Jared
Damn it, he was good. Another pleading email, which would, no doubt, somehow be leaked to the press. It showed not only his pleading with me to stop hurting him, but his forgiving nature. All designed to make me look like the bad person; just the way he intended. There were also texts and a voice mail from him, all spewing the same lies, keeping up the front that he was the injured party. I was so tired of this mess. The fact of the matter was that I was almost ready to walk away, no matter how much Karen told me to keep fighting. He had done a good job. He managed to destroy my credibility, ruined my career, killed my hopes of becoming a published writer, and made me feel worthless all at the same time. How could I overcome all of that?
I sat back with a groan, rubbing my forehead. This was not helping the building headache.
Outside, the skies were low and overcast; a storm was slowly approaching. Staring out the window, my eyes drifted to the end of the beach and the house on the bluff. I hadn’t heard from Jonathon since I’d been at the gallery two days prior. The urge to walk across the sand and knock on Zachary’s door, begging him to allow me to buy his painting, had been one I’d been resisting since I came home. Instead, I had gone for many walks on the beach, spent hours sitting in front of the computer screen. I tried and failed to find inspiration to write again, always ending up on the same site run by the gallery, looking at Zachary’s paintings.
I had no idea what his full name was—they were all listed as painted by Z D A—but even his initials fascinated me. I stared at the images of the paintings for hours. Even the simplest, softest ones of the beach and sand held so much emotion; I could feel it even through the screen. It was as though he captured emotions on all his canvases. On some, like Tempest, he brought out hidden ones, the kind a person kept to themselves.
I glanced back at the computer, then the thick pad of paper beside it. My fingers itched to pick up the pen, sit on the sofa, and allow myself to write the way I liked to. Except after what happened, I wasn’t sure I could ever do that again. Unless I copied every page immediately, locked all of it up into a vault, and never spoke of it to another person. A small huff of frustration left my lips. I didn’t know if anyone would ever read anything I wrote, even if I was able to do so again, not after this fiasco, anyway.
The headache started to build and my fingers rubbed at my temples, trying to effect some relief. Caffeine hadn’t helped and neither had my spur of the moment idea. Drawing in a deep breath, I grimaced at the lingering odor of nail polish hanging in the air. When I had seen the electric blue bottle of polish in the drawer, I hadn’t been able to resist painting my toenails with it. I was, after all, at the beach. It seemed almost wrong not to. Now, though, I needed to go for a walk and get some fresh air. My toes were still drying, but Karen had flip flops I could borrow to protect them.
Looking over at the chair, I smiled. Dixie was sitting on the cushion, looking at me, her little body almost trembling in excitement. She loved it here with all the open spaces to run and investigate. The beach below us held endless exploration for her, and I didn’t even need to keep her on her lead in the daytime. She stayed close as we walked, running up and down the packed sand together, often playing fetch. If we went for a walk later in the evening, I snapped on her lead, just in case something spooked her. The large retriever hadn’t come for another visit, but I could only assume Zachary was keeping his dog away from the beach, in order to not interact with me. I imagined him to be the quintessential artist: aloof and brooding, eating only when necessary, holed up in his studio, creating and gnashing his teeth as he swirled paint on his canvas, shunning the world around him.
I chuckled at my imagination. Then a quiet sigh broke through my lips. I could understand shunning the world. That was the same as what I was doing. Maybe he could give me some pointers.
As I descended the few stairs to the beach, I was surprised to see the large golden retriever as well as the mysterious Zachary. I stood for a minute, observing him in private. He was standing, barefoot in the surf, staring out over the water as his dog frolicked close by. Zachary was a tall, dark silhouette against the sand and stormy, strange-colored sky of the late afternoon. Wearing dark jeans and the same overcoat that showed off his broad shoulders, a beanie once again pulled low on his head, he stood with his hands in his pockets, motionless, as the water swept across his bare feet. The rolled-up edges of his pants were dark with the ocean spray clinging to the material. I shivered just watching him. The water had to be freezing.
