It was pale pink too. Evelyn obviously liked pink, or at least thought Naomi did. It had been washed and smelled the same as the clean sheets and pillowcases on the bed, rain-scented fabric softener and Tide, the same as Brad’s clean laundry. That wasn’t comforting.
She crawled into bed and grew tense beneath the covers. Had she lied to Eric? Was she in love with Brad? She had certainly thought so for the longest time, but there were always periods of doubt. Eric had forced her to answer his question so quickly that maybe she hadn’t thought through everything in enough detail.
Or maybe she didn’t have a clue what love felt like. She used to think it was lying in Brad’s arms as he whispered things like,
It will be this way forever, you and me. I will always protect you, hold you, love you.
Now, thinking of her admission to Eric, she was almost positive the passions Brad stirred inside her heart were not impressions of love at all. Maybe she was wrong about that too. The only sure thing was the dangerous idea forming inside her head; Jesse was possibly the answer to her escape. He seemed to want her, and whether or not that was part of her kidnappers’ plans, she could play into his hands and get out of here. If they trusted her, they might let their guard down. Maybe.
She rolled onto her side and tried to ignore both her uncertainty and the fact that her hair was wet. She hated going to sleep with her hair wet and tossed and turned for the longest time, irritated that her pillow was now damp and cold against her face. Maybe she should ask Evelyn for a hairdryer.
A soft knock on the door made her jump. The locks turned, and she sat up when Jesse slipped into the room. In the moonlight from the window, she thought she saw him smile as he approached. She hugged the blankets to her body, trembling.
“I thought you might like a book,” he said softly, and placed a hardback on the nightstand. He was close enough now for her to smell his cologne—a peppery smell, like eucalyptus. She held her breath and looked up at him, confused. His smell burned in her throat.
“A book?”
“Yes, you seemed interested in my poetry book in the motel. I thought you might get bored during the day, so I brought you something to read. Do you like classics?”
What was going on? She shook her head, still confused. “I like fantasy, but I just found out my mom likes classics and I—” She stopped and looked away, finally letting out her breath. Too much information.
“Hmm,” he said, and stepped closer to the bed. She could see his face now. It looked innocent enough.
“What do you want?”
He leaned down with that same spark in his eye. “I thought it was obvious.” He came so close to her that she could feel his breath on her face. His attention fastened to her lips, hanging there until she shrank from him. She was surprised at every part of her reaction. If she was going to play into his hands, this wasn’t the way to do it.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered as he inched closer again, leaning halfway across the bed. His red hair seemed brighter now. His smell was nice, but it was too close. It almost made her choke.
“P-please,” she cried as his hand reached out to touch her face. “Please don’t ....”
He tilted his head as if he didn’t understand her apprehension and curled his fingers around her face. There was a soft ache in his eyes. She tried not to whimper with the fear boiling beneath her skin.
“I think you’re very beautiful,” he said, moving even closer. “I keep thinking about you lying in the parking lot that night. You were beautiful then too, and I didn’t want Eric to hurt you. You’re so innocent, so frightened.”
He stared into her eyes, his hand strong but gentle around her face. Then he let go.
“I only came in here to bring you the book. I hope you give it a chance.” Clearing his throat, he backed off of the bed. She looked away. “Good night,” he said softly, and left the room.
Her breaths came ragged. Fear throbbed in her chest. Being intimidated wasn’t a foreign thing to her, but she didn’t want to think about that right now. Nothing had happened, anyway. He hadn’t hurt her. She was fine.
She smoothed the blankets around her and took a deep breath. No more Jesse. No more dragons. Maybe a classic would be good for her. Shaking, she picked up the book from the nightstand. It was old, and the smell of its pages reminded her of her parents’ library. The book was
The Great Gatsby
. It had been an assignment for her English class, and she remembered first cracking it open in the library at home. As she had settled herself into her usual spot in the armchair, she glanced over the open pages at the Mercedes Lackey novel lying on the table. It would have to wait.
She had barely begun chapter three when her mother entered the room. That was odd. She was in jeans. Naomi rarely saw her in something so casual, but she still wore a work blouse and jewelry. She was all lopsided.
“I thought you would be in here,” she sighed, and sank into an armchair across from her. “You know about your father’s merger, don’t you?”
Naomi closed the book around her thumb and lowered it to her lap. “I’ve heard you guys talking about it. I guess it’s a big deal?”
She nodded. “Yes, a big deal. It’s an overseas merger. There’s a company in Germany ....”
Naomi tuned her out, certain she was going to say something about moving to Europe, but soon realized it was nothing so drastic.
“They’ll grow three times the size they are now,” her mother was saying when she tuned back in. “It’s a significant step for the company.” She paused and wrinkled her nose. “Does that make sense?”
Naomi wondered why anything about her father’s company had to be explained. “I guess so,” she answered. Then with more trepidation, “Will he travel more than he already does?”
Karen frowned and glanced at the book in Naomi’s lap. “I suppose he will for the first little while, yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “Does that bother you?”
She didn’t know what to say. Of course it bothered her. But how was she supposed to explain that to a mother who rarely sat down to talk to her? A mother who, most of the time, said things like, “I had no idea you were gone all last week on a school trip. Did you have a good time?” Or, “Naomi, I’m busy right now. Maybe later.”
Later never came. Sometimes Naomi wondered why it mattered. Why did she care if her mother spent time with her? Most teenagers her age wanted nothing to do with their parents.
“Naomi, does that bother you?”
She looked up. “No, I guess not.”
Another glance at the book in her lap. “What are you reading?”
Naomi looked down, her mind shuffling over the first paragraphs of chapter three—something about motorboats slicing their way across the water and oranges and lemons piled into pulpless pyramids. She liked the language and imagery. It was bright and colorful in her mind, even now as she looked up at her mother.
