THE ROSES by Susan Buffum
“The gallery is closing,” says a male voice from just behind me. “Are you
intending to purchase this canvas or are you merely committing it to memory?”
“She doesn’t even realize the danger that she’s in,” I reply.
There is a long silence then he asks, “By which you mean?”
“The man in the shadows at the stern of the boat, half hidden in the
canvas there. She may think she’s
escaped from the man in the castle who held her captive, but the greater danger
is adrift with her in the small boat, yet she’s clueless.” I shake my head. “I
want to shout at her to turn around, go back, jump overboard and swim for it!
Do something because surely he means to kill her.” Another bank of lights goes
off leaving the gallery half in shadow. “I’m going to have nightmares about
this tonight.”
Behind me, footsteps retreat toward the door of this room in the art
gallery. I hear him call to someone to leave the remaining lights on, that he will
finish closing up. A few moments later there is a quick, hushed exchange at the
doorway, then the footsteps return. “What makes you think she’s trying to flee
from the castle? Perhaps she’s broken the chain that’s held her bound elsewhere
and she is sailing toward the castle.”
“She would have dropped the chain by now and relaxed if she had escaped
from elsewhere and was approaching a safe harbor.” I shake my head. “No, she’s
only just escaped a few minutes ago and she’s terrified of being seen from the
castle and pursued.”
“Suppose I tell you there is no man in the stern of the boat.”
“You’d be wrong. He’s right there, half hidden in the shadows, but while
he is hidden to her, I can see him.”
“There is no man,” he says.
“He’s right there!” I say, pointing him out in the painting. “See him?
There’s the slope of his nose, the jut of his chin, and there the gleam of his
eye, and here the tangle of his hair.”
“You have a very vivid imagination.”
I turn, exasperated with him. He almost seems to be mocking me. I open my
mouth to say something but the breath freezes in the back of my throat and my
heart sort of begins to pound in my breast. He gives me a somewhat sardonic
look, one black brow cocked. He is tall, lean but he radiates sinewy power just
standing there with his arms folded in a relaxed stance looking at me. “Did you
paint this?” I ask, already knowing that he’s the artist. Who else would be so
adamant about there not being a man lurking in the stern of the boat.
“I know what I painted, and there is no man.”
“You fooled my eye then.”
“Do you have a discerning eye?” he asks.
“I thought I did, until a moment ago.” This draws a quiet amused chuckle
from him. “I’m Sabrina Ellison. I’m a journalist and photographer. I just
started working for the Adirondacks Lakes Region Journal.”
“The magazine in which I am routinely trashed, characterized as a
mediocre and melodramatic artist clinging to the past, finding safely in the
redundant rather than exploring new avenues and putting myself out there?”
I give him a quick grin, “That would be the one.”
“Then let me escort you to the door so that we may part as acquaintances
rather than bitter enemies.” He turns toward the double doors of the gallery
where his art is on display.
“Wait!” I cry, not moving. “You never allow anyone to interview you.
You’re known as a recluse, a rather unfriendly one at that. You’ve been given
numerous opportunities to set the record straight about your work, but you shun
every chance. You’re not even very friendly with the people who come and
actually buy your art.”
“Are you quite finished denigrating me, Miss Ellison? It’s been a long
day. I am quite ready to have my dinner and retire.”
“Have dinner with me,” I say, still stubbornly refusing to budge from in
front of the large painting we have been disagreeing on.
“I hardly think…”
“The Cask & Crown in Prescott. My treat. I’ll have you back before
your nine o’clock curfew.” He is staring at me through eyes that are so dark
they are almost all black. “Am I asking too much of you on a first date?”
“Is this a date?” he asks, saying the word as if he is sampling it on his
tongue and not quite sure that he finds the flavor to his liking.
“Yes! And if it goes well, then, maybe we’ll have a second date sometime.
Maybe in a week or so.”
He seems about to refuse, to decline dinner, but then there is a subtle
shift in him. A hint of a cautious, yet more playful side surfaces as he asks,
“You don’t expect me to put out on a first date, do you? I’m afraid we’d have
to stop at a pharmacy as I am ill-prepared for that sort of thing.”
I feel heat rise in my face but I come right back at him with, “I
wouldn’t want to rush you into an intimate relationship if you’re not ready for
that. Perhaps a kiss on the cheek as I drop you off after dinner will suffice
for tonight?”
He turns away. “Wait for me at the main entrance, Miss Ellison. I need to
retrieve a few things from my apartment. Are you driving, by the way?”
“Will you mind riding in my Toyota Rav4?”
“That should be all right.”
“I’ll drive then.”
“I’ll be with you shortly. And please do help
yourself to a catalog at the reception desk. I believe Francesca just set them
out in preparation for this weekend’s exhibition.” He walks off toward the
grand staircase and I hear him go rapidly upstairs. He lives on the third floor
of this medieval castle-like mansion. The ballroom where the Exhibition Gala is
held every winter holiday season is also on the third floor. There are five open
galleries on the main floor with an additional three rooms that are opened
during the major exhibitions. There are two large galleries on the second
floor, plus offices and studios. His studio is in the east wing. I have heard
that he allows no one entry into his studio. I have also heard that he is known
for very brief incendiary affairs, that once he has made love to a girl he
cannot abide to remain in bed. He obviously enjoys sex but deplores physical
closeness once the act is over and done with. He can be cold, rude, arrogant, indifferent,
however, he donates generously to various charities. He has no pets. He travels
frequently to Europe to paint and attend seminars. He produces huge volumes of
work yet, prior to nine years ago, Sebastian Rose did not exist. He is an
enigma. I find him fascinating, but I am
not interested in cracking him open and extracting his secrets. He is a man of
dark mystery. I like that about him.
I have secrets of my own.
The remaining gallery lights go off, only the night lights dimly
illuminating the halls and galleries. I look up and watch him descend the
stairs. He wears only black. His longish black hair is combed back severely
from his forehead and tied at the nape of his neck with an elastic band,
creating a brush of a ponytail. He is astonishingly handsome, no, he’s
gorgeous, but he doesn’t act like a narcissist. He most likely finds his looks
merely useful for attracting females when he’s in the mood to mate, otherwise
he probably doesn’t think much about how he looks. “Shall we go?”
I step outside. He secures the door, activating the alarm with a fob on
his key ring. We walk down the steps to the curved walkway leading to the
parking lot. There’s no problem finding my red Rav4. It’s virtually the only
vehicle in the lot.
