exactly union grade.”
“Because you’re women. The place was owned and operated by two women and she thought that was impressive. She hoped she might be treated better than she was in other places. She’s small and quiet so a lot of people ignore her when they’re not trying to dominate her. Men especially. I’ve witnessed it so often.”
