No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (21 page)

On Tuesday morning I awoke unrefreshed and more than a little irritable. Not even an extra-long shower followed by a special breakfast of eggs benedict and fresh-baked brioche could liven my spirits. I tried to engage Jerome in conversation about the weather—the rain of Thanksgiving weekend had finally given way to blue skies with only a few lingering clouds—but either he was particularly disinclined toward conversation that morning or Erik had told him to speak with me as little as possible, for he kept his answers terse to the point of rudeness and left my room as quickly as possible.

By late that afternoon I was climbing the walls and ready to sit down and have dinner with the devil himself if it meant I wouldn’t have to spend another evening alone with my thoughts. I went to the door that connected my rooms to the hallway and knocked on it. Feeling rather foolish, I called out, “Hello? Anyone there? I’m waving the white flag!”

Only silence. It figured. When I didn’t want Jerome showing up, then apparently he was lurking just outside the door. Now, when I was as eager to get sprung as a prisoner waiting out the last day of a ten-year sentence, no one was there. I knocked again. “Truce—really! Jerome? Hello?”

Finally the click of the key in the lock.

“Thank God,” I said. “I was afraid no one was there....” And then I let the words trail off, because the man who waited on the other side of the door was not Jerome, as I had expected, but Erik himself.
 

“Good afternoon, Christine,” he said. “Gilded cage starting to feel a bit cramped?”

So he had heard me the day before. I could feel myself blush but couldn’t do much about it except return his gaze as squarely as I could and reply, “Well, you did tell me to keep up with my practice.”

“So I did. You have an interesting repertoire.”

I gave him a narrow look from between my eyelashes, and he smiled, daring me to rebuke him further. Instead, I just returned the smile and said, “So am I sprung?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, and then stepped out of the way so I could enter the hallway.
 

The corridor looked different in the last light of the setting sun, which blazed through a magnificent stained-glass window at the end of the hall. The colors were richer, from the Persian runner under our feet to the mix of landscapes and portraits in their gilded frames that lined the walls. Even Erik’s mask shone golden in the light, and the edges of his dark hair caught fire from the dying sun.

“Your house is stunning,” I said. It was the simple truth.

For a second he looked at me, seeming a bit surprised, and then he said, “How would you like to see it from the outside?”

It seemed as if I hadn’t breathed fresh air for a lifetime. “It would be heavenly,” I replied.
 

“Well, then—” and he offered me his arm.

I hesitated just a bit, then took it. It seemed a small sacrifice when he was offering even the smallest taste of freedom.
 

If he noticed my reticence, he made no mention of it, for then he led me downstairs and out through the French doors of a small salon on the ground floor to the loggia I could see from the window of my sitting room, pausing only long enough for him to push some sort of code into the keypad that locked the doors. Once we were outside, he released my arm and watched as I stood on the marble pavement and opened my arms wide, as if to embrace the sunset.

“Oh, God, that feels good!” I exclaimed, taking deep breaths of the cold, clean air, reveling in the touch of the wind against my face. It was chilly enough that I knew I couldn’t stand out there forever, but at that moment I wanted to.

He watched me with some amusement as the wind caught his hair, ruffling it around his face. It was heavy and thick, with the slightest wave to it—the kind of hair that a woman would want to run her hands through.

Wondering where that thought had come from, I stepped away from him and went to the edge of the steps that led down into the rose garden. Although it was almost December, there were still blooms on most of the bushes. Erik wore only a black shirt over black pants, so he would probably be even less suited to stay out here for long than I was.

I turned to look up at the house. From this vantage I couldn’t get a true idea of its size, but I could see it was an immense pile of pale gray stone, done in a vaguely Norman chateau style. One section was covered in ivy, and I could see at least three fireplaces just from where I stood.

“Have you always lived here?” I asked. He seemed to be a part of this place, as integral to its structure as the stone of its façade.

He replied, eyes fixed on some point in the distance past my shoulder, “Yes...I was born here.”

“Really? How...medieval!”