I slide behind the wheel. He eases his tall frame into the passenger
seat, reaching down between his legs to push the seat back completely to allow
himself leg room. “You’ve only worked for the ALR Journal for five months,” he
remarks. Has he researched me on line? “I vividly recall the article you did on
a rare species of duck at Whisper Lake. It must have taken amazing stealth and
stamina to stalk the nesting female to capture that series of stunning
photographs of the eggs hatching, the little ducklings emerging with their
slicked feathers and the membranes still clinging to their wings. I’m surprised
the father and mother allowed you so close.”
“I have a way with animals, birds and things. They tolerate me.”
“Whereas we more humble beings can barely tolerate you?”
“Something like that,” I admit.
“You are rather persistent.”
I turn my head and look at him, then give him a quick grin. “You’re here,
aren’t you?’
He stares at me a moment before turning his head away. I refocus on the
road and drive, letting him stew in that cauldron of truth a bit. “Your smile
is incandescent,” he says. “Perhaps you would agree to pose for me one day?”
“Like for a portrait?’
“A series of studies.” There is a twitching of the muscles along the
ridge of his shadowed jaw. “Nude studies.”
Okay. Now he’s gotten me back for my remarks. “It would require some
rather intense persuading before I’d agree to take off my clothes for you.”
“I can be very persuasive when I want something badly enough.”
I give a little shrug. “As long as these studies don’t wind up on the
walls of your gallery, I might consider it.”
“These would be strictly private, for my eyes only.”
“If you were saying that to a teenaged or younger girl it would be
positively disturbing.”
“How old are you, Miss Ellison?”
“You can call me Sabrina. I’m almost twenty-five years old.”
“I am thirty-one.”
“You wear your age well. I would hardly know you were a day over twenty-nine.”
He reaches out to adjust the volume of the CD player. I have acoustic guitar
music, no vocals, playing. He turns it up slightly.
We fall silent. I wonder if he is regretting his decision to accompany me
to dinner. I really hadn’t expected him to agree. This will have to go on the
credit card tonight. It can get quite costly if he’s a drinker. I hadn’t
thought about that. Nothing I’ve read about him so far has led me to think he is
a heavy drinker. Nothing I’ve read about him has deterred me from blurting out
this invitation, but now that he’s agreed and he is essentially a hostage in my
SUV at the moment, I find myself unable to broach all the curiosities that led
me to Peekskill Gallery. I find it, quite frankly, a bit unnerving to have him
as my passenger.
He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not grilling him over hot coals while
he’s stuck in a moving vehicle. Occasionally, I cast a sideways glance at him
and watch the slant of a streetlight play across his face before he slips into
darkness again. “Is there some reason
for your abrupt silence? I had steeled myself for an incessant barrage of
questions that I would adroitly deflect in an attempt to discourage you from
probing more deeply into matters that do not concern you, or anyone else.”
“I guess I’m just sort of awed by being in your presence.”
“Allow me a prediction. That will rapidly wear off.”
“I don’t want it to. I kind of like the tingle, the dance of sparks
across my skin.” He turns his head and regards me for a long moment. “You’re
not feeling it, are you?” I ask.
“Not necessarily.”
“Then just sit there quietly and let me revel in a rare sensation I will
never experience again in this lifetime.”
“Be my guest.” He turns his head to gaze out the passenger side window.
We’re going around the far end of the lake now and will be taking a right to
head northeast to Prescott shortly. “Does your being so close to me, being
alone with me, arouse you?’ he asks.
I find I can’t lie to him. “It does.” And that surprises me since I’m not
normally a person who reacts like this to a physical presence.
“Females tend to read signals that I am not aware of sending. I apologize
if you’re being misled into some ridiculous romantic notion that I’ll be
ravishing you before midnight strikes on the village clock tower.”
“I’m not a ridiculous girl nor am I a particularly romantic girl.”
“Good. I do not have a romantic bone in my body. In fact, I do not have a
romantic cell in my entire physical make-up. I am a predatory animal who merely
enjoys satisfying my physical cravings periodically with whatever willing
partner I can procure.”
“You are such an animal!” I cry. I glance at him and see that he is
grinning. Is he toying with me? Pulling my leg? Or is he laughing at me,
thinking I am hopelessly naïve?
“A wolf, perhaps?”
“I don’t know what, exactly!”
“You can’t tame me. I will devour you before you even get started
cracking your whip.”
I sigh. “Maybe I’m not interested in taming you, Mr. Rose. Maybe I like
that wild and dangerous nature in a man.”
He is quiet for several moments as I take the turn toward Prescott.
Finally, he says, “If you see a pharmacy perhaps you should stop.” This
suggestion gives me pause. Does that mean he wants to have sex with me? That’s
not something I’m ready for. It’s not what drew me to the gallery by any means.
“I’m really not interested in being a notch on your bedpost, a conquest.”
“Then what do you want from me, Miss Ellison?”
“A story,” I reply truthfully.
“I see.” He clams up. The truth is certainly a mood killer.
I stare at the road, annoyed with myself. I’d been enjoying his banter,
discovering that he had a sense of humor and a smokin’ hot, sexy side to his
personality, or lack thereof. I had actually been thinking I would swing by a
pharmacy and let him go inside to make his purchase. At least he was a
responsible predator, one who didn’t want to perpetuate his species, or have to
pay eighteen years of child support.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as I pull into the gravel parking lot of the Cask
& Crown and park. I switch off the ignition and we sit in the dark as the
lot is not well illuminated.
“It’s what you do. Unfortunately, I went against my better judgment
agreeing to accompany you this evening. So, let us go inside, have dinner and
get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.”
“I can just drive you home and you can microwave something.”
“Are you implying that I can’t cook for myself?”
“I don’t know. Can you cook?”
“Do I look as if I’m a starving artist?”
“You look healthy enough. I wouldn’t say you were starving.”
“I can cook my own meals. I do not have to rely on pre-packaged dinners
like many single men do. I enjoy cooking, Miss Ellison. I find it relaxing and
rewarding in the end when I sit down and eat something I have prepared myself.”
“Stop calling me Miss Ellison. I find that annoying. Call me Sabrina.”
“Fine, Sabrina. Shall we go in and order dinner before closing time
arrives?”
I get out of the SUV and slam the door. He gets out of the passenger side
and slams his door. I hit the lock button on my key fob and we head to the
front entrance of the Old English-style tavern. It surprises me when he opens
the door for me. I murmur a thank you and precede him into the tavern.
The hostess glances at me and then notices him behind me and her face
lights up like a chandelier. “Mr. Rose, how nice to see you again! Your usual
booth?” she asks. He must nod because she leads us directly to a rather
secluded booth in the far corner. “Jessica will be your server this evening.
