Reverb (21 page)

Ouch.
She looks away, sits on the couch. “No. You don’t. But you’re a welcome distraction, James.” She blushes again, with the confession.

“As are you, and Cameron.” He smiles a shy, single-dimpled grin.

He’s adorable, and she can’t help smiling back.

His smile fades. “I’d sure hate to screw you up with the backlash from my fucked up past, though.” He stays fixed on her a moment, then sits on the couch beside her, and looks at the fire. His jaw tightens, the hollow in his cheeks exaggerating his high cheekbones. He’s lost again, checked out, sucked back inside his head.

Elisabeth shakes her head and sighs. “Oh God, you’re just a more screwed up version of Jack.”

He laughs. “You don’t know the half of it.”

She isn’t so sure she wants to, but she can’t help smiling at his comeback.

God, he’d be so easy to fall for. Smart. Gorgeous. Watch out, Liz. This guy is dangerous. And not just to himself.

Chapter Six

I have the oddest urge to kiss her—lean forward, pull her to me and kiss her. I don’t. Look back at the fire but I can feel her staring at me.
I have to get out of here.
“It’s getting late. I should take off.”

“Okay.” She practically whispers. She stays fixed on me then looks away.

I stand, put the mug on top of the bookshelf and look down at her. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Hope so.” She looks up. Her eyes hold me captive until she looks away. “Goodnight.” She looks at the fire again.

“Goodnight.” I turn away, go out the back door and close the screen gently behind me.

Dark and cool and crisp outside. Stand near the edge of the deck and suck in a deep breath. My eyes adjust to the saturated blue of the moonlit night as I cross the sand to the shadowed path. I look back at the warm yellow glow radiating from her house before entering the darkness up the hill.

Alone does suck. I smile at her vernacular. Elisabeth is quietly extreme. And she’s right. Again. Three for three. See her standing in front of me, sipping her tea. Her hazel eyes were green tonight, confident. Is she trying to save me, or herself? Does it matter?

Her infusion into my life has added an unexpected dimension. Without her, I could have died on my kitchen floor and no one would have noticed, for months maybe. But now that she’s a part of the scene, entertaining getting dead feels reckless. It could hurt her, and Cameron. And I don’t want to do that.

Do I still want to die?
I hear Kate in my head.

Not when I’m with them.

I stop by after my run the next morning and she makes us pancakes and sausage. Heart still beats hard as I sit in my usual chair. We’re alone. Cameron is napping.

“Juice or milk?” She sets a stack and some links in front of me.

“Juice, thanks.” Sweet aroma wafts from the plate and suddenly I’m starving, consume bite after bite, tasting each as if it were the first. Fluffy, buttery, sugary maple melts in my mouth. Salty, fatty pork sticks between my teeth and the greasy chunks fill me up, satisfying more than my hunger.

“I can make some more if you’d like.” She has
one
pancake on her plate, sits down and starts eating it.

“That’s all you’re having?”

“This is all I want. I’m not that big a fan of pancakes.”

“You made these just for me?”

“You and Cameron. He had his before you got here. He likes them almost as much as you do.” Her broad smile makes me smile.

“They’re fantastic. Thank you. I haven’t eaten this well in a long time.”

“I gather you don’t cook much.” She takes the last bite and brings her plate to the sink.

“Was never really into it. Cooking for one is a pain in the ass. Had a few specialties though.”

“Like what?”

“Chocolate pudding was one.” Julia used to love my chocolate pudding. And I see her in my kitchen. I’m feeding her out of the pudding-coated pot. She licks the spoon with long, slow swipes of her tongue then waggles it at me. I sucks on it, draw her into my mouth. Tastes chocolaty.

I finish the last bite of pancake, get up and put my plate in the sink. Elisabeth has stopped washing the dishes and is glaring at me. “You just did it again.”

“What?”

“Checked out.”

I laugh. She doesn’t. She shakes her head and goes back to the dishes. “Where did you just go?”

“It’s not important.” I lean against the counter top and stare at the photograph of a war torn Palestinian settlement on the cover of the New York Times lying on the kitchen table. She finishes the dishes, wipes her hands on the dishtowel and looks at me.

“Is it really that good?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your chocolate pudding.”