“Not exactly.” He turned as well and looked up at the house with an unreadable gaze. “Apparently I came early. There wasn’t enough time to get to the hospital.”

“Better that than the back seat of a car, I suppose.”

“I suppose...” he echoed.
 

The last of the sun disappeared behind the trees that bordered his property, and with its absence the wind seemed to rise. I shivered, and he must have noticed, for he said immediately, “It’s getting cold. We should go inside.”

As good as the fresh air felt, I had to agree that it was too chilly to stay outside any longer, so I followed him back into the small salon and waited as he closed the door and reentered the code into the keypad, apparently rearming the lock.

“Well, then,” he said. “What would you like for dinner?”

I was surprised by that. After all, no one had really asked for my input on my meals, save that one time at the very beginning of my stay here when Jerome had inquired what I’d wanted for breakfast. The meals had all been as varied in content as they were uniform in excellence. It was like dining in a five-star restaurant every day of the week. Still, I’d been starting to crave homelier foods.

“You’re going to laugh at me,” I said.
 

He watched me carefully, the dark green eyes scanning my face. What he saw I wasn’t sure. “I promise I won’t laugh.”

“Your chef is great—really. But we college kids usually live on simpler stuff.” I took a breath and said, “So what I’d really like is an In-N-Out burger.”
 

“A what?”

“You’ve never heard of an In-N-Out burger?”

A line appeared momentarily between his brows as he frowned. “I don’t think so.”

Well, that settled it. I didn’t see how anyone could grow up in Southern California and not hear of In-N-Out—they were legendary. How sheltered a life had he led…and why?

“But I’m sure I can have my chef make us some hamburgers if that’s what you’d like.”

I manufactured a smile and said, “That sounds great.” At least it would be a break from chicken
cordon bleu
and steak
au poivre
, if nothing else.

Odd as it seemed to me at the time, I actually enjoyed that evening. We did not eat in the forbidding red dining room, but in a smaller, cheerier chamber not far from the kitchens. I had to admit that the burgers were marvelous, better than any others I had tasted, especially accompanied as they were by a mound of freshly made french fries and a beer for him and a glass of hard cider for me. I’d never had cider before, but Erik suggested that I try it once I’d admitted that I wasn’t much of a beer drinker. It was certainly tasty, crisp and fizzy, much drier than a regular sparkling apple cider.

“That’s definitely more my speed,” I commented after I’d had a few sips.
 

“It does have a fairly low alcohol content,” he agreed, and again I could see the twitch at the corner of his mouth that belied some sort of secret amusement. It made me wonder how much Jerome had told him about my post-Bordeaux hangover.
 

Once we’d finished eating he suggested a movie. I looked at him blankly.

“A movie?” For a split-second I had a crazy image of him in his Phantom mask escorting me to the latest blockbuster at the multiplex at the Paseo Colorado shopping center.

“Yes—I’m actually quite proud of the setup. If you would follow me—”

I trailed him out of the breakfast room and down several hallways until we came to a set of double doors.

“I had this put in a year ago. I can’t think now why I waited so long.” And with that he flicked a light switch and led me into a theater.

Yes, a theater. Of course, it wasn’t as large as a real movie theater—although in actual size it was close to some of the smaller screens I’d been to at the local multiplex. It was also furnished much more lavishly, in a vaguely Art Deco style meant to imitate the grand movie houses of the ’20s or ’30s. There were about twenty seats, all upholstered in dark red plush. Black lacquer sconces sent moody uplighting against the dove-gray drapes that hung on the walls.

“Wow,” I breathed. I’d seen setups like this in magazines, but I’d never thought I would actually see one in real life.

I could tell he enjoyed watching my amazement. Perhaps he thought he could seduce with me with his wealth if nothing else.
It’s going to take more than a private movie theater for that
, I thought, then felt a pang of guilt. He had been nothing but a gentleman to me all evening. Why did I always suspect him of the worst motivations?
 