Can I have her bring you something to drink now?”
He orders a bottle of red wine and she smiles, nods, and walks away to
give his order to Jessica. He picks up his menu and studies it as if he’s not
seen it before in his life. It seems to me as if he is a regular here. I am the
one who has only been here once before. I really do have to study the menu.
“Hi, Mr. Rose. How are you tonight?” asks a perky voice.
“I’m fine, Jessica. Thank you for asking.”
“Are you ready to order?”
He orders a filet mignon, medium-rare with a baked potato with sour cream
on the side and steamed vegetables. He chooses the soup, French onion instead
of the salad. I have to scramble to make my decision as she turns to me, pen
poised above her order pad. “The petite New York strip steak with rice pilaf
and steamed vegetables. I’ll have the tossed salad with Italian dressing on the
side.”
“Any appetizers tonight?” I am about to shake my head when he orders the
stuffed mushrooms. “I’ll put your order right in.” She takes a corkscrew from
the pocket of her apron and lays it close to his plate then walks away.
He opens the bottle in a deft manner that tells me he’s opened plenty of
wine bottles in his thirty years. He pours some of the wine into each of the
two glasses, slides one across the table to me then sets the bottle down. His
eyes fall on me and I feel a frisson of apprehension. This could be the
biggest, stupidest mistake of my life. “You may have one glass of wine. You’re
the designated driver. Meanwhile, I will most likely annihilate myself as there
is no reason to stay sober if I’m not going to have to perform in the bedroom
tonight.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Now he is just being a jerk. “Do whatever you
want. If I change my mind you’ll just be another disappointment in a long
string of disappointments I’ve suffered because men are such asses.” He
stiffens at that, clearly offended, but he asked for it.
“What they say about ginger-haired girls is woefully correct. You have a
very tempestuous and contrary nature, Sabrina. You have difficulty controlling
your acerbic tongue. You snap words at me like verbal whips. If you expect me
to flinch and cower at ever crack of your tongue you’re misleading yourself.”
“I don’t expect you to do anything but enjoy your dinner.”
“I shall do that.” He lifts his glass and savors the wine, nodding to himself.
He drinks what he’s poured into his glass, refills it, filling it nearly to the
brim this time. After drinking half of the contents, he sets the glass down.
“Is your photography skill natural or a result of study and instruction?”
“It’s natural.”
“You’ve been gifted with a great eye then.”
“I suppose.”
“Don’t be sulky. We can converse like polite, civil people, can’t we?”
“I don’t know, can we?”
He gives a casual shrug of his shoulder. “I am not normally a polite man,
as you may have heard.”
“Then why pretend to be now?”
“Because I am a man with physical needs and you are a reasonably
attractive young lady, therefore, I still harbor some slim hope of landing you
in my bed tonight.”
Well, at least he’s honest if rather blunt about it. “What if I say I’m
not interested?”
“You seemed to be earlier.”
“I was employing feminine wiles.”
“Of which you have no regard for the consequences, I take it?”
“I am not flirting with you!”
“No, you certainly are not. I find that rather infuriating, and somewhat
annoying. I really don’t know why I am sitting here across from you when there
are perhaps thirty prettier young ladies I could be with at…” I abruptly stand
up and stalk off to the ladies room, basically to hide the fact that he has
stung me with his second reference to his not finding me attractive.
I lock myself in a stall, relieve myself, and then just sit there
dreading going back to the table. My eyes are burning with unshed tears. I got
myself into this predicament and now I have to get myself out despite my no
longer wanting to be anywhere near him. I haven’t insulted him, as far as I’m
aware, yet he has twice told me he does not find me attractive. My self-esteem
has been seriously undermined. No, I am not a ravishing beauty, but I’ve always
been told that I’m a pretty girl. No one has ever used the word lovely,
beautiful, breathtaking, or gorgeous to describe me. I have no false notion
that I am anything beyond pretty. I don’t feel the need to cover my head with a
paper bag to hide my looks or lack thereof. Yet, he has cut me deeply by more or
less telling me that I am not the caliber of girl he usually takes to his bed.
Not that I want to be taken there anyway. That’s not what this is about.
Finally, I leave the stall, wash my hands, splash some cold water on my
face and grimace at my reflection. It’s obvious to me I am miserable. It’s
going to be more than obvious to a man who has an eye for detail that I am
miserable.
I return to the booth, slide back into my seat. He is eating a stuffed
mushroom. I keep my head down and do not look at him. He continues to eat and
does not say anything. I eat no mushrooms. Jessica comes and whisks the plate
away, delivers his soup and my salad. “Is there anything else you need right
now?” she asks.
“We’re fine,” he replies. When she walks away he says, “Kindly pick up
your fork and eat your salad like a good girl.”
I open my purse, take out all the money I have in my wallet and lay it on
the table, then slide out of the booth. “I’m sorry. You’re going to have to
take a cab home.” I grab my jacket and pull it on as I walk through the
restaurant toward the door.
I get into my SUV, jam the key into the ignition and switch it on. And
then I just lose it. I fold my arms on the steering wheel, put my head down, and
let the tears come, unable to hold them back any longer. This has all gone
terribly, horribly wrong. I just wanted to get his attention and maybe get some
sort of article out of it, but now I don’t care. I’m not going to write
anything about Sebastian Rose. He’s a cold, cruel man like they say. He just
uses girls and has no desire to have any sort of deeper relationship with any
of them. He’s an animal. That is all he
is- a beast who preys on lovely women, beautiful girls. He likes attractive
females. He’s just been toying with me like a homely little mouse he’s cornered
in his pantry.
I raise my head, brushing at the tears on my face, twisting the switch to
turn on the headlights. As I go to put the vehicle into drive something
materializes just beyond where the headlights reach and approaches quickly. I
think it’s Rose as its dressed all in black, but as it comes into the arc of
light across the gravel I realize it’s wearing a black robe of some sort. And
then it is illuminated wholly by my headlights and I see what it is that has
rapidly approached. I feel a scream of terror race up my throat. “Sabrina!” the
ghastly, grinning skull shouts. It has hollow eye sockets yet I can sense it
looking directly at me. Death knows my name, and he is coming around to the
passenger side now. My hands are numb from gripping the wheel so hard. I cannot
relinquish my death grip on the steering wheel. Death opens the passenger side
door and my heart feels as if it will burst. A rush of multiple regrets floods
through my mind. I have so many unfinished things to accomplish in my life. How
can it be cut short so quickly? What’s wrong with me that Death has come for me
right this instant.
