Page 22 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 22

I F M RS . H AWKING HADN ’ T AWAKENED Abraham before dinner and demanded he go home to bathe because he smelled like a decomposing carcass, he’d still be asleep on that sofa, despite the day being well past noon. Two baths later, the only thing about him that had changed was now he felt like a resurrected carcass instead of a rotting one. With the way his feet dragged and how heavy his limbs hung, he’d probably soon be mistaken for Frankenstein’s monster and chased through the streets by a mob with pitchforks. His siblings had shown him no mercy. Why should strangers?

Clara had insisted he use her secret stash of face paint so that no one would mistake him for a raccoon, thanks to the punches from Sullivan and Xavier.

More bothered by Abraham’s stench, Jake had stood as far down the hall as he could and pinched his nose. “What’d you do? Die in a barrel of perfume?”

Maybe Abraham shouldn’t have doused himself so thoroughly with Cristiani’s Florida Water Cologne.

He raked a hand through damp hair as he slogged up the Plane Manor drive to resume his duties. The spicy aroma of dandified corpse still clung to his skin, though he’d gone back to the tub and scrubbed until bright red. If Mrs. Hawking turned him away, he’d resort to a tomato bath. If it worked on skunk spray, it’d work on him.

Mrs. Hawking opened the door before he reached it, and gave him a wide berth as he passed.

“Detective Lawson wasn’t pleased that you left Miss Pelton unprotected, but I convinced him you had no choice.”

At the slight grin to her sharp-featured face, Abraham knew Lawson had discovered what a reckoning the housekeeper could inflict. Abraham had no doubt that the reason not a crack of outside light made it into the foyer when she closed the door was because even the curtains didn’t dare neglect their duty under her command.

Mrs. Hawking continued. “Detective Lawson said he’ll return after his interview with Mr. Clemens.”

“Thank you. Where is everyone else?”

“Miss Lydia’s in the parlor, Miss Theresa is caring for Tipsy in the carriage house, Colonel Plane is at the printshop, and the rest of the family is resting.”

Abraham bristled. “They left her alone?”

After the attack through the window and the near abduction, shouldn’t Dr. Pelton have at least confined Lydia to the second floor?

Mrs. Hawking sniffed as if personally offended by the accusation in his voice. “She’s safe enough. Besides, you won’t want to stay in there either, I wager. The girl’s pacing and muttering up a storm. She must be arguing with her characters again.”

Keen disappointment weighed upon him. So she still planned to fulfill her contract?

The woman was as persistent as a bad case of lice. How could she even consider continuing writing after last night? The putrid odor still coated his throat and tainted everything he ate or drank. She might not have witnessed the scene, but her experience from the street should have been enough to make her see reason.

He massaged his forehead. God, give me the patience needed with this woman. You’ve called me to be her friend, but I don’t know that I can silently accept her choice.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hawking. I could use a full, bracing pot of coffee, if you have it.”

“You’ll need more than that with her. I’ll put some cotton on the tray for your ears.” She pivoted with a crisp about-face and marched down the hall.

God bless that woman, but it would take more than cotton to escape Lydia’s antics.

On a well-rested day, he didn’t know what to do with her. In his current state? She’d truss him up while spouting off some romantic delusion all before he could react.

But if Paul could live with a thorn in his side, then Abraham supposed he could live with Lydia as his.

At the parlor door, he rested his forehead against the cool wood. He just needed a moment to gather his wits before facing the chaos that was Lydia Pelton.

Agitated footsteps approached from the inside. He drew a fortifying breath. He wasn’t ready, but clearly God thought he was.

“I just don’t know what to do.” Lydia’s voice grew and faded as she passed the door and continued on. “I mean I know what to do, but I don’t want to do it, God.”

God? Was she using Him as a character in a book, or was she praying? If the latter, it would be indecent of him to continue listening, but if the former, he could linger outside a few minutes more.

“Writing has been everything to me. It’s not just what I do; it’s who I am. How am I to process this world, let alone impact it, without a pen in my hand?”

Her frustration and desperation kicked him in the gut. It was so easy to believe the worst of people, but Lydia was evidently wrestling with her desire to change. He’d intruded on a raw and unguarded conversation that she expected only God to witness. Abraham should walk away and allow her the solitude and space needed for such a deliberation. Lord knew how often he’d gone on solitary walks to achieve the same purpose.

He lifted his head to turn away but felt a staying hand on his shoulder. He peered around, but no one else stood in the hall.

Are You telling me to eavesdrop, Lord?

He scoured his memory for some verse that implied it was wrong, but nothing came to mind. Lord, forgive me if I’m interpreting this moment incorrectly.

