by Steve Frech
I couldn’t help staring at him. He was such a striking figure. Powerful. A man who got exactly what he wanted.
The photographer snapped the shutter close. “That should do it. Thank you, everyone!”
Mr. Whitlock held up his hands, again. “Thank you, everyone! And now, dinner is served!”
I ate but couldn’t taste the food. I was wrapped up in my own misery. I wanted to leave but it would have been a spectacle to get up during dinner, go to the bicycle, and ride away. I was trapped.
It was then that I formulated a plan.
After dinner, everyone would go to the backyard to watch the fireworks. I would follow, but then slip away while everyone was watching the display. I no longer cared about seeing him, since he clearly didn’t care about seeing me.
The sun set and cake was served. People relaxed into their chairs, stuffed with food. Conversations slowed as daylight waned. Mr. Whitlock announced that the fireworks would begin shortly and that everyone should go to the backyard.
The Carringtons went first. Once they disappeared around the side of the house, everyone slowly rose to their feet. I stalled for as long as I could and stayed towards the back. Mr. Whitlock waited for everyone to clear the front yard and I noticed that he did not seem happy to see me. I could stall no longer and began following the crowd.
The backyard was beautiful. Lighted torches had been placed around the perimeter, giving it a soft glow. Rows of chairs had been arranged on the grass, with the lake spreading out before them. People were settling in, pleasantly chatting. In the water, there were two floating platforms, where the silhouettes of two men were at work. The cooks and waiters that had been hired for the celebration were coming out of the house to watch the fireworks. The men on the platform gave a signal and Mr. Whitlock began extinguishing the torches, making it darker. I tried to spot Thomas, but everyone had their backs to me and the darkness made it difficult to identify anyone.
The last torch was extinguished and everyone held their breath. Suddenly, a rocket shot upwards from one of the platforms and burst into a red, flowering ball. The crowd gasped and clapped with delight. More fireworks went up, eliciting more cheers.
This was my chance.
A few of the waiters who had been working in the front yard were rushing around the side of the house. I wished to avoid them, so I quietly made my way through the open back door and slipped into the house, unnoticed. I went through the dining room and living room. The concussion from the fireworks shook the walls. I was almost to the front door when suddenly, I was grabbed and pulled into the study. I was shoved up against the wall and lips pressed against mine. I was shocked, then terrified, and then I saw his eyes as he pulled away. He delighted in my expression and kissed me, again. This time, I returned his kiss. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced. His hands passed over my dress and under. He pulled away, once more.
“I thought you were ignoring me,” I said, breathlessly.
“I had to. My wife is suspicious.”
We kissed again.
“Why is she suspicious?”
He smiled. “History.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant but stopped caring when he kissed me again.
“After the celebration,” he said, “she’ll be going back to Boston. Then, we can—”
“Father?” a small voice asked.
He forcefully shoved me against the wall so that I was hidden behind the door. He was pressing so hard, I couldn’t breathe. Through the crack of the open door and the doorframe, I could see his daughter, standing in the living room, looking into the study.
“What the hell are you doing?” he growled.
She cast her eyes down to the floor. “The fireworks scared me and Mother told me to go inside and wait until they are over.”
“Then go up to your room.”
She hesitated, because going to the foot of the stairs would bring her closer to him, but she relented and went up the stairs.
His hand, which was pressed against my chest, gradually relaxed.
“Did she see us?” I asked.
“She better not have.”
It was the first time I had seen him truly angry and I was a little fearful for myself.
“You should go. I’ll send for you when they’re gone.”
I wanted to set his mind at ease and put my hand on his cheek. “Do you promise?”
He smiled. “We leave a key under the table on the porch. I’ll place an order and you can use the key to let yourself in.” He pulled me closer. “But I warn you; only use the key if you’re ready,” he said, and kissed me, again.
“For what?” I asked.
He chuckled. “I need to get back to the guests.”
He kissed me one last time before going back through the living room and towards the kitchen to rejoin the party.
I went out the front door, past the empty tables and chairs, and grabbed the bike from the bushes.
I was shaking the whole ride back to town. When I arrived at the house, the light in the parlor was on. I found Father sitting in the chair by the fireplace. There was a half-full decanter on the table beside him and a glass in his hand.
“Angel! How was the picnic?” His words were slurred and the air stank of liquor.
I’ve never seen him like that.
I told him it was fine and that I had talked up the pharmacy. I asked him how business had been. He said it was fine, making liars of us both.
“I’m going to bed,” I told him.
“Good night,” he drunkenly mumbled.
I dressed for bed, but there is no way I can sleep. My heart is still pounding. My stomach is turning. I thought I was tired but I’m not, so I decided to pour out these words. But now, it’s really late and I’m going to try to sleep and dream of what is to come.
Good night.
18
I groan and stretch out, pressing my feet against the opposite armrest.
It was another night on the couch, but if I’m being honest, it may have been the best night of sleep I’ve had in this house.