He heaves his scythe between the front seats, shoving it into the rear
area. I am still unable to make a sound as he climbs into the passenger seat
and pulls the door closed. “Turn off the engine and shut off the lights,” he
says.
“Am I going to be murdered?” I manage to whisper.
“No.”
“Am I already dead?’
“You have a long life ahead of you.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“I’ve come to apologize for my rude behavior.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” How surreal is this? Death is sitting in my
car as large as life and feels he must apologize to me. I can feel the chill of
the grave emanating off of him, yet curiously there is heat inside of me that I
cannot explain.
“I hurt your feelings. I apologize.”
I cannot look directly at him, still afraid he’ll grab that big blade and
slice my head off with it. “Are we in the same world here?”
“I believe so.” He sighs deeply. “And, now, I have lost all hope that
you’ll change your mind and willingly join me in my bed.”
It’s that remark that sends a jolt through me. Death speaks in the same
voice as Sebastian Rose. I gasp and find myself turning my head to look
straight upon him. He is frightening and gruesome with his bone-white, skeletal
face shrouded in a black hood. One bony hand rests on the dashboard, the other
still grips the door handle as if he wants to hurl himself out of the vehicle
and flee. “Sebastian?”
“You wanted a story. Here it is,” he says icily.
“How can this be?”
“How can anything be in this universe, Sabrina? I am what I am. You are
what you are. I cannot allow myself to indulge in any long term relationships.
I cannot let myself enjoy a woman for more than one night. My secret is
terrible. It will destroy the world I have created, the world that I derive my
pleasure from. I have a grim and gruesome responsibility. And that is why I
grab at the few pleasures I can get, enjoy them thoroughly and then push them
away. Do you think there is a female out there who would willingly stay with me
knowing what I am? What I do?”
“Why are you showing me this then?”
“Because I want you to understand!”
“Well, I don’t understand!” I flare.
He transforms, his grim reaper form dissolving as his human form as
Sebastian Rose emerges. Sebastian’s face is much more expressive, and he looks
both anguished and angry. “You are a rare rose I want to pluck from this
earthly garden! You incite me! You tempt me beyond what I can bear! You provoke
me! Arouse me! I do not understand what it is about you that inflames me so that
I can barely think clearly!” He laughs, throws his hands up, shakes his head.
“I am not thinking clearly! If I were thinking clearly I would be at home by
myself and you would be safe in your home and this would not be happening!” I
just look at him, speechless. “You are the undoing of me, Sabrina Ellison. I
will have to uproot myself, go somewhere else and start over establishing a new
life here in this world for myself.”
“No. I don’t want you to go.”
“I will have to…” He looks at me and my eyes widen. “…ask you to forget
everything you saw and heard tonight. You must never write about it.”
“As if anyone would believe me if I did.”
“You mustn’t even try.”
“No, of course not. I don’t write fantasy. I write about nature, people,
places, art, music. I can’t even begin to imagine myself writing about the
supernatural. I know nothing about it.”
He warily studies my face. “Will you accompany me back inside and have
dinner with me?”
“I’m not sure about my appetite.”
“Humor me. Allow me a semblance of normalcy tonight. You can’t begin to
comprehend what it’s like to live as I do.”
“No, I don’t suppose I can.” I shrug, my fear having dissolved during the
past few minutes. There is a newly perceived vulnerability in him. He has shown
me his darker side, his true nature, whether intentionally or not, and now I
carry his secret, have the potential to expose him and I can’t do that. I will
not do that. He has made a niche and a name for himself as an artist here in
the Adirondacks. I cannot be responsible for uprooting him, sending him fleeing
from the life he has established for himself.
“I’m not going to die, am I?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Do you know in advance? Ever?”
“Rarely,” he replies.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl. Loudly. He quirks a half grin at
me. I smile, shrug. “Unless I suddenly die of hunger.”
“Highly doubtful.”
“Then I guess we should go eat dinner.”
He pulls a wad of cash from his pocket and hands it to me. “My treat
tonight. I insist,” he says.
“But…”
“Please, Sabrina. It’s the least I can do. I believe I gave you a bit of
a fright.”
“You think? Only a bit?” I open my door and get out. He remembers to grab
the keys because I am still rattled and forget them. He locks the doors,
pockets the keys and we walk back to the tavern where we take our former seats.
His soup and my salad still await our attention there. Jessica doesn’t seem
fazed in the least by our waking out and then returning. She brings our dinners,
leaves the soup and salad as we’ve only just begun eating. Rose asks her to
bring me a cup of tea.
He finishes his soup, sets the bowl aside and starts his dinner. I eat
half my salad then start on my steak. Neither one of us is inclined to speak at
this point. I do catch him sort of studying me and frown at him, hoping he’ll
desist. “I am merely memorizing you,” he says.
“For what reason? I thought I was forgettable.”
“I believe I confessed in your vehicle my rather unaccountable attraction
to you,” he replies.
“I thought you were just trying to make nice so I wouldn’t strand you
here.”
A flash of annoyance crosses his handsome face. “I am not in the habit of
making nice, nor being nice. You caught me with my pants down, so to speak.”
I give him an incredulous look and the great icy bastard actually gets
some color in his face. “I was just thinking that that would be an interesting
predicament for you to be in.”
“You think too much.”
“I think too vividly.” His color deepens. I have him totally off balance
now. Somehow, having the advantage over him seems wrong, like I am being mean
to him. “It makes for a rather enthralling mental image.”
His fork rattles against his plate. “Miss Ellison…”
“Sabrina.”
“Sabrina, yes. I thought you wanted a story, not a tumble in my bed.”
“I’m still on the fence about that second thing, but a girl can fantasize
just like a man can, can’t she?” I saw another piece off my tender and
delicious steak and stuff it into my cheek and say, “A girl can dream.”
“I suppose.” He looks down at his plate for a long moment then back at me
as I slowly chew my bite of steak. “I seldom dream,” he says, and the way he
says it, I’m inclined to believe he’s being honest. “However, perhaps three
nights ago, I dreamt of a ginger-haired girl who was chasing me through a
barren forest. I was a black wolf and she wore a gown of pristine white that
floated behind her as she ran as if there was a spectral wind. Her hair was in
long curls. She had startling sapphire eyes.”
“You saw her in detail while running from her?”
“It was as if I were standing outside of myself observing the wolf and
the girl. I could move close to her but I could not touch her nor influence her
in any way. I could not touch the wolf. I was separate from both of them, yet I
was aware that I was the wolf as well as this omnipotent observer.” He looks
down at his plate again, toys with his remaining food. “Curiously, I wanted to
be caught. I wanted to be embraced by that ethereal being.” He sighs. “I wanted
to know her, in the Biblical sense.”
