Page 8 of Leather and Longing (Island Tales #3)

Chapter Six

Three days later, and things were certainly no better, but they weren’t worse, either.

Paul supposed he should be grateful for that.

At least Adam had curbed his acerbic tongue, to the point where there was virtually no communication between them.

An uneasy routine had developed. Paul arrived early, did the shopping, prepared meals and drinks, and kept out of Adam’s way.

A funk appeared to have descended over the writer: every time Paul saw him, his shoulders were hunched over, and he was almost huddled in his armchair.

In spite of the way Adam had lashed out at him a few days ago, Paul was concerned.

After reading the articles supplied by Taylor, he had a fair idea of Adam’s progress through the different stages following loss of vision.

Paul had judged him to be either still in the withdrawal stage, which would fit with him pushing away all those who came into contact with him, or else he’d already begun to succumb to depression.

Either way, it wasn’t good.

He walked into the library to collect the bowl from Adam’s lunch. When he saw only half its contents had been eaten, Paul’s stomach clenched. If Adam wasn’t eating, things were definitely getting worse.

Adam was oblivious to him: he’d fallen asleep in the armchair, his head lolling against the back.

Paul gazed at him, taking in the drawn, pale face, the drool at the corner of his mouth, the hands clenched even in sleep.

It was then he noticed the blanket tossed onto the floor beside the couch.

Blankets—in August? He glanced around, glad of the opportunity to take a good look while Adam wasn’t aware of it.

Between the window and the chair, he saw a pile of clothing, folded T-shirts, sweatpants and underwear.

Why in here? Why not in his room?

On a whim, Paul crept out of the library and up the stairs to Adam’s bedroom.

The room lay as untouched as it had the day of his interview: dust coated the bedside cabinets and chest of drawers.

The adjoining bathroom hadn’t been touched since Paul had cleaned it on Monday.

The tiled floor of the shower was bone dry.

The hand towel beside the basin was as Paul had left it, the last time he’d washed his hands.

There was a mystery here.

Paul crept downstairs and over to the small cloakroom near the library. He hadn’t used it thus far, assuming it would be primarily for Adam’s use. He peered around the door.

Mystery solved.

The basin was covered in water and there were smears of soap and toothpaste everywhere. The mirror was covered in water marks. The tiny room was a mess. Paul stood in the doorway, his mind putting all the pieces together.

Adam wasn’t sleeping in his own bed: he was sleeping on the couch, with a blanket for when it got cold.

Adam wasn’t using the bathroom: he was using the barely adequate facilities of the downstairs cloakroom.

Adam was keeping a change of clothing in the library.

Conclusion: Adam hadn’t ventured upstairs since Paul had started working there.

He went back to the clothing. Did Adam keep all his clothes downstairs?

Paul had done the laundry on Monday, but when he’d finished with the tumble drier, he’d folded the clothes and placed them in the utility room on top of the drier, meaning to take them up to Adam’s room.

The following morning, however, the clothes had gone.

He’d assumed Adam had taken them upstairs.

Apparently not.

Paul entered the kitchen and sat down at the table to think things through.

He tried to recall information Mrs. Lambton had passed on to him, the day of his interview.

Something about Adam spending a month in Torquay, having one-on-one assistance on how to get by with everyday activities: boiling a kettle, doing the laundry, walking with the cane, basic stuff like that.

Surely he’d have practiced going up and down stairs?

They wouldn’t have sent him home if he hadn’t gotten through rehab, because that was what it sounded like, a form of occupational therapy.

And yet all the signs pointed to Adam basically living in two rooms, able to get into the kitchen and use the facilities there, but not going upstairs.

Paul stood and moved to the worktop to pour himself a mug of coffee.

He’d check to see if Adam was awake and in need of anything.

Then they had to talk. He knew he risked a tongue lashing, but damn it, this was his job , to take care of Adam.

And he could only do that if he had all the information.

He froze at the sound of a low moan from the library, almost as if Adam had called out in a nightmare.

I’m not surprised he has those . The man had been through so much, and Paul wouldn’t have wanted to see what was going on inside Adam’s head. He doubted it was a pretty sight.

The crash made him jump.

Paul dashed to the door of the library. Adam sat upright, hands gripping the arms of the chair. The bowl lay in pieces on the parquet floor and there was soup everywhere. Paul hazarded a guess that Adam had flung out his arm whilst dreaming and connected with the bowl.

“Why was that bloody bowl still here?” Adam yelled, his cheeks flushed. “Clear it up, and make sure there are no pieces left lying around. I don’t want to find bits of porcelain sticking in the soles of my feet.”

“I’ll do it now,” Paul murmured and went to fetch the dustpan and brush.

It was easier just to do as he’d been asked: Adam was clearly in a foul mood.

He hurried back to the library and knelt by Adam’s chair, sweeping up every last bit of the bowl’s remains.

When he was convinced he had it all, Paul rose and took all the debris to the kitchen, only to return with a cloth to wipe up the sticky soup.

Adam sat still, perched on the edge of the chair, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

Paul gave a last glance around to assure himself he’d cleared up to his own satisfaction. He wasn’t sure how to bring up what he’d discovered, but he couldn’t let things lie.

He needed answers.

The phone rang, curtailing that thought. He stared at it, noting Adam’s rigid back when the answer machine clicked into life.

“Hi, Adam. It’s Caro. I’ll be at the house early tomorrow morning to get Paul’s bank details. I look forward to seeing how things are going.” The machine clicked off.

Adam stared in the direction of Caroline’s voice, his face a mask of anger and frustration, his jaw clenched, his hands fisted. He took a couple of deep breaths and then forced them out with one loud expletive. “Fuck!”

Paul thought on his feet. “I take it you’re not happy she’s coming here?” Adam growled at the back of his throat. Paul took that as a no. He pressed on. “And maybe you’d be happier if her visits were less frequent?”

Adam scowled. “Figured that one out by yourself, did you?”

Paul wasn’t about to let him launch into yet another diatribe. “Then let’s work out a way to make sure she’s happy with what she sees when she gets here, so she doesn’t have an excuse for visiting so often.”

Silence.

Slowly, Adam’s dark eyebrows lifted, visible above his glasses. He scoffed. “And just how do you intend bringing that about?”

“Look, do you want my help, or don’t you?” Paul kept his tone mechanical, without any hint of emotion. “Because if you actually let me speak, instead of having a go at me, you might find out that I have an idea.”

Adam straightened. “Start talking.”