“It got pretty good reviews. I’ll make it for you and Cameron sometime. You can decide.”

The photo is exquisite. A hole in the wall of the bombed out building reveals a mother, clinging to her dead child amidst the smoky ruins beyond. She is screaming.

“What do you feel when you look at that picture?” Elisabeth brings me back into the kitchen with her.

“The horrors of war. Isn’t that what you feel?”

“How very abstracted. How male. Come on, James. What do you
feel
?”

Helpless. Hopeless.
“Angry.”

“At what.”

“The stupidity of hate that’s in all of us. What do you feel?”

“Sad, even though after all this time I probably shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Be a better photojournalist if I didn’t. Like any reporter, you strive to shoot what you see and keep it impersonal.”

“What one sees depends on the perspective of the viewer.”

“Touché.” She smiles at me. “In there lies the fundamental problem with objectivity. You see the horrors of war because that’s what the photographer wants you to see. He could have shown you Victory, focused on the Israeli holding up an Uzi.” She picks up the paper and studies the picture. “Hey. Kurt Davies. We used to be rivals. Friendly rivals.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not at all.”

“Wow. That’s definitive. It was your career for how many years?”

“Ten plus. But I was never in love with it. It’s harsh and ugly most of the time because conflict and adversity sell. I was never able to separate my feelings from the scene. I spent way too many nights crying in front of the monitor.”

“So what would you prefer to do?”

“My degree’s in Art. I’ve always wanted to be a fine photographer, you know, create pictures of beauty, like Adams or Leibovitz. But there’s no money in it except for the lucky few.”

“Why do you think you can't be one of the lucky few?”

“Because I’m a realist.”

“Maybe it’s time you become more of an artist.”

She laughs. “Maybe…”

Stopped by after my run the next day, and the one after, and the next after that. Month down the line and I’m still doing it. After breakfast, I usually go back to my place to bathe and change,  then go into town and play Tavli with locals most of the morning. Around noon, I join Elisabeth and Cameron for Siesta. Three of us lunch, then play on the beach, talk, read, play Tavli, or nap until mid-afternoon.

Elisabeth makes elaborate meals with fresh ingredients she shops for almost daily. I help her prepare them, and during the last few months she turns me into a competent chef. I teach her to make chocolate pudding. The days pass quickly. The hours pass slowly. The moments linger. And most are sweet.

The crispness of spring gives way to the heat of summer, and the days repeat and blur. We’re in her kitchen this morning. It’s just past noon and I’m cutting up peppers for the Spanish omelets she’s preparing. Eggs, breads, fruits and vegetables are staples here, and most all that’s available at the stores and street markets year round. She stops abruptly, cocks her head to one side and stares at me.

“My God, you’re gorgeous.” Wide, seemingly triumphant grin spreads across her face.

I laugh. She says it as a statement of fact, like she’s talking about a sunrise or something, and without sexual innuendo. “Thank you. You are too.”

“No I’m not. Don’t say stuff like that because we both know it’s not true.”

I look at her, stare really, trying to glean what she’s feeling. I’ve upset her.
Why?
What did I say that was wrong? She’s wearing her usual khaki’s and tee-shirt, but they don’t hide her feminine form, nor diminish her natural beauty. “Elisabeth, I wasn’t making a flip comment. I think you
are
beautiful.”

“Right. Whatever.”

“No. Wrong. Not ‘whatever.’ Come with me.” I put the knife down, and take the bowl of eggs she’s in the process of whipping. Practically drag her into the bedroom and stand her in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the door. “Now, look. What do you see?”

“Botticelli’s Venus, with bigger breasts. And behind me Mic’s David.” She gives me a mocking grin and tries to turn away but I hold her shoulders, forcing her to stay facing the mirror.

“Now, I’ll tell you what I see. Before me stands a voluptuous woman, with curves in all the right places. She has strong, defined features, with deep hazel eyes that reflect her mood and clearly express her passion, and convictions. Her lips are full, red and inviting, and her smile radiates lightness. Look at yourself. Why is it you don’t see this?”

“Standing next to you, honey, Audrey Hepburn would look average.”

“You’re a hard case, my lady.”

“So are you. Let’s reverse this, shall we?” Then she ducks from my hands on her shoulders and moves behind me so I’m in front of the mirror. “What do
you
see?”

