CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On Sunday afternoon I go for a jog over the trails cutting through the woodlands beside my house. Despite the electrician’s horror-movie warnings about “being careful,” the atmosphere is cold but delightful—chattering birds, sunlight dripping through the pine trees, squirrels rustling in the underbrush. Snow White would love it here.
I cross a few narrow roads, nodding greetings at several passing walkers and joggers before circling back to Ramshackle Manor. Ghost is hovering at the side of the house, his yellow eyes wary.
“Hey, boy.” I unlock the back door, leaving it open as I enter.
When I’m home, I’ve been opening the door when I see him outside in the hopes that he’ll come in. In order to coax him into the car so I can take him to the vet for a check-up, I need to earn more of his trust. I continue to call the humane society and review the city website for reports about a lost dog matching his description, but none appear.
I mix leftover chicken soup with his kibble and place it on the floor. He takes a few tentative steps into the kitchen. We study each other. He trots to the bowl. After gobbling the food, he nudges his head against my hand.
“Yeah.” I scratch him behind the ears. “I’m starting to like you too.”
He runs out the open door and disappears into the woods. Maybe he’s a wizard who shapeshifts in the forest. A magical helper.
I grab a bottle of water and go into the living room. The books Uncle Max left me are still piled in stacks on the floor. I leaf through one of the volumes, pausing on an illustration of Sleeping Beauty.
A black-and-white etching of the sleeping princess fills the page, her voluptuous body clad in a near-transparent gown, her face pale and lifeless. Beside her, the prince approaches, his eyes dark and his expression edged with lust.
My heart thumps. In the original tale from which Sleeping Beauty is derived, the princess is not roused awake by a kiss from the prince. No.
He takes one look at the sleeping princess, carries her to a bed, and rapes her as she lies in her comatose state. Then he leaves her. Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm later sanitized the story in favor of the famous kiss.
Has anyone ever illustrated the original story? Where have I seen the prince—
I grab my phone to call Graham. A woman replies, “Graham Baker’s phone.”
“Mary?” Warmth rises in me. In addition to Graham, Mary has always stood by her belief that I did nothing wrong. “It’s Eve Perrin.”
“Oh, hello, Eve. I didn’t recognize your number