Authors: Toni Blake
Whatever the case, now he just had to hope she’d keep her word. Not that she had any reason to—she barely knew him and owed him no loyalty.
Just the same, though, he was going about his business today like normal, assuming nothing would change about the quiet existence he’d made for himself out here. And if she did tell anyone, like Lucky, or her other brother, Mike—well, he wasn’t breaking any laws, besides a little trespassing. Yet it would mean he’d have to explain himself and find someplace else to go—neither of which appealed.
He had no idea how long he planned to stay here. Or where he’d go when the time came to move on. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. In fact, he was making an effort not to think about much of anything. And that was what made it easy to be here. He didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to answer any questions, or deal with other people, period. And he didn’t have to feel like some kind of pathetic charity case because his face had gotten fucked up.
Surely you can understand why I didn’t recognize you. Unless you haven’t seen a mirror lately.
It stung to hear her words again, even just in his mind. But he shook it off. Because he had to. Because wallowing in the situation wouldn’t change it. Women wouldn’t want him anymore—so be it. That was a tough pill to swallow, but . . . well, one more reason why the isolation of the woods suited him.
Of course, even if she didn’t tell anybody, things would be different after this. He officially had a neighbor now.
But don’t over worry it. Maybe it’ll be fine.
No matter what he told himself, though, the encounter yesterday stayed on his mind, in more ways than one. It hadn’t exactly been pleasant, but it had definitely felt different—more personal—than the couple of times he’d ridden his motorcycle over to Crestview for a few groceries. And she was probably the nicest sight his eyes had seen in months, but hell—that brought his thoughts right back to what he could no longer have: gorgeous women like Anna Romo. Why couldn’t she have just stayed in her damn house, or at least in her damn yard, and let him be?
Stop. Thinking.
As he trudged back up the slight grade, bucket still in hand, he tried to clear his mind and get back to the solitude he’d found here. God knew that a ramshackle cabin in the woods wasn’t where he’d expected to be at this point in his life, but it was—oddly—where he felt best now. Not that best equaled great or even good—but it was the better end of misery, he supposed. For a man of thirty-six, he felt far too tired inside.
He’d camped a lot as a kid, and now he realized that he’d likely come here—out into the near-wilderness—because it took him back
there
, to the time when he’d been eight, or maybe ten. Back to a time when life had seemed pretty damn simple compared to all the shit that had happened later. There was something honest and real in hauling your own water, eating simple foods, sinking into nature and letting it absorb you. It had made him realize that most of the things people worried about on a day-to-day basis were crap, not worth their time or attention, let alone their emotion. And the rest of the stuff people worried about—the stuff that did matter—well, that was mostly out of anyone’s control, and in the end, it just wore you down. All of which was why blending into the woods for a while had ended up being the easiest choice.
Just then, Denny Bodkins’ face flashed in his mind. Damn.
Stop. Don’t see it. He knew. He knew there was nothing you could do.
And then he pulled his focus back in, close and tight, on the things he really
could
see right now. The thick foliage around him on the trail back to the cabin. His work boots as he put one foot in front of the other, step after step. The click of an insect somewhere nearby, and then the tweet of a bird. All simpler, better things to concentrate on.
And it was because he was keeping his eyes close to the ground, on the path directly ahead of him, that he spotted Anna Romo’s basket in the distance, still lying where she’d dropped it in the clearing near the blackberries. It struck him funny that for all his focus on these woods, he hadn’t even realized until yesterday that there were blackberry bushes thirty yards from the cabin.
Approaching, he saw that most looked good and ripe. Lowering his bucket to the ground, he stooped to set her wicker basket upright, then gathered the handful of scattered berries that had fallen from it.
He wasn’t sure why. It wouldn’t hurt anything if he’d just left them lie.
But maybe there was something just a little bit heartening in the notion that after all that had been ruined in his life lately—some parts by him, some by fate—there were still a few small things he had the power to clean up, a few things he could actually fix or repair. Even if it was just a basket of spilled blackberries—somehow the mere act of picking them up restored a tiny bit of order to Duke Dawson’s world.
T
wo days after her bizarre meeting with her brother’s best friend in the woods, Anna’s ankle felt back to normal. She’d mostly stayed off it, and when lying down, she’d done as Duke had suggested, propping it on pillows to keep it elevated above the level of her heart. When necessary to get around, she’d used the crutches. But now she was bored to death, so it was a relief to wake up and discover that it felt enormously better. She wouldn’t be running any marathons just yet, but she could resume normal life.
Which meant getting back to work on the house.
Of course, that meant the outside of the house, a notion which, unfortunately, still intimidated her. Sue Ann Simpkins, her real estate agent and now friend, had redone the inside of her own Victorian, so she’d given Anna some help over the winter. And Lucky’s wife, Tessa, an interior designer, had assisted with selecting furniture, rugs, and curtains. But when it came to the outside of the place, Anna didn’t know where to begin—or how she’d handle the heavy lifting that would surely be involved.
And yes, she could ask Mike and Lucky—and they would be more than happy to help—but she couldn’t bear the idea. Mike would hover, and probably try to completely take over the project without even realizing it. She’d bought the house, after all, to put a little distance between herself and her new family. And if she hired someone from town to work with her, her brothers would find out and insist she let them help instead.
“So you’re on your own, baby,” she told herself, trying to gear up for the challenge.
And at that precise moment, she tripped over the crutches where she’d leaned them in the wide doorway that led to the foyer. “Crap,” she muttered, steadying herself. Her ankle remained fine, but this inspired her to go ahead and put the crutches back in the attic where they belonged. She could climb the fold-down steps with them if she was careful, and getting them out of her way seemed like a good idea. Even if it might also equal five more minutes of procrastination.