“And then you woke up?”
“No,” he replies, his voice quiet, wretched.
“What happened then?”
“I simply stopped running, turned, lunged at her and tore her throat
out.” His dark eyes rise very slowly to meet mine across the table.
My eyes shimmer with tears. “You destroyed your heart’s desire,” I say,
my own voice as hushed as his, as sorrowful. “But, why?”
He shrugs a shoulder, sets his fork down, reaches for his wine glass and
drains the contents in one long swallow. “I deny myself what I want most.”
Jessica appears at the table. “Are you still working on that or are you
ready for boxes?”
“We won’t be taking the leftovers,” he replies.
“Would you like to see the dessert menu? Can I get either of you some
coffee? Another tea?” She glances at me. I think I still have tears in my eyes
because her eyes linger on my face for a few moments longer, then she starts
clearing the table.
“I think we’re finished here,” he says.
“I’ll bring your check then.”
She hustles off, obviously thinking that we’ve had another fight, or
we’re breaking up. I turn my head and look out the window at the dark woods. I
can mostly see my own reflection in the dark glass and I don’t like what I see.
I do not having flowing red curls. I have short, spikey red hair in an asymmetrical
cut. Left to its own devices it would curl, but not tightly. I used to have
long loose curls, back in high school. But I made myself over in college,
became someone else- the writer and photographer. My eyes are hazel, but that’s
because I wear colored contacts to change my appearance. I don’t wear them to
correct my vision. My eyes are a startling shade of blue.
“What are you thinking?’ he asks.
“I’m thinking it might be a good idea if I drop you at your door and
never see you again,” I reply.
Jessica returns with the check and he is occupied with digging out his
credit card, paying. He, I hope, is allowing for a hefty tip. “Sabrina? Shall we go?”
I slide out of the booth and walk toward the door. He is behind me.
Outside, in the dark parking lot, he gives a short whistle. I turn and see my
keys spinning in the air in the dim ambient light. I reach up and catch them in
my fist. I unlock the doors but he remains where he has stopped. “Get in,” I
say.
“I think it would be best if I walk.”
“Are you serious? It’s at least nine miles back to the gallery.” I am
stunned that he is refusing to let me drive him home. I am also, strangely
enough, wounded by this.
“Quite serious. I thank you for the pleasure of your company this
evening, but I think it would be to both our advantages if I find my own way
home.”
I want to ask him if he’s angry with me, or disappointed because I
haven’t been all over him like a lot of girls would have been. He’s revealed
his deepest, darkest secret to me out of sheer desperation and now he is
dumping me, trusting me not to go straight home and write about it. “Don’t
accept any rides from strangers,” I say as I climb into the driver’s seat.
“Have a safe walk home.”
“Thank you. No, I will not accept any rides.” He makes a slight bow then
turns and walks off. He is all in black so he quickly blends into the night. I
close the door, buckle my seatbelt, start the car, turn on the headlights, put
it into gear, and slowly leave the lot. I pass him on my way out but he does
not look at me. My heart lies like a stone in my breast.
I head back to Whisper Lake, my thoughts in a dark whirl. I just had
dinner with the grim reaper. I can’t quite wrap my head around that fact and
find myself looking into the back for his scythe because I don’t remember him
removing it. Or maybe it was all some sort of strange illusion?
About four miles down the road, I have to pull over and switch on the
interior lights, crane around in my seat and peer hard into the back. There is
no scythe. I slowly turn back around and that’s when I catch a glimpse of
myself in the rearview mirror. My eyes slide away. I don’t want to see my
miserable self at the moment but as I reach up to click the interior lights off
I gasp and then lean closer to the mirror, as far as my seat belt allows me to.
I have been crying tonight and at some point I have lost my colored contacts.
My eyes are sapphire blue like jewels. I have been exposed to him, probably
since sobbing in my car when I attempted to leave. Curiously he never said
anything about the change in eye color.
I reach for the light buttons again and then drop my hand. He’d told me
about his dream, his dream with the ginger-haired girl with the sapphire blue
eyes. He’d told me he seldom dreams. Did he make that up? Was he trying to warn
me off? Would he harm me if I were to catch him and hold onto him? Or does he
merely fear that that would be the outcome of my pursuit of him? Is he afraid
of me for whatever reason? Is he afraid of himself and what he might do?
I stab the buttons to extinguish the lights, check the side view and rear
view mirrors then pull back out onto the road. I continue driving. I have to go
past the gallery. There are lights on gate posts at the end of the driveway. I
pass them, continue on. About a half mile further down the road, I find myself
making a rather clumsy three-point turn in the road and slowly heading back.
I turn in at the gates, continue up the long drive and come into the
parking lot. The mansion, for that is what this building is, a mansion on the
lake that has been converted into an art gallery, is mostly in shadow, only
some security lights on at the doors. I can see the dim lights inside that
suffice as nighttime lighting.
Sitting in my car, I gnaw on my lower lip for a few moments, then get out,
close the door and walk toward the mansion, circling it slowly. The lake is
black with ripples of moonlight on the surface. A dock extends out into the
lake about twenty to thirty feet or more. The yard slopes to a private beach. I
look up at the house, at the third floor. It’s entirely dark up there.
Behind the mansion is a patio area, a service entrance. There is a
detached carriage house where all the shipping and receiving is carried out.
Beside that is a newer, five bay garage, constructed to look like the house and
carriage house. All the bay doors are closed.
I circle back around the house and sit down on the front steps, hugging
my knees for a bit as I gaze toward the dark waters of the lake. I can hear
small waves lapping at the shore. There’s a bit of a breeze. The leaves high in
the trees are rustling. Autumn is definitely approaching. There’s a distinct
chill in the air tonight. I tilt my head back and look up at the stars. They
look crisp and pale tacked to the midnight violet-blue velvet of the sky. It
can’t be ten o’clock yet. It is probably only nine. Yet, the traffic on the
lake road is very sparse. The summer tourists have returned home. The locals
aren’t inclined to come out this way. They’re probably all snug in their homes
watching television or surfing the internet. I feel all alone in the world
sitting here on the steps.
I try to calculate how long it would take a man to hike nine miles. He’s
tall. With a regular rapid stride he might be able to do a mile in fifteen
minutes or less. But could he keep up that pace? He’d probably get tired. I
didn’t notice what he had on for shoes. Maybe his feet would start to hurt and
that would slow him down.