Seeing her new friend, Dixie let out a happy, little yelp, which had the retriever bounding over to her, once again licking her head and huffing as he greeted her. The two of them took off, heading right toward Zachary. He leaned down, greeting Dixie, allowing her a sniff, then patted her head and straightened up. He didn’t turn around or acknowledge my presence. With a roll of my eyes, I walked forward, stopping when I was close enough to be heard, but not have my feet in the frigid water. I waited, but he said nothing, ignoring me completely.
Unfriendly indeed.
“That’s Dixie—my dog.”
His chin dipped with a brief nod. “Elliott.”
I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “You or the dog?”
His lips quirked at the edges. “My dog.”
“I’m staying at the Harpers’ house.”
He nodded.
“I’m not Karen—I’m a friend of hers.”
His sarcasm was thick. “I realize. I have met her—more than once. There is a slight resemblance, perhaps, but I can see you aren’t her. Your hair rather gives that away.”
“I’m sure it was a thrill for her,” I murmured, surprised to hear the trace of a British accent in his voice. I chose to ignore the remark about my hair.
Nothing.
“They’re letting me stay here for a while.”
“How kind.”
I shook my head. Was he for real?
“I’m Megan. Megan Greene.”
Silence.
I searched my brain for something to say. “Looks like a storm’s coming in.”
“Observant.”
I frowned at him—definitely rude. His voice, however, despite its unwelcoming tone, was low and rich sounding, his subtle accent curling around the words when he spoke. I wanted to hear more than a few monosyllables from him, and to hear him say my name.
“Aren’t your feet cold, Zachary?”
He glanced down and shrugged, still facing the water, not even acknowledging the fact I knew his name. “Not really. I’m used to the cold.”
I decided to try a different subject—maybe one that would open him up a little. “I saw your work at the gallery in town; you’re very gifted.”
Again, he nodded.
“Your Tempest painting is”—I searched for the right word—“exceptional.”
“It’s not for sale.”
Disappointed at his words, I studied his partially hidden profile. Again his jaw was covered in stubble, and all I could really see was his nose and the downturned set of his full mouth. Some wayward hair sticking out from his beanie was blowing in the wind, its color not easy to make out. I was sure it was dark, but I couldn’t see enough to determine if I was correct. I wanted to step forward, force him to look at me, but there was something about his tense stance that screamed “back off.” He was obviously uncomfortable with me being this close, so I remained where I was, even though I felt some bizarre sort of need to get closer. I had to struggle not to move beside him, slip my hand into his, and offer him some sort of comfort, to loosen the tense set of those broad shoulders. I shook my head at the strange urge.
“Would you perhaps reconsider?”
“No. Jonathon already inquired on your behalf. I have it on loan to the gallery as a personal favor. It’s not for sale—at any price.”
I smiled, attempting to tease him. “Everything has its price, Zachary.”
I wasn’t prepared for the venom in his voice when he spoke.
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“I’m fucking aware that’s the way most of the world works. I don’t conduct my life that way.”
Then he turned and walked away, his long strides eating up the distance, his unbuttoned coat billowing out behind him. He whistled for Elliott, who dropped the stick from his mouth and chased after his master.
Both Dixie and I stood staring at the retreating figures. Not once did Zachary pause or look back, while Elliott raced ahead of him. I waited until he had climbed the stairs and disappeared from sight, never taking my eyes off him.
I blinked and looked over the water.
Now I could say I had met my neighbor.
That went well.
