Page 11 of Mean Streak

z

E mory let the curtain drop back over the window. “It’s hopeless out there.”

The weather had worsened overnight. It had begun to snow, and it was accumulating over a thick layer of sleet. Which, of course, was in his favor.

He was seated at the dining table, tinkering with the toaster that had failed to pop up the slices of bread at breakfast.

“How old is that thing?”

Her cross tone of voice brought his head up. “I don’t know. It came with the cabin.”

“Why don’t you just buy a new one?”

“This one can be fixed. Besides, I enjoy working on things.” He’d already glued the broken piece of stem back onto her sunglasses. He’d set them carefully on the table for the glue to dry.

“You’re a born handyman?”

“I manage.”

No doubt he was being modest and that he was, in fact, a good fix-it man. He would have to be to live the way he did, alone in an isolated area, relying on no one except himself.

Jeff wouldn’t know how to set the controls on a toaster, much less repair one. Although to think so uncharitably of him was unfair. He’d never been required to fix a household item and would have been surprised to know that she would find such an effort endearing even if he failed at it.

To her recollection she had never asked him to help her with something around the house. Perhaps she should have. If she hadn’t been so self-reliant, and had instead asked small favors of him, maybe they would be happier.

The rift between them had started a year ago when he had failed to make partner in the investment firm in which he was an associate. He had assumed an air of indifference, but she knew that being passed over had been an enormous disappointment to him and a blow to his ego.

Wanting to reassure him of her support, she’d made a concerted effort to call him throughout the day, sometimes for something silly, just to let him know that she was thinking about him.

However, rather than buoying his spirits, the extra attention seemed only to irritate him.

At one point, he’d even asked her, with chilly politeness, to please stop patronizing him.

In an effort to get them back on track, she had switched tactics, suggesting weekend getaways, pursuing things she thought he would enjoy. A wine-tasting weekend in Napa. An indie film festival in Los Angeles. A bed-and-breakfast in the French Quarter.

Her ideas were met with lukewarm responses or outright derision.

Their sex life dwindled until he complained about the infrequency, while at the same time, he stopped initiating it.

Her pride wouldn’t let her attempt to entice him.

They reached a stalemate. The gap continued to widen.

Months of increasing tension culminated in an argument over his indifference to the upcoming marathon.

It was a charity fund-raiser that she had initiated and helped to organize.

Beyond showing a lack of interest, he had developed a hostile attitude toward the event and what he called her “obsession” with it.

His rejection of something so important to her was symptomatic of his emotional withdrawal in general, and when she had cited that last Thursday evening during their stilted dinner conversation, the situation quickly became combustible.

What she hadn’t said, what she’d held back, was that she suspected him of having a lover. Customarily, when a man’s ego had been trampled, wasn’t more adventurous sex the restorative he sought?

But lacking evidence to support her suspicion, she’d kept it to herself. She’d left on Friday afternoon, angry but hopeful that spending a night away would realign her perspective and, if she was being honest, ignite a fighting spirit to keep their marriage intact.

She hadn’t counted on falling and getting a concussion and being “rescued” by a nameless man who, without even touching her, had aroused more sexual awareness last night than Jeff had aroused in more than a year.

“Are you cold?”

His question jerked her out of her reverie. “What?”

“You’re chafing your upper arms. Are you cold?”

“No.”

He left the eviscerated toaster and got up to go to the fireplace. When the logs he added began to flame, he replaced the screen and motioned her forward. “Move closer. Warm up.”

“Who supplies your firewood?”

“Nobody. I chop it myself.”

“You go into the woods and cut down trees?”

“People do, you know.”

No one she knew did. They bought firewood from someone who delivered it to their house and stacked it, or they picked up a small bundle at the supermarket along with their bread and milk.

Satisfied that the new logs were catching, he returned to the table, picked up her sunglasses, and passed them to her. “Glue dried. I think it’ll hold.”

She tested the strength of the repair. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Your hands seem too large to work on something so small and delicate. I wouldn’t think you could be that dexterous.”

“I can be dexterous when dexterity is called for.”

She could tell he was amused by the unwitting setup she’d given him and self-satisfied with his suggestive comeback.

Turning away from him, she slipped the glasses into the shirt pocket.

He sat down at the table and resumed fiddling with the toaster, seeming to be perfectly content. She felt like her skin had shrunk.

“Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

“What?”

“The silence. The loneliness.”

“I have music on my laptop.”

“Can we play some music?”

“Nice try, but no soap, Doc.”

She paced the width of the room and back. “Doesn’t the boredom drive you to distraction?”

“I’m never bored.”

“How could you not be? What do you do all day? That is, when you’re not repairing small appliances.”

She had meant the remark as a putdown, but he took no offense. “Projects.”

“Like what?”

“I’m building a shed for my pickup.”

“By yourself?”

“It’s not hard, but I’m particular, which makes it time-consuming. I had hoped to finish it before winter set in.” He glanced toward the window. “Didn’t quite make it.”

“What else?”

“I built the bookshelves.”

“That’s it? That’s all you do? Putter around here making home improvements?”

“I’ve hunted. Not much, though. I fish occasionally.”

“When you get tired of venison.”

“No, I don’t like fish, so I always throw my catches back. I hike. Gorgeous scenery up here. Sometimes I camp, but I prefer my bed to a sleeping bag on the ground.”

“So you’re not completely opposed to creature comfort.”

He gave a half grin. “No. I prefer my showers and my coffee hot.”

She looked around, trying to gauge the sparse square footage in which he lived. “I can’t imagine being cooped up in here with nothing to do.”

“I’ve got something to do. I’m doing it.”

“Repairing an old toaster?”