There is a chance that he might be able to hitch a ride back with someone
heading this way. Although, I don’t know who would be inclined to stop for a
man all in black walking down a dark road. It would have to be a rare,
incautious fool who would stop.
I’m debating whether or not I really want to be sitting here. He’d
dismissed me. He’d more or less told me he will not pursue me. I’m not the sort
of girl who would do this, sit here and wait for a man to walk home after a much
less than perfect date. I’m not even sure why I feel compelled to be here when
he gets home. I think it’s just that I am troubled by the way this ended and I
want to part with him on a better note.
If I can.
Therefore, when the doorknob behind me rattles and the door creaks open,
I am badly startled, leap up and bolt for the parking lot. “Sabrina! Stop!” He
must be an amazingly fast runner for he catches me by the arm before I am even
off the walk. “Stop,” he says.
“How did you get here so quickly? There weren’t any cars that passed me!”
I say that, but then I did spend some time walking around the building and
could have missed a car dropping him off. Or, maybe he was dropped off at the
gate posts and walked up the driveway, saw me sitting on the step staring at
the lake and went around back to let himself in? Now, he’s come to kick me off
the property after deciding that he cannot allow me to sit out here on the
stoop all night.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me to do what?”
“To get home.”
“Why is that?”
I shake my wrist free of his hand. “I’m out of sorts,” I say.
He hesitates a moment then says, “The feeling is mutual, to say the
least.”
“Did you make up that dream to tell me to back off?”
“I did not make up the dream.”
“Did it surprise you to discover I have blue eyes?”
“I was somewhat taken aback, but not entirely surprised.” He is silent
for a long moment and then his hand comes up and he reaches out, around behind
my ear to toy with a lock of my hair. “I was intrigued to see this bit of curl
here.” His dark eyes meet mine. “When did you cut your hair?”
“During my second year of college.”
“Why?”
“I thought it gave me an edgier, more professional look.”
An owl hoots in the woods behind the carriage house. It is surprisingly
loud and I jump a bit. Bats stitch the air above our heads, squeaking like
mice. “You should go home,” he says.
“I need to know something before I go,” I say.
“What would that be?”
“Are you absolutely certain you did not paint a man in the stern of that
boat?”
“I am certain that I did not.”
“She has red hair, curling red hair. Does she have blue eyes?” I ask. He
does not reply. “Sebastian, does she have blue eyes?”
“Yes,” he finally acknowledges.
“Is she me, the girl in the boat? Is the girl in your dream me?” He pulls
away. “I’ll leave if you just answer me honestly. I won’t bother you again.” It
is so hard to say these words. I do not want to leave him. I want to stay and
find answers to all the questions swirling chaotically in my mind. “Please,
just tell me.”
“What purpose would it serve?” he asks.
“Do you know me? Have you seen me someplace and I’ve just stuck in your
memory? Who am I to you? I mean, I came here to get a story and I am now so
confused and disconcerted by how this evening has played out that I can’t go
home without some sort of a resolution. I can’t go home without an answer, an
explanation, an understanding of what the hell is going on here.”
“Let me ask you this. Why are you really here? What compelled you to be
here this afternoon? Why did you come back here tonight? Why didn’t you just go
home?”
“I don’t know. I just got it into my head to be here this afternoon near
closing time. I thought you might be here alone. I wanted to…to try to get a
story, to see if I could get a different angle on you than everyone else has
gotten. I really thought there was more to you than meets the eye.” I shrug.
“You certainly showed me that there is.”
“I was upset. Deeply upset. I lost control of my corporeal form, reverted
to my supernatural form. I apologize again for frightening you. That should
never have happened.”
“I didn’t expect that. But, haven’t you noticed that I’m not all that terrified
of you? Maybe for ten minutes I was frightened, but when you sat in the car and
I recognized your voice I calmed down, right?”
“Yes,” he admits.
I throw my hands up in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know what it is,
Sebastian, but I feel some sort of…I don’t know exactly, so let’s just call it
a connection to you. I feel like I’ve hurt you somehow tonight or that I’m
about to hurt you, or something like that. I feel, uneasy and unsettled. I
can’t just go home because there’s something here that we need to resolve
first.”
“You were adopted,” he says, catching me completely off guard. How does
he know that? Earlier, he’d known how long I’d been working for the magazine.
But I don’t think, no, I’m absolutely certain there is nothing online about my
having been adopted as an infant by the Ellison’s. I know because they told me
when I was fifteen. They never told anyone else as far as I’m aware. “You were
two months and fifteen days old. You have a strawberry birthmark on you left
hip in the shape of a rose. Your one and only lover mistook it for a tattoo
when he made love to you for the first and only time last year. He disappointed
you and the relationship ended as quickly as it had kindled.” I am staring at
him. How on earth does he know such intimate things about me? How could he
possibly know these things? “You always wake just before dawn. You stand at
your open window, or go outside into the yard and you listen for something.
Tell me what it is you always listen for.”
I shake my head. “No, you know so much about me, you tell me what it is I
listen for.”
“Celestial music,” he replies and my eyes leak tears. “I am not wrong, am
I?”
“No,” I say around the tightness in my throat. “You’re not wrong.”
“Do you know why you do this?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper.
“You listen for the music because you long for home. But, you cannot go
home, Sabrina. You have to stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because I chose you.”
“And now you don’t want me?”
He shakes his head and my heart feels as if it has been pierced by an
arrow. “No, you’re mistaken. I do want you. I want you quite desperately.”
“Then why do you want to send me away?”
“I don’t want to send you away,” he replies. “I want to take you upstairs
with me and make you completely, irrevocably mine.”
“Then what’s stopping you?” I ask.
“I’m not certain you understand the magnitude of what it will mean for
both of us. You are still so young and naïve.”
“Enlighten me then.”
He sighs, tilts his head back and looks up at the stars. “I am a reaper,
although I am not the only reaper in this earthly realm. I must live here or in
this geographical vicinity. Periodically, I must reinvent myself or human
beings begin to notice that I do not age like they do. I do not change. I have
been here for eight years. I have maybe ten years more before I must uproot
myself and find another place to live. I will become someone else. I am a
supernatural chameleon in this world.”
My brain is buzzing, trying to make sense of all of this. “When did you
choose me?” I ask because that is the question weighing most heavily on my mind
at the moment.
“I chose you before you were delivered to this world and left on the
doorstep of a church. The woman who found you assumed you had been abandoned
there by an unwed young mother who could not care for you. Since no one claimed
you, they gave you the name Baby Rose, because of your one identifying mark.
The Ellison’s could not conceive a child of their own. They were guided to the
agency where you were placed and the adoption went through. They were delighted
to have you, to raise you as their daughter.”