The fresh air helped, but the ache lingered in the back of my head, making me feel sluggish. Dixie and I spent the rest of the afternoon quietly napping on the sofa, watching a movie, and in an effort to be somewhat productive, I made some banana bread—the only thing I could bake with any success. As it cooled on the counter, I looked out the window; the sun was beginning its slow descent for the night, breaking through the low hanging clouds. Crystalized colors reflected off the water, light dappling on the long swells. I walked onto the deck, breathing in the crisp air and letting the sounds drift over me. Movement caught my eye and I was surprised to see Zachary on top of the rock formation, a camera held to his face. One leg was bent behind him as he crouched, his upper body twisting and moving as he sought the perfect angle. His overcoat had been replaced with a long, gray hoodie and jeans hugged his stretched legs. I felt bad for upsetting him earlier and as the scent of fresh coffee hit me, I came up with an idea on how to apologize. Hurrying inside, I filled a small basket and with a deep breath for courage, walked toward the rocks.
I felt her before I saw her. There was a subtle shift to the air around me, a break in my concentration and I knew she was coming toward me. My instant reflex was to make sure my loose hood was up and I was angled away from her. The temptation to turn and walk away quickly was strong, but I stopped myself; I refused to run away again.
“Hello,” her gentle, quiet voice spoke. She was close—far too close for my liking and instinctively I shifted away, but nodded in silent greeting. Her next words surprised me.
“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
I lowered the camera and glanced her way, my throat tightening. The sun was catching her hair, turning it into rich, rivers of color—the strange light surrounding us cast hundreds of highlights through her gorgeous tresses—more than I could possibly ever reproduce on canvas. My fingers itched to try, though. Her expression was sad—remorseful, and I felt ashamed of my harsh words earlier. I had been the rude one, not her.
But I didn’t want, couldn’t, encourage her. I shrugged and lifted the lens back up. “It’s fine.”
A small basket was pushed in front of me. “I, ah, brought you some coffee and banana bread. I made it myself.”
I looked down at the offering, a strange sensation welling up in my chest.
“I didn’t know how you took it, so I only added cream. I have some sugar packages,” she added. I could hear the hope in her voice. She wanted me to accept her peace offering.
“I like it black.”
“Oh.”
How she managed to saturate so much disappointment into one syllable, I had no idea. Or why the fact she was disappointed bothered me so much. I reached forward, pulling the basket closer and lifted out a piece of the banana bread. I felt her eyes on me the whole time as I bit and chewed the dense slice.
“It’s good,” I offered gruffly.
She picked up a piece and nibbled on it, not saying anything. I turned away and lifted the camera, capturing the breathtaking colors and shapes of the unusual, darker clouds as the dying sun spread its magic one last time for the day.
“Do you take a lot of pictures?”
“Some.”
“Do you also sell those?”
“No.”
She made a small frustrated sigh in the back of her throat. “Where’s Elliott?”
“In the house. I came alone so I could concentrate. I didn’t want the distraction.”
“Am I distracting you?”
“Yes.”
“I only wanted to come and say I was sorry.”
“You did that.”
“Is that a dismissal?”
I huffed out an impatient exhale of air. “I came out to capture the unique light. Not chat.”
“You prefer peace and quiet?”
My voice became sharp. “I like quiet—I have no idea what peace feels like.”
I started at the feeling of her small hand resting on my arm. The warmth of her tender touch was shocking; my entire body humming with electricity. “I understand.”
I stood up with a jerk, keeping my back to her. My heart raced at her close proximity and the strange need to feel more of her touches. “I doubt that very much.”
She stood, as well. “That’s rather presumptuous of you. You don’t know anything about me or my life.”
“And I don’t want to.”
She gasped. “My God, you’re rude. I was only—”
I cut her off. “I don’t care what you were trying to do. Leave me alone, Megan. I don’t need a friend or someone to sympathize with.” I pushed the basket with my foot. “I’m not looking for company or little baskets of treats. Just stay away from me.”
Only silence greeted me. I knew if I turned and dared to look at her, there would be tears in her dark eyes. Hurt would once again color her expression, but I needed her to stay away.