This time he did respond to the putdown. He sat back in the chair and stared at her thoughtfully while tapping a small screwdriver against his palm. “There are other things that need fixing.”

“And what happens when they run out?”

“I don’t see that happening.”

More than a little subdued by his “do not trespass” tone, she made a circuit of the room, went to one of the windows, and moved aside the curtain so she could look out again. The snowfall was thicker than earlier. “How far are we from Drakeland?”

“Farther than a marathon, if you had in mind to run all the way.”

“I spent Friday night there. I didn’t see much of the town, though. Is it nice?”

“It’s almost civilized. Has a Wendy’s, a Walmart, a multiscreen movie theater.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “How often do you go?”

“To the movies?”

“To town.”

“When I need something. When I feel like going.”

“Do you see friends?”

“The lady at Dunkin’ Donuts always speaks. She knows my face.”

“But not your name.”

He didn’t say anything.

“No friends. No…” At a loss for words, she went to the hearth and sat down. “How do you make your living? What do you do for money?”

“I get by.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I keep myself clothed and fed, but I don’t have gobs of money.” He paused, then added, “Not like you.”

“I don’t have gobs of money.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Wealth is relative,” she said irritably. “Besides, how do you—” She stopped and looked over at the laptop on the end table beneath the lamp. “You looked me up?”

“The afternoon I brought you here.”

“You got my name off my driver’s license.”

“The rest was easy. A few keystrokes. Charbonneau Oil and Gas popped up. You’re an heiress.”

She wasn’t prepared to talk about anything this personal with him. Yet she heard herself say, “I hate that word.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it means that my parents are dead. I guess you read about that.”

He set down the screwdriver and gave her his undivided attention. “Your dad’s friend was flying the plane.”

“He was an experienced pilot, had flown his own plane thousands of miles. The two couples—best friends forever—were on their way to Oklahoma for an LSU football game. Tigers versus Sooners.” She picked at the cuff button on his flannel shirt, which she’d put on over her running clothes for an additional layer. “They didn’t make the kickoff.”

Behind her, the fire blazed, warming her back, but not reaching the cold void caused by the reminder of the sudden loss of her parents.

“For a long time, I was in a really bad place. I prayed to God and cursed him, sometimes in the same breath. I exhausted myself with weeping. In a fit of anger, I chopped off all my hair. Grief was an illness with me. Unfortunately it’s incurable.

I’ve just learned to live with it.” When she realized how silent the room had become, she turned her head and pulled him into focus.

He was sitting perfectly still, watching her intently. “No other immediate family?”

“No. Just me. We were well known in Baton Rouge. I couldn’t go anywhere without running into someone who wanted to talk about Mom and Dad and extend condolences.

The reminders got hard to take. It seemed that my survival depended on leaving, starting fresh somewhere else.

So, after finishing my residency, I sold the family home, my shares in the company, and relocated.

New city. New state.” She slapped her thighs, ran her palms up and down them.

“There you have it. Did I leave out anything?”

“How you met your husband.”

“A mutual friend set us up.”

“Love at first sight?”

She came to her feet. “All you need to know about Jeff is how frantically worried he is right now.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Three years plus a few months.”

“Have they been happy years?”

“Yes.”

“Does your scalp hurt?”

“What?” Then, realizing she’d been rubbing the wound, she lowered her hand. “No. The bump has gone down. The cut itches.”

“Means it’s healing.”

“It means I need to wash my hair.”

“Why don’t you use the shower?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because you don’t want to get naked.”

His definitive answer didn’t call for elaboration.

He gave one last turn of the screwdriver, then set the toaster upright in the center of the table and tested the ejection lever several times. It was no longer sticking. He got up and carried it to the counter, replacing it in its spot. He returned the screwdriver to a drawer.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I don’t mind being naked.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

He braced his hands on the counter behind him and crossed his ankles with more languor than she would have thought a man his size could achieve.

He looked supremely at ease with himself and his surroundings, with the bizarre situation, with everything that was driving her mad, especially the mystery that was him .

“Then what were you talking about, Doc?”

“Family. Do you have a wife stashed somewhere?”

Last night his expression had practically dared her to pry. His hard gaze had warned her to proceed at her own risk. He was looking at her that same way now. “No.”

“Ever?”

“No bride. No wife. Not ever.” He let several seconds lapse, then said, “Anything else?”

Yes. A hundred things, but she shook her head.

“Then excuse me, please.” He walked past her and went into the bathroom.

The conversation had left her feeling more disturbed than ever. She had bared her soul about the tragic death of her parents and its effect on her, a topic she was usually reticent about because it was so painful.

He had continued to dodge questions that could have been easily answered with one or two words. Instead, he was keeping her in the dark, and it was a shadowy unknown that made her uneasy.

Feeling chilled again, she wandered over to the fireplace.

The logs recently added had burned quickly.

She moved aside the fire screen, took one of the smaller logs from the box, and carefully placed it on top of those aflame, then reached for another.

As she pulled it out, others shifted, revealing something at the bottom of the box.

It was a brown paper bag, larger than a lunch sack, but not as large as a grocery bag. Curious, she worked it out from beneath the logs, which took an effort because it was heavy.

To keep the sack closed, several folds had been made in the top of it. She unrolled them and opened it.

Inside was a rock, eight inches in diameter at its widest point, with jagged points that formed a miniature mountain range across the top of it.

Those peaks were stained dark red with blood.

It had run into the network of minuscule crevasses like a macabre lava flow.

Stuck in the dried blood were several strands of hair, exactly the length and color of hers.

She gave a sharp cry of realization just as hands, which she had noticed specifically for their size and strength, caught her upper arms from behind, spun her around, and yanked the sack away from her.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”