“Have you been spying on me all my life?”
“I have been aware of you all of your life. I have not spied on you. I
have seen you on occasion, but not as frequently as I would have liked because
there was always the risk of you recognizing me, and that would have
complicated things immensely, to have a small child blurt out that she wanted
to go live with a strange man.” I can see his point. “Now, out of the blue, you
appear in my gallery today. You caught me by surprise.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention. I can say the same about you
though. You caught me by surprise, too. I never felt such a strong attraction
to anyone before.”
He nods, hesitates then says, “We should go inside.”
We go into the gallery. He secures the door, leads me through the dim
halls to a service hall, then up to the second floor. We cross the hall where
he unlocks another door and we ascend to the third floor, coming out in a
hallway that leads to his kitchen. This is obviously the back entrance to his
apartment.
The apartment is really very spacious. He must have gutted the original
servants’ quarters and redesigned the space to suit his needs. The living room,
dining area and kitchen are open in an L-shape. There is a den and a huge
master bedroom with an en suite with two walk-in closets, a garden tub, and a
walk-in shower stall big enough for three or four people. At the opposite end
of the apartment is a hallway off of which are two guest rooms with a shared
full bath that is also luxuriously appointed. There is a storage room as well.
He pours himself a glass of wine. I start to make myself a cup of tea. As
the water is heating he comes around the counter and holds his glass out to me.
“Have a sip,” he says. I look at him and then lean forward. He tilts the glass
against my lips. I sip the burgundy-colored fluid, my eyes locked on his. “I am
allowed to choose my partner,” he says. “You are the one I chose.”
“Why’d you choose a human?” I ask.
“I didn’t,” he replies. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“But you did!”
“I did not. I chose you. You were a fetching being but you could not just
be placed in the world without explanation. You had to be born in a human form,
apparently born like a human, meaning that you had to begin your existence here
as a newborn.”
“Is that how you had to begin your existence here too?” It is finally
sinking in that I am different from
my peers. I have known this all my life. Now I know why, but it still feels so
surreal.
“Yes. I was an infant when I first arrived.”
“Why do you live here and not in the supernatural world and just pop in
and out collecting bodies?”
“I collect souls, not bodies. The bodies stay behind. The souls move on.
It’s a common misconception.”
“Then what purpose do I serve?”
“You are my partner, my mate. I am allowed to experience the same physical
pleasures human males experience with their chosen mates, although I believe my
sensations may be more enhanced. You will bear me a son. I have the ability to
impregnate you at will with the one seed that I possess. You, of course have to
be fertile at the time. I cannot risk a failure to fertilize your egg. I do not
get a second chance.”
“Oh.” Well, that’s interesting. I’m his breeding cow.
“Sabrina…I know you find this difficult to comprehend. I am not asking
you to work through it all tonight. You’ve been, basically, unaware of who and
what you are. I’ve already dumped quite a bit of information into your lap. You
should go home and process it.”
“I am home,” I say. He cocks a black eyebrow at that response. “That is
if you want me here.”
He carefully sets his wine glass down on the counter. Turning to me, he
places his hands on my shoulders. I feel a visceral thrill at his touch, at the
way he is looking at me. “Of course I want you here.”
“Then why can’t I stay?”
“Because I have very little self-control around you.”
“Meaning….?”
“Meaning I will have you in my bed in a heartbeat and there will be no
stopping me taking what I have waited for for nearly twenty-four years. I am
that desperate for you.”
“At least you’re honest and upfront about that.”
“I have always enjoyed sex, but I have been anticipating our union for a
long time and know it will be more intense and pleasurable than anything I have
yet experienced with human females.”
“Okay, so if sex is supposed to be hotter and more intense with me, does
it work both ways? Is it going to be better than anything I’ve experienced so
far?”
He gives me a slow sardonic smile, bending his head to gaze at me through
sooty lashes. “I cannot answer that question. Do you want to find out?”
In response, I reach out and turn off the burner, no longer interested in
heating water for tea. There’s something else I want more. “I suppose I do.”
“There they are!” Alicea Rhys says to her photographer. “The Roses.”
“The artist and the photographer,” murmurs the man. “They seem like
normal enough people. Although, she’s a lot younger than he is, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is younger, but they make a very striking couple, don’t they?
They are so obviously in love.” She sighs. “His art and her photographs are
rather remarkable. Look at her, she is absolutely glowing. It looks like
they’ll be first time parents in a couple months. Hard to believe he was
rumored to be a playboy less than a year ago. I wonder how she cured him of
that?”
“Beats me. Come on, let’s get this
interview in the bag before the place is swamped and we can’t even get close to
them,” he mutters, adjusting the position of his camera.
“Let’s do it!” she says, and then, “Mr. and Mrs. Rose! Do you have a minute
for a quick interview? I’m Alicea Rhys from Channel 5. I’m here to do a piece
on this exhibition.”
“If it’s brief,” he replies, glancing at his wife and then reaching to
take her hand. The girl with the collar-length, soft, ginger-colored curls turns
her head to look up at him and for a long moment they appear lost in one
another’s gaze. “Whenever you’re ready, Miss Rhys.”
“I see you’ll be parents soon. Congratulations. Do you know if it will be
a boy or a girl?”
“I am hazarding a guess that it will be a boy. They say a woman becomes
more beautiful when she carries a male child. I didn’t think it was possibly,
as she was quite lovely when I married her, but Sabrina has blossomed like a
rare rose.”
“I remember when she worked for ALR Journal. Her photographs were always
the best part of each issue. I’m guessing her large prints sell quickly here?”
“Yes. They do.”
“They have such an ethereal quality. The lighting is so soft it’s as if
the world and images she captures glow. How does she do it?”
“She is a very early riser, out before the dawn every morning. She is
there when the sun pulls itself above the rim of the earth and casts its first
pale rays upon the face of a new day.”
“That is so beautifully put!”
The doors of the gallery open and a stream of patrons file in. “I’m
afraid you’ll have to excuse us,” he says. “Perhaps we can conclude this
interview another time?”
“Yes, of course. You’re busy. Thank you for taking a moment. Good luck
with the exhibition!”
As the gallery manager and assistants close down the exhibition for the
night, Sebastian helps me into my coat then pulls on his own. We exit the
mansion, cross the patio then follow the path to the dock, walk down its length
to stand at the end looking out across the black water of the lake. A sprinkling
of stars are scattered across the sky and there is a pale, slender crescent of
a moon like a lop-sided smile. The heavens reflect on the water which is rather
still tonight.