It still didn’t feel right, but he turned his ear to the crack between the door and wall.

Lydia’s voice sounded from the other side of the room. The speed at which it grew closer meant she must be eating up the perimeter. “I don’t even know what justice is supposed to look like anymore. If I quit writing, how am I to figure that out? Yes, I know I’m supposed to lean into You and Your Word, but even You spoke through stories. Of course, Yours brought people back to You, and all mine have done is lead to murder and riots.”

The fast click of heels against wood indicated her steps continued, though her silence lingered for several long moments.

“What am I if not a writer? Are You sure there isn’t another way for me to change into the woman You want me to be?”

Quiet and stillness settled like she waited for God to audibly speak.

An uncomfortable sense of responsibility sprouted within Abraham. Surely God did not expect him to be His spokesman. Just because Abraham believed Lydia should walk away from writing didn’t mean God agreed. Perhaps Abraham should join Mrs. Hawking in the kitchen and leave Lydia to grapple alone.

The floor shook, and glass rattled against tabletops.

Had Lydia taken to stomping like a toddler?

A muffled scream of frustration stretched out before she yelled a clear, “Fine! I’ll quit. No more mystery or romance novels.”

Perhaps Lydia should write children’s books instead. The temperamental tots and she had much in common.

“But You have to help. I’m not as courageous as my characters. I can’t just march into Mr. O’Dell’s office, slap a stack of advance money on his desk, and stride out the door. I just can’t. Not alone. He’d eat me alive.”

Please don’t be asking me to do what I think You are, Lord.

Abraham almost laughed when struck with how similar his and Lydia’s prayers were. If he didn’t think it absurd to declare so soon, he’d say they belonged together. That possibility created a spark of excitement that he wasn’t exactly sure what to do about. He might complain even to himself about being thrust into a friendship with the woman, but in truth, he was eager to discover what it was about her that captivated him so.

Perhaps it was testing God, but Abraham gently pressed against the door. It creaked open.

All right then. He’d take that as a sign God wanted him to do this.

He fully opened the door. “You wouldn’t be going alone.”

Lydia screeched and whirled around, lifting that ridiculous horseshoe in the air.

He approached with raised hands to assure her he meant no harm. “If you need the support of a friend, I will accompany you.”

Her arm lowered, and she gaped like a widemouth bass.

A chuckle escaped at the bizarre comparison. He really must be tired beyond reason to compare the curly-haired beauty in front of him to a slimy, cold-blooded lake dweller.

He stopped outside of swinging range. A horseshoe thrown by her may not pose any real danger, but he’d rather not end up with a headache. “Do you really believe a horseshoe can protect you?”

“Well, no, but I can’t imagine it would feel too good hitting your face.”

“True, but there’s no need to lob it at me. I’m not here to hurt you.” He slowly reached for it, arching a brow in question. He wouldn’t put it past her to test how hard she could swing.

Her head tilted, and she peered at him with a calculating squint. “Are you afraid of me?”

Not in the sense she meant, but he’d never admit that his glimmer of attraction for her frightened him senseless. “You are unpredictable, but I’m confident that I can handle anything you attempt.”

“Is that so?” Mischievousness illuminated her face and curved her lips. “Tell me, Abraham, are you confident enough to make a wager?”

“It wouldn’t be right to take your money.”

“I propose a wager that entails nothing more than bragging rights. I bet I can knock you right off your feet. If I’m wrong, you get to brag that you can read me better than a novel. If I win, I get to brag that I outwitted a real detective.”

Abraham studied Lydia from head to toe. She wasn’t too much shorter than him, and she was solid enough to make him oomph when thrown into him, but there was no way she’d take him down. “I will not wrestle with a woman.”

Her squeaky mouse laughter bubbled out. “I don’t need to wrestle you to win. Trust me, brains win over brawn every time.”

Perhaps not every time, but he had both to work with in this particular instance. “Fine. I’ll allow you one shot, but no weapons allowed.” He nodded at the horseshoe.

“Agreed, and just to show you I can play fair, you may take my sole weapon.” She extended the horseshoe toward him.

There was something not quite right with this offering. Did she expect to yank him off balance? That would be the most likely tactic, and one easily avoided. He spread his stance before wrapping his larger hand around the iron. Their knuckles brushed, but he ignored the tingling sensation as he prepared to thwart her plan.

The grin that spread across her face screamed a premature victory.

Just as he anticipated, she jerked her arm backward.

He remained firmly planted, but Lydia flew forward. She crashed into him, and he dropped the horseshoe to catch her around her waist before she fell. Once she was secure against his chest, he looked down to declare his victory.

Her brown eyes danced with humor, and before he could react, she popped to her toes with lips puckered.