Of course, the image of Nicole had been disturbing, but I think my body decided that I was getting sleep, no matter what.
I feel good. Not great, but better than I’ve felt in a while and I keep playing last night over in my mind, conveniently leaving out the part about going to bed upstairs.
I get up and make myself a full English breakfast and brew a strong cup of coffee. For our honeymoon, Nicole and I took a trip through the UK and stayed at nothing but B&Bs and now, I love an English breakfast. I sit at the alcove and enjoy my breakfast while I stare out the window at the lake.
For the first time, I feel at peace here. The house holds no menace or sense of dread, like before. It’s just a house. My house.
After breakfast, I go upstairs, strip down, and jump in the shower. I even catch myself whistling, which is weird for me. My thoughts turn to the novel. I can’t wait to hole myself up in the Writing Room and get to work.
But first things first.
I towel off, pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and head over to Mildred’s.
*
I tramp across the dew-covered grass towards her house, step onto the porch, and knock on the door.
A breeze kicks up off the lake. I turn my head.
Nicole is standing there near the water. The concern in her face, the worry …
“Good morning, Mr. Author.”
Mildred has opened the door, wearing a wide grin.
I glance back to the lake. Nicole is gone.
“Hi, Mildred.”
“Come on in.”
“How’d it go?” I ask, stepping into the kitchen.
“It was great. We played games. We watched a movie.”
“Which one?” I ask, gathering Caitlyn’s things from the floor by the table.
“The Wizard of Oz. We both knew the words to every song.”
“That’s my girl.”
“So,” she says,
casually taking a sip of coffee. “What did you get up to last night?”
“Nothing. I just had a quiet night at the house.”
Her eyes widen and she points an accusatory finger. “Liar!”
“What?”
“Liar! Liar, liar, liar! The lights were off at your house almost all night. You went out!”
“No, I … Look … It wasn’t … It was nothing.”
My stammering causes her eyes to widen further.
“Something happened.”
“No. Nothing happened,” I reply.
“It did! Something had to have happened. Why else would you lie about being home?”
My face is burning. “Look, Mildred. I had a great night and I don’t want to—”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God … Oh my God! You had sex!”
“Mildred!”
“You did! You got laid!”
“No, Mildred. I did not have sex.”
“Then you at least had a date.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Ohhhh. I see … but you were with a woman.”
“Okay. Yes, Sherlock. I had dinner with a woman.”
“And it went well?” she asks like a prosecutor cornering a witness.
“Yes. We had an amazing dinner,” I concede, hoping it will shut her up.
I’m so wrong.
“You. Had. A. Date!” she cries out triumphantly. She puts her coffee cup on the counter, and proceeds to do an aged victory dance.
“Mildred, please stop.”
She goes to the cabinet and pulls out another mug. “Put those down,” she says, pointing at Caitlyn’s things. She fills the mug with coffee, carries it to the kitchen table, sits in a chair, and pats the seat next to her. “Sit down and tell me everything.”
“Mildred, I don’t think—”
She pats the chair, again, and repeats with a little more insistence, “Everything.”
There’s no escape.
“Fine.” I sit in the chair and take the coffee. “But you have to promise not to tell Caitlyn because it could cause a lot of problems at her school.”
She blinks. “Caitlyn? Why would I tell Caitlyn? What does this have to do with her school? What problems?”
Oh, Goddamnit.
I try to hide my face by looking at the table. “Well … you know, I don’t know how she would react if she knew I had dinner with … umm … another woman.”
She’s not buying a word of it. “Daniel?”
I reluctantly raise my eyes to meet her stare.
“What does this have to do with Caitlyn?”
I sigh. “It was her teacher.”
I’m worried Mildred’s jaw is going to crash through the table.
“But, Mildred, please. I’m serious. It wasn’t a date. It was a very pleasant dinner and Caitlyn can never know, because it could get her teacher in a lot of trouble at school.”
She ditches the teasing. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just what you want to.”
I recount the evening, except the part about my lunatic detour into the supernatural. I tell her how we connected and about Denise’s son, which I know there’s no danger she’ll repeat to anyone.
Once I’m done, Mildred sits back with her coffee.
“You going to see her, again?”
“I hope so. I wouldn’t mind us having dinner from time to time.”
“Think it might grow into something more serious?”
“No. Just friends.”
“You sure? You don’t think it might grow into something a little more ‘naked’?”
“Mildred!”
“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” She laughs.
I sip my coffee and wait for her to settle down.
She wipes her eyes and catches her breath. “Daniel, I’m so glad. I can’t tell you how much better you look.”
“I feel a lot better.”
“Good.” She shrugs. “And I’m just saying that if nudity should happen—”
“Mildred, stop.”
She smiles.
*
I’ve been at it for hours and I’m cranking out page after page in the Writing Room. After a few more jokes at my expense over at Mildred’s, I came home and set to work in my notebook. It took me about an hour to hit my stride, but now, I’m on fire. The characters are emerging out of the fog of my mind and coming to life. The dialogue is cracking. I’m turning some nice phrases in my descriptions. I haven’t felt like this since the accident. I’m completely immersed in a world of my own creation.