She soon stepped into the warm, musty, woody scent of the attic, a place she’d found more friendly than foreboding, as attics went. Even now, bright sunlight spilled through the windows, lighting the thick gable beams that met overhead.
“Meow.”
She glanced down, slightly startled but somehow not surprised to see her cat. “What are
you
doing up here?” she asked. And though he didn’t reply, she knew the answer.
Following you. Because I’m sneaky that way.
She’d barely seen the black cat while she’d been injured, but now, here he was, creeping up behind her. “Where were you when I was in pain?” she scolded him. “Isn’t that what cats are for? Weren’t you supposed to be cuddling with me and comforting me? But no—you only show up when I don’t need you.”
“Meow,” he said again, as if in defense.
She just rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
She’d just propped the crutches between two of the exposed wall beams, then turned to head back down, when she caught sight of Erik sniffing around the bottom of an old oak trunk she’d noticed before. The attic was filled with things left behind by the previous owner, and she’d already decided that someday she’d refinish this particular item and use it as a coffee table, or maybe to store blankets at the foot of a bed in one of the guest rooms.
And it was then that she noticed a book, lying facedown on the floor between the trunk and an ancient bicycle—what appeared to be an old tree swing was propped at an angle that mostly obscured the book from view. Moving back toward the trunk, she stooped down and gingerly drew the book to her—though, yuck, it was covered with the same thick dust of years as everything else up here.
By the time she rose back up, her cat stood atop the trunk in a messy circle of dusty paw prints. “If you track that dust downstairs, mister, I’ll . . .” Well, she didn’t know what she’d do to him exactly, but . . . “You’ll be in big trouble, I promise,” she finished, pointing a finger at him as threateningly as possible.
Then she shifted her attention back to the book, turning it over in her hands to find—to her shock—an old edition of
The Phantom of the Opera
, written by Gaston Leroux, about the cat’s namesake, long before anyone ever thought about performing it on a stage. She glanced down at Erik. “You planned this, right?”
“Meow.”
Thinking Amy would probably love this and that it might make a good gift for her, Anna opened the front cover to see how old it was. But she was stopped in her mental tracks by the ink inscription there.
To my sweet Cathy. Thank you for taking care of me when I was sick. Love, Robert
.
Something inside Anna lit with excitement and curiosity. It was so easy to forget that every person who’d ever lived before her had their own story, their own pains and passions and emotions, the same as anyone now. Could Cathy be the woman Sue Ann had told her last lived here when Anna was deciding to buy the place? Did the book’s inscription hold romance, or just simple thanks? She thought romance—definitely. And suddenly the idea of being taken care of by someone didn’t sound so weak—Robert somehow almost made it sound . . . well, actually kind of sexy.
Of course, maybe she was reading too much into one simple message written in a book. But it suddenly made her want to know what hid inside the trunk. She’d always absently wondered but never opened it. And now the urge to investigate further burned inside her.
So after shooing Erik off the top and watching him pounce to the floor, she set down the book and used both hands to lift the heavy lid.
And inside she found . . . oh, another whole wonderful world. She spied a stack of record albums, what looked like a scrapbook, two old leather-bound diaries, and three stacks of letters, each tied with faded pink ribbons. It was just like the world of the forest, except that this was a world of history, and of someone’s life, and of a story that she immediately wanted to uncover.
Were the letters to Cathy? From Robert? Another little thrill shot through her when she spotted
Catherine Worth
on the outside of the first envelope in small script. Were the diaries hers, as well, and what romantic tales might they tell? She suddenly wanted nothing more than to plop down on the attic floor and spend the entire day reading.
Except . . . “That would be more procrastination.” She looked at the cat, who now stood near her feet. “And I’ve just lost two days to a sprained ankle.”
“Meow.”
“And if I don’t start using my days wisely, the whole summer will pass in a flash and I’ll never get my business open. And then I’ll just be a crazy lady—and with you here, I guess I would even qualify as a crazy cat lady—who lives out in the country alone for no good reason.”
So, with a sigh, she closed the lid on the trunk—but if she started making some measurable progress on the outside of the house, maybe she could reward herself with some of Cathy’s letters or a diary.
“Come on, time to head back down,” she told Erik, then followed the cat to the folding stairs, a little jealous of the agility he exhibited scampering down them so neatly, and a little sorry to be leaving the rich smell and feel of the attic behind.
“Let’s go outside,” she said. “Let’s go outside with enthusiasm and optimism and find a place to start. Let’s find one project on the outside of the house we think we can accomplish, and then that will lead to another one, and then another one.”
Only . . . dear God, since when did she talk to cats? She really
would
become a crazy cat lady at this rate. Lifting her gaze from the feline to the front door as they descended the stairs to the foyer, she repeated, “Just one project.” It wasn’t talking to the cat if she didn’t look at him. It was just . . . talking to herself, which, in her mind, actually sounded healthier.
Ready to finally dive into a brave new world of exterior renovation, motivated by the promise of someone’s old romantic letters and diaries, Anna opened the door to step out on the front porch—only to pull up short just before immersing her bare foot into the basket of blackberries sitting there.
“I was at first inclined to be suspicious . . .”
Gaston Leroux,
The Phantom of the Opera
A
nna couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Unless woodland elves had done this, Duke Dawson had picked her blackberries for her and brought them here.
Stepping around the basket and out onto the porch, she looked around, but didn’t find any sign of him. Not that she really expected to. Given that he’d been living in the woods next to her house undetected for who knew how long, she suspected he might be as skilled at sneaking around as the cat.
Why had he done this? To get on her good side? To help ensure she’d keep his secret?
She couldn’t say—she only knew it was the last thing she’d expected.
And it came to mind to wonder what he ate. And if perhaps the very question made it extra nice of him to have picked the berries for her when maybe he could have used them himself.