Stare at my reflection. I know I’m considered attractive by social standards, from years, a lifetime really of people fawning, but have never before bothered to examine my self-perception. “I don’t know ‘Lisabeth. Never taken much notice of how people look, unless they’re extreme. Physicality is too transitory. No substance. It’s given, not achieved.”

“What do you see, James?” She grins mischievously.

I shrug. “What do I see...A man, close to six feet, a little too thin, not as muscular as I’d like, with green eyes and brown hair that’s too long, and always a mess.”

“Now I’ll tell you what most everyone sees. Classic beauty. Strength. Virile perfection.” On her face in the mirror is now a soft, sultry smile, as her eyes scan my reflection. “Wide eyes of a child, penetrating green with long, dark lashes creating a natural eyeliner most women would kill for. High, sculpted cheekbones and a strong, square jaw contrast the soft, full lips that sharpen the boy to man.” Quick grin and she brings her hands to my shoulders and runs them lightly over my biceps.

Her touch is electric. Just beyond pleasure is pain. Every muscle tightens. Every nerve tingles with contact, right down to my groin. My heart beats hard and fast, and I wonder if she can hear it.

“Tall, slender and tight—but not daunting, the solid build of an athlete.” She slides her hands over my shirt sleeves and down my arms. “With huge, elegant hands,” she laces her fingers in mine, “of a practiced musician.”

Suddenly it isn’t fun anymore. Can she see how scared I am?
Kiss her
.
Distract her. She won’t know if you take control.

She cocks her head to the side, stares at me in the mirror. She already knows, her smile gone.

I pull my hands away and turn to face her. Can’t breathe. Everything spins, like vertigo. “I told you, I’m not a musician anymore. A musician is someone who plays or creates music. I do neither, and I don’t want to talk about this.” I leave the bedroom, head back to the kitchen, but when I get to the living room the back door beckons and I walk out of the house.

The sun is high. It’s hot. I head towards the water. I see the startled, confused look on her face in the mirror over my shoulder moments ago. Feel her behind me, her hands slide into mine. Feel
them
grab my hands from behind on my way from the loo my second night at Caple Ne Ferne, and sharp pain as they yank my fingers back, shove me forward, and I’m suddenly face down on the four poster fighting to get them off me.

“Get em, Billy. Get him down,” someone says.

“Grab his legs, you stupid wankers,” someone else yells.

Kick one in the groin hard and he screams, releases my leg, and I manage to kick another off me and scramble free, turn over, then a knee’s on my neck pinning me to the bed, they’re looping cloth around my wrists and then pull my arms wide, ripping my biceps and lats as they secure me to the two upper bedposts, agony searing through my shoulders and into the base of my neck. White hot, tearing pain through my limbs as they yank my legs apart and attach my cloth bound ankles to the top wood knobs on the bottom bedposts.

“
What the fuck
—” I scream, but someone slams a cloth in my mouth and ties it around my neck, brutally snapping my head back and I’m momentarily dazed. When my eyes clear there are five boys around the bed, staring down at me—all white, all young, late-teens, early twenties, all rich by their clothing, cadence and accents. I’m mute, defenseless, at their mercy, yet I see only humor in their eyes. They’re laughing, shouldering each other—my defeat is their success.

A young preppy takes a thin case from his black sports jacket, opens it, lifts the syringe out and shows it to me. “Can’t have you writhing about like this.” He smiles. “Ready for the ride of your life?” He laughs with his cronies while I struggle, growling
NO. NO!
through the cloth filling my mouth.

Guy next to him, dressed in the same black wool jacket takes out what looks like a gold coin, but then I recognize it as a condom wrapper. He bites the edge of the package, tearing the top off, pulls out the condom and hands it to the guy with the syringe.

Struggle helplessly as the guy sitting on the edge of the bed next to me ties the rubber around my arm. He commands the others to still me and I feel their hands on my legs, shoulders, and right arm where he’s tied the tourniquet, locking me down. Tears of outrage, anger, terror fill my eyes, which I fix on the guy with the syringe, shaking my head, begging him to stop, but he flicks his finger at the bend of my forearm searching for a vein and then sticks the needle in.