Sebastian turns me toward him and gazes down into my upturned face. “If you
are unhappy with me, after my son is born, I will not hold you here,” he says.
“Why do you think I’m unhappy with you?” I ask.
“There’ve been signs, indications,” he replies.
“Like what?” What have I done to make him think I am less than happy
being here, being with him.
“You are less inclined to allow me access to you when my need arises.”
“Sebastian, I’m as fat as a cow! I don’t want you to be turned off by my
huge belly.” I look away. “I don’t like being this big. It’s not comfortable. I
don’t feel sexy at all. I feel fat and ugly!”
He blows his breath out in a cloud of vapor that drifts over my head.
“Silly girl,” he chides me. “I find you as desirable, if not more so, as I did
ten months ago when I married you. Maybe I should have restrained myself, but
the idea of impregnating you was too overwhelming. I could not stop myself.” He
moves his hands to gently cup my swollen belly. “I usher souls out of this
world. I am anxious to usher this new little soul into this world. I have all
the material things I could ever hope to have, but your love and this baby we
have created together, they are the two gifts that I treasure above all else.
Instead of being embarrassed by this wonderful distended abdomen, you should be
showing it off for me, showing me that you’re happy and excited to be the
mother of my son. You refuse to allow me to sketch you nude and pregnant. My
fingers ache to capture your image in my sketchbook. I have abided by your
wishes and not drawn you this way, although I could have done so in secret, but
that would be dishonest and disrespectful of you.” He slides his hands to my
hips. “Are you happy, Sabrina? Answer me truthfully.”
“You’re not an easy man to live with, but I knew that from the very
beginning. You’ve been here a very long time, had gotten set in your ways. It
bothers me that you still look at other girls in that way, however, as far as I
know you’ve never been unfaithful to me.”
“I am an artist. If I averted my eyes from every lovely young lady that
crosses my path where would I find inspiration? I look at everything through
the eyes of an artist. I look at you through the eyes of a lover, a worshipper.
You have no reason to be jealous or suspicious. I am still making adjustments.
I am trying.”
“I know you are.” He has been. He has changed so much of his lifestyle that
I really have no reason to complain about anything. We got married within days
of falling into bed together. He suffered the invasion of me and my things into
his former bachelor’s pad and private retreat. He allowed me to make some
decorative changes to his dark and masculine décor. He’s given me free reign to
re-do one of the guest bedrooms into a nursery and future bedroom for our son.
I have chosen a steam train and trolley theme that took some months for him to accept.
But, once he had accepted the idea, he has been completely onboard, pardon the
pun, and has gone so far as to have a trolley car playscape built just off the
patio. It will be a while before it will see much use, but it’s nice to look
out the window and see it waiting for when our son is old enough to climb
aboard and follow his imagination to far away destinations. Sebastian has
really made a lot of sacrifices for me. He’s put himself out every day to make
me happy. I turn my head and look back up into his eyes because he has not taken
his eyes off of me. “I’m so clueless sometimes,” I say.
“You? Never.”
“Yes, often.” I grab his coat lapels and tug, pulling him down until I
can take his head in my hands. I caress his cheeks, his jaw. He is so damn gorgeous
it makes my heart ache to look at him. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go back
inside. If you make me a cup of hot chocolate, I’ll pose for you.”
“A cup of hot chocolate? I suppose I could handle making that, however, I
might scald it. Thinking of you in the next room disrobing may be too
distracting for me.”
I pull his face to mine and kiss his cold lips. After a few kisses, his
lips warm up and so do I. “I want you to sit in your chair and sketch me in
your incorporeal form.” His eyes are very close to mine when he opens them. “I
think you’re so damn sexy in that black hooded robe. You always give me a
thrill when you walk into the room and you’re all grim reaper-y like that.”
“You are a very strange young lady,” he says. “But I will indulge you if
that is your desire.”
“You are my desire,” I reply. “From the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
He gives me another long, lingering kiss, then takes my hand and leads me
back toward the mansion. As we walk, he transforms and I find myself clutching
his skeletal hand. I look down and smile. This grim reaper wears a gold wedding
band. I’m surprised he hasn’t lost it yet, but then I notice he keeps that
finger crooked so the band does not slip off. It must impede him a bit when he
grips his scythe, but it means a lot to me that he leaves it on, never leaves
home or me without it. “What’s that look for?” he asks, vapor streaming from
his hollow nostril holes.
“I love you,” I reply.
He laughs. “No one loves Death. They fear me, loathe me, disparage me,
rant and rave against me. No one ever says, ‘Oh, Death, I love you!”
“Oh, Death, I love you!” I say in my best bosom-heaving, romance novel
heroine voice.
Death laughs as he scoops me up in his arms and carries me into the
mansion, kicks the door shut with a bony heel. He turns so I can twist the
deadbolt lock, key in the alarm code, and then he carries me to the third floor
as if I weigh no more than a puppy.
There is a story I want to write about him, but it will be for his eyes
only. Maybe I will write it and present it to him as a first anniversary gift.
But right now, he wants a shot at sketching his pregnant wife. According to
him, this is the only time I will be pregnant, so I guess I can indulge him in
this. Three hundred years from now, maybe we’ll flip through the yellowed,
fragile pages of this sketchbook and come across these drawings and reminisce
about this time in our lives.
This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I lingered at closing time
ten months ago. I had hoped for a story with a different angle. Instead, I had
provoked him into revealing his deepest, darkest secret, discovered a startling
truth about myself, found my heart’s desire, gotten married in a hurry, gotten
pregnant quickly, and now I am soon to be a mother. My adopted parents, thankfully,
like Sebastian and are excited about impending grandparenthood. We were lucky
there. They’ll have ten years to enjoy their grandson before we’ll have to
move. Sebastian’s territory is the northeast, so we’re thinking of far northern
Maine. From there, we’ll have to wing it.
I ease myself down onto the bed, turn onto my side, prop myself up on my
elbow and watch the grim reaper as he sits in a wingchair across the room in
the sitting area, legs crossed, bony foot jiggling as his pencil busily strokes
the page of his sketchbook. I can feel his eyes caress me now and again and
after a while it is as if he is touching me here and there then there and…then
he tosses his sketchbook aside, rises from his chair and starts to approach the
bed. As he approaches, he transforms into Sebastian Rose. Sebastian is wearing
the reaper’s hooded robe, but this he discards in a pool of black silk on the
bedroom floor as he joins me on the bed, then joins himself to me. The dark
Rose and the light Rose, the black Rose and the red Rose. We are the Roses.
No comments:
Post a Comment