“It’s for school,” she stammered.
“The Great Gatsby.
I just started it.”
“Oh, that’s one of my favorites.” She smiled brighter than Naomi had seen in a long time. “Do you like it so far? Have you met Gatsby yet?”
A tremor shot from her heart to her toes. She had no idea her mother liked to read anything but thick, dry reference books with complicated law titles stamped into the leather spines. She assumed all the fiction in the library was for sheer decoration.
“Um, no, I haven’t.”
“Don’t judge him too unfairly in the beginning. I promise he gets better.”
Naomi was speechless. It wasn’t that her mother had never surprised her before with random stints of conversation. She sometimes seemed genuinely interested in her life—for about two minutes, anyway, until her cell phone rang or the housekeeper needed something or a quick glance at her wristwatch reminded her that two minutes talking to her daughter was two minutes too long. That was how their relationship worked—little bits here and there like scattered breadcrumbs leading to a real family that spent time together. The only problem was Naomi seemed to keep getting lost in the woods. She had accepted it long ago, but now as she saw her mother looking at
The Great Gatsby
with a long, thirsty gaze, she wondered if she might be wrong. Maybe there was hope after all and she could catch a glimpse of who her mother really was, and that might lead to something long hidden about herself, as well—something she had always felt was locked away.
Karen shook her head as if waking herself up from a dream and stood up from her chair. Naomi sighed. Nope. There wasn’t anything hiding beneath her mother’s shell. She was who she was. She was probably going to leave. Seven minutes had already passed.
“Let me find something for you,” Karen said, and walked across the room to a bookshelf. “I first read this when I was your age. I think it might be my favorite novel.” She walked back and placed a slender book in Naomi’s lap. “You don’t have to read it. Just let me know what you think if you do.”
She glanced at her watch, and Naomi saw the change in her face from the mother she barely knew to the efficient attorney she hated.
“I came in here to make sure you know about your father’s banquet in two weeks,” Karen said. “It’s to celebrate the commencement of the merger. There will be photographers and dinner, and we want you there. Bring Brad, if you like.”
Now they were back on normal turf.
She nodded without a second thought. “Okay.”
Whatever.
She had heard it all before, been to the banquets, posed for the pictures. The only good thing about any of it was the excuse to buy a new dress. She opened her book again and started the chapter over, but stopped to glance at the novel her mother had placed in her lap.
It was a thin hardback, old and well-worn. One crumpled edge, a smudge of dirt near the spine. A part of her wanted to pick it up and start reading immediately, but another part pulled away and stayed away.
THE BUTTERY scent of scrambled eggs woke her up. It was seven o’clock. Blue morning light glittered through the curtains. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, looked at the eggs and toast on the nightstand, and lifted the plate to her lap.
The eggs were hot, fluffy, and lightly salted. They were so much better than Mindy’s eggs. Mindy was her parents’ current housekeeper, and the eggs she made were too dry.
She was halfway finished before she noticed Evelyn cleaning the bathroom. Already dressed for the day, she was kneeling on the floor with her back to Naomi. Her willowy frame bent over as she swept up the hair she had promised to get rid of two days ago. Then she stood and wiped down every surface in the bathroom. After emptying the trash, she opened drawers and cupboards so she could put away everything Naomi had taken out of the Wal-Mart bags a few days earlier.
Mortified, Naomi watched. She was used to somebody cleaning up after her—her nannies until she was thirteen, then Mindy—but they were paid to do it, and she had never sat and watched them clean up her messes. Should she have been tidier? Should she offer to help? Apologize?
Evelyn stepped out of the bathroom and smiled. “How are the eggs?”
She swallowed. “They’re really good. Thank you.”
Why was she being so damn polite? And why was she ashamed for feeling dependent when they were forcing her to be?
“I’m glad.” Evelyn approached the bed. “Eric made them for you.”
The fork nearly slipped from her fingers. “That was ... nice of him.”
“I thought so. He feels bad about slapping you last night.” She stepped closer to the bed. “That’s not how we’re going to treat you from now on, okay? We want you to be comfortable. You’ll learn to like it here, I promise. Just don’t try to get away.”
There was a pleading tone to her voice. Naomi wanted to promise her she wouldn’t try to get away, but that would be stupid, so she kept her mouth shut. She wondered what went through Evelyn’s mind when she looked at her. Was she merely a prize Eric had brought home one day? Someone Evelyn could “play with” and take care of? For some reason, that didn’t disturb her nearly as much as it should.
“I won’t be able to bring you lunch on weekdays,” Evelyn said, “so today I’ll pick up some snacks at the store you can keep up here to eat during the day. I get home at four and start dinner around five or six. Eric might let you eat with us downstairs, but I’m not sure yet.” She glanced at the toast left on Naomi’s plate. “Is there anything you don’t like to eat?”
She fidgeted with the fork in her hand, considering the fact that the house would be empty for most of the day, and that her own mother had never asked her such a simple question as what she liked to eat. She looked up. “I can’t stand fish.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She turned and headed for the door. “I’ll bring up a hamper for your dirty clothes. Laundry’s done once a week.”
When she was gone, Naomi looked down at the remaining eggs on her plate. She was no longer hungry. The mere thought of Eric preparing something for her to eat made her stomach twist. She set the plate on the nightstand and curled back under the covers. She needed Brad’s arms around her. He would tell her she was doing the right thing by not fighting back. She missed him no matter what the rational side of her mind kept telling her about not loving him. He only wanted to protect her and love her. What was so bad about that?
THE LATE January air was frigid the night she first realized he might hit her. It was only a few weeks before she was kidnapped. The cold air was expected since the entire winter had been cooler than normal. She had been forced to pull out old, heavy sweatshirts and coats she hadn’t worn in two years.