Jake Solomon is prowling the streets of Washington D.C., late at night, on the trail of the hitman who nearly killed him. Only a jump from a rooftop spared him from the assassin’s bullet. Now, with the help of an intrepid reporter who Jake doesn’t entirely trust, he has the hitman cornered, but he thinks the reporter might be working with him to get Jake to—
Thunk.
I’m so caught up in my writing, it takes a repetition of the noise to register.
… thunk.
There it is, again, in the bookcase.
I’m tempted to let the rat or whatever critter is living in there to have its day. I don’t want to leave my characters in the lurch.
… thunk.
With an exasperated sigh, I drop my pen, swivel my chair, get up, step around the desk, and over to the bookcase.
I stay absolutely still.
One minute passes … then two …
Come on, Mickey. If we’re going to do this, let’s do—
… thunk.
There. At least, I think it was there, on the side of the bookcase.
I carefully crouch down and hold my ear to the cold wood. There’s that ‘ocean’ sound you always hear when you press your ear against something; a low, distorted rumble.
Another minute goes by … then another.
There are no sounds of scratching or scurrying from inside.
Waiting … waiting …
Then, I hear something—not scratching or scurrying from inside the bookcase, but a voice. A whisper right next to my ear.
“Rebecca’s here …”
I fall backwards, away from the bookcase.
My heart is pounding. My chest is heaving. I stare at the spot.
On the desk, my phone begins to ring.
I pick myself off the floor and work my way to the desk, keeping my eyes on the bookcase.
I check the caller ID and hit ‘answer’.
“Denise?” I ask.
“Mr. Price?”
I’m still focused on the bookcase.
“Mr. Price, are you there?”
There’s an edge to her tone and apparently, we’re on a last name basis, again.
“Yes,” I answer, eyes still on the bookcase. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine, but there’s been an incident with Caitlyn.”
I instantly forget the bookcase. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, but could you come to the school, please?”
19
The twenty-minute drive to Concord Elementary feels like hours.
Denise, who is now Ms. Hancourt, again, didn’t go into details. All she would say over the phone was that Caitlyn was fine, but that she was in a bit of trouble. I asked what kind of trouble and she only reiterated that I should come in.
Kids are playing on the playground as I make my way from the parking lot to the main entrance.
I try to mask my panic from the staff as I walk into the main office and up to the desk.
The secretary looks up from her computer. “May I help you?”
“Uh, yes. I was asked to come in. My daughter, Cai—”
“Mr. Price?”
Principal Craig is standing in the doorway to her office.
“Come with me, please.”
*
“Apparently, there was some sort of incident on the playground during recess,” she says, leading me down the hall to Ms. Hancourt’s classroom.
“What kind of incident?”
“Caitlyn shoved a boy.”
“She shoved a boy?” In my entire life, no sentence has made less sense.
“Yes, but that’s not why we asked you to come in.”
“Then why did you—?”
We stop outside the door to the classroom.
“I’ll let Ms. Hancourt explain.”
She gestures for me to go in.
Caitlyn is sitting at a desk with her eyes down.
Denise stands off to the side with her arms folded, her expression just as confused as mine.
I quickly go to Caitlyn and take her face in my hands. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”
She meekly nods.
“What happened?”
Caitlyn hesitates.
Principal Craig chimes in. “During recess, she shoved a boy named Peter Sanders and knocked him down.”
Oh no. I thought there was no way she would do it. I still can’t believe it.
“You saw her do this?” I ask.
“Some of the other kids say that they saw Caitlyn sort of shove him, and Peter says she did it,” Denise says in a softer tone than Principal Craig.
“Where is he now?”
“He’s with the nurse. He was pretty shaken up.”
I turn back to Caitlyn.
“Sweetheart?”
She brings her eyes up just enough to look at me.
“What happened?”
She sniffs. “I was talking to her,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Peter was making fun of me for talking to her. He wouldn’t stop … She got mad.”
“Who, sweetheart? Who got mad?”
Caitlyn’s eyes slide back down to the desk.
“Caitlyn says she didn’t do it,” Denise says, quietly. “She said … She said Katherine shoved Peter.”
My heart sinks. I don’t have a problem with Caitlyn standing up for herself or anyone else, but if she’s blaming her imaginary friend, then this is a new step, the one the psychologist had warned me about. Caitlyn insisted that her lie is real and it’s my fault. I suggested that she show Peter Sanders ‘who was the boss’ and I didn’t call her on it when she insisted that her imaginary friend gave me the necklace, even if she was trying to be nice.
“Who’s Katherine?” Principal Craig asks.
“It’s her imaginary friend,” I sigh.
Caitlyn’s head snaps up. The hurt and betrayal on her face are more than I can bear and I look away towards Principal Craig.