Because he kidnapped you, dammit!
came that little voice inside me.
All the politeness in the world can’t erase that fact, can it?
I had to admit to myself that it probably couldn’t, and with that thought I began to feel angry again, although oddly enough I felt angrier with Erik for thinking that the only way he could approach me was by stealing me away. Did he have that little confidence in himself? Did he really think the only way to win my favor was by coercing it? As far as I could tell, he had much more going for himself than most men—apparently limitless talent, a sharp mind, enormous wealth. What could possibly lead him to believe that he was unworthy of any affection that wasn’t stolen?
 

The mask
...

Jerome had said,
Don’t ever mention the mask,
and at the time I had thought he was merely being melodramatic. I thought the mask was only a prop, something to reinforce Erik’s obsession with the Phantom story, but what if it were more? What if he truly did need it?
 

I told myself to not be ridiculous, this wasn’t the Middle Ages, or even the Victorian era in which the original Phantom story was set. These days people with disfigurements weren’t hidden away, for God’s sake—if anything, they were pushed out into the public eye, the subject of fundraisers and 5k runs and that sort of thing. And I’d seen documentaries where plastic surgeons performed near-miracles on people with congenital birth defects. It just didn’t seem to make much sense.

“Christine?” Erik’s voice broke my reverie as he stepped into a small chamber, rather like a projectionist’s booth, that was located at the back of the theater.

With a guilty start I asked, “Wha - yes?”

“Any requests?”

That was a tricky one. I started desperately ticking over various films in my mind, rejecting this one for having too many love scenes, that one for being too violent, another for being too serious—it was amazing what a personal choice just picking out a movie to watch could be. “A comedy?” That seemed to be the least dangerous route, although I’d seen a few that were raunchier than I would have liked. Still, I thought I could use a good laugh.

A few moments, as I heard him rummaging through what sounded like a fairly extensive DVD collection. Then he appeared with a case in one hand and handed it to me.
 

I looked at the title. “
What’s Up, Doc?
” I thought I recognized it as something I might have seen bits of on television when I was a kid.
 

“A classic, I assure you.” His expression was serious, but again I thought I could catch a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Sounds great,” I replied, and handed the DVD back to him. I’d been relieved to see that it had a G rating. Nothing too terribly controversial in there, thank God.

He took the DVD from me and said, “Why don’t you go ahead and sit down? I’ll get this started.”

So I chose a seat in the dead center of the theater, and after a few moments the lights dimmed and he came and sat down next to me. I noticed he was careful to sit on my right so that the unmasked side of his face was closest to me, although I couldn’t see much of him in the darkness. The seats had the sorts of armrests that could be lifted out of the way if desired, but he kept the arm down. It seemed he was being very conscientious in maintaining a respectful distance from me.
 

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but the film turned out to be hysterically funny—no one in my family had ever been much of a Streisand fan, but she was very good in it, and Madeline Kahn was hysterical. By the time the climactic chase scene rolled around and the protagonists ended up stuck inside a huge Chinese dragon as they tore all over San Francisco, I was laughing so hard the tears were rolling down my cheeks. I could hear Erik laughing beside me, too, although his reaction was a little more restrained than mine.
 

Once the film ended, he quickly got up and turned the lights in the theater back on, almost as if he didn’t want to remain sitting there with me in the darkness. Feeling a little uncertain of myself I said, “Thank you for that. I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.”

I could hear him busying himself in the little control room. Then he replied, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” At length he emerged, and we stood there, looking at one another, feeling the awkwardness of our silence but not knowing what to do about it.

Finally I said, “It’s probably getting late—”

“Of course,” he said almost immediately, as if glad to seize on the opportunity to take action. “Let me take you back upstairs.”

And so he led me back up to my suite. This evening the house was very softly illuminated by a few lamps here and there; the candelabras stood dark, unused. Once again I stood and waited while he unlocked my door, but this time I wasn’t as uneasy as I had been before—somehow I knew that he wouldn’t try to kiss me. How I felt about that, I wasn’t exactly sure.