Finally, she stops, holding her finger on a row, a line in a book. “It’s here.”
Turning the log to me, she waits until it’s in my hands before releasing it and picking up her pipe. She goes to the door and leaves me alone in the kitchen to read the words. My chest is tight, and it takes a moment for my eyes to register the ancient script, faded with the passage of time.
It’s here, or at least half of it is. One half of the answer to the question we’ve been asking. Not the complete story, but an important piece of the puzzle. A sad piece. A piece that makes me want to say this has nothing to do with me, go home, and leave this story hidden deep in the piney woods.
If only I could.
“Do you know what happened next?” I look over to where she stands in the doorway, gazing into the forest, perhaps into the past.
“I know.” Ancient eyes, full of compassion, meet mine. “I’ll take you there.”
16
Angel
Lying on my bed, I smile at the ceiling thinking about my guy. Soft music plays, and I picture threading my fingers in his hair, gazing into his blue eyes flecked with gold, kissing his soft lips. Closing my eyes, I allow the dream of him to sweep away the frustrations of the week.
An hour ago, he texted he was stopping for gas in Marshall, and he wants to see me tonight. I’m ready to meet him anywhere. My body hums with desire. I want his lips on me, his hands. I want to be skin against skin.
Maybe it’s my brother’s hatred. Maybe it’s Deacon’s aunt’s. Maybe it’s simply knowing we’re so close to a life together that has me desperate and anxious, missing him more than I ever did in the years we’d been apart.
Today, once again, Winnie decided to sit in a chair and “read” while I worked on her portrait. She criticized everything, and I was starting to think she was laying the groundwork to say she was going in a different direction.
Thanks to my insistence on a contract, she put it in writing that she had the right to refuse payment or fire me if my work didn’t meet her satisfaction.
“Is Boots really necessary for the portrait?” She sneered at the cat curled in her lap.
I showed her Renaissance portraits featuring pets, and assured her it was a common practice among the very wealthy to include a family pet, especially a unique one like Boots. Her own brother Brandt had his favorite horse in his portrait.
She seemed to accept this. Then her musing drifted to Deacon, which I felt was a direct test of my ability to keep my mouth shut. When she wondered aloud why he “never dated,” I had to excuse myself and go to the restroom.
This evening I finished her portion of the portrait, and after walking around frowning at it from every angle, she finally conceded I’d “captured something”—her words.
A stack of cash totaling $750 was placed in a brown envelope on the small table by the door, five percent of the final payment—confirmation I was hired at least. I took it gladly and left, thanking God it’s almost Friday.
Since our chat about honor in the middle of the night, my brother has been MIA. Naturally, I’ve had a million great comebacks to his “prejudice and protection” speech. Isn’t that how it always works? Once I’m out of the situation, I’m a master of snappy comebacks.
Exhaling a slow breath, I lift my phone, wishing it would light up, thinking about my hero… Lourdes called him Prince Eric. That makes me smile. It’s been an empty week without Sofia and her little opinions. I miss her. Maybe I’ll pick her up after I finish at Ursula’s mansion tomorrow… I’m grinning, ready to send a text to Valeria when tapping starts on my window.
My heart leaps to my throat, and I’m off the bed, rushing to the double glass doors to fling them apart. “Deacon?”
Strong arms surround me so fast, and I press my face to his neck, holding him with all my strength, inhaling his intoxicating scent of citrus and soap. My breath hitches, and my stomach is so tight. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“I came straight here.” His voice is rough, and my body warms with desire.
Large hands smooth down the sides of my hair, cupping my cheeks, and our eyes meet, blue and gold like the sunrise. Stretching higher, I seal my lips to his, hungry for his kiss, his touch. His fingers tighten in my hair as our mouths open and our tongues curl together.
A little noise slips from my throat, and I want him to lift me and carry me to the bed. I want him to fill me, groaning with the same need surging in my veins. Instead he pulls me close, hugging me tightly against his chest. My arms are around his waist, and I’m firm against his body, breathing fast.
“I won’t stay.” My heart sinks at his words. He kisses the top of my head, my brow. “I just needed to see you, to touch you.”
He’s pulling back, but I hold him t
ighter, feeling the tension in his body. “Wait… What’s wrong?”
The muscle in his jaw moves, and he looks at our clasped hands, our twined fingers. “So much happened this week.”
“Tell me.” Tightening my grip, I draw him to the bed, to sit beside me. I know if he stayed so many extra days, it must have been important.