I lifted the camera back up, even though the light was fading, the colors lessening and losing their vibrancy. I felt her move away—her footsteps withdrawing. I turned and watched her, and unable to help myself, captured her retreating figure on film. Her head was bowed, shoulders hunched in sadness as she hurried from me. Even her hair, still gleaming in the dull light, fell flat over her shoulders, no longer lifting and moving in the breeze. The light of the sun wasn’t the only thing that faded in front of my eyes—I had crushed her brightness. I also effectively and completely convinced her of what I wanted: to be left alone.
She disappeared into her house, never once turning back.
My legs felt heavy as I made my way up the steps to my own house.
Alone had never felt as lonely as it did that very moment.
I tossed and turned all night after my run-in with Zachary. He made it very apparent he wanted nothing to do with me or my friendly gestures. His rejection caused an ache in my chest I couldn’t explain and everything in me told me his actions caused him the same pain. I didn’t believe him when he said he wanted to be alone—I was certain it was the only way he knew how to be.
By the afternoon, the pressure behind my eyes was almost unbearable. The gathering storm from yesterday still hung low and thick, moving in slow. The closer it came, the more my headache intensified. I had every symptom of a migraine: the tunnel vision, sensitivity to light, throbbing pain, and increasing nausea. The only thing I didn’t have: my medication. It had been a while since my last headache, so I hadn’t even thought to bring it. Some Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet was the best I could do. I knew I needed to lie down and rest, so I left the sliding door open for some fresh air, then curled up on the sofa. Dixie came up beside me, burrowing her little body next to mine. I closed my eyes, praying the storm would break soon and help ease my headache.
A noise woke me, and I sat up, blinking and disoriented. The drapery panel beside the sliding door was blowing, knocking into the wall. Outside, it was darker than before, early evening beginning to settle over the sky, but it seemed the storm was easing off. Although it appeared like we would still get rain, it would not be the huge storm that had been predicted. Grateful the pain in my head had abated somewhat, I stretched and got up from the sofa. Frowning, I realized the invisible screen had drawn in on itself, leaving the door wide open. As I reached to snap it back in place, I looked behind me. Dixie wasn�
�t on the sofa or the chair. I smiled, knowing she had probably gone to snuggle on the bed—she loved to burrow under blankets. Maybe the screen sliding open had startled her; I wasn’t sure how long it had been ajar. Walking into the bedroom, I was surprised not to see a little lump under the covers. I checked beneath the bed and in the closet, then tried looking in the other bedroom.
No Dixie.
A chill raced down my spine as I called out to her, searching the whole house. She wasn’t there. Panicking, I shoved my feet into some sneakers and ran down to the beach. Becoming frantic, I searched as my heart pounded and tears spilled down my cheeks. I called her name over the sound of the crashing waves, scanning the water in fear of seeing her lifeless, little form.
Darkness was falling, and I didn’t know what to do next. She never went out without me. She had never been alone. More tears gathered in my eyes as I stood, wringing my hands, lost and scared on the sand.
I couldn’t lose her. Where could she be? I looked up at the house on the bluff, hesitating. Maybe she had gone to find Elliott. After our last conversation I knew Zachary wouldn’t be very welcoming, but this was about Dixie—not him. I turned and started to run toward the stairs. Twice I slipped going up, landing painfully hard on my hands and knees, the tears making it difficult to see where I was going. When I reached the top, I looked around and called, but no little ball of fluff appeared. I rushed to the house, climbing the steps and banged on the door. Maybe Zachary had found her and taken her inside, knowing I would come and get her. There was no answer, so I banged again, swiping under my eyes as the tears flowed, my chest threatening to burst with the ache inside.
She couldn’t be lost. She couldn’t.
Just as I raised my hand up again, the door was flung open and Zachary filled the frame, somewhat hidden behind the door. The encroaching darkness surrounding me and his dim hallway made it difficult to see, but his harsh voice made it clear he wasn’t happy to see me.
Beneath the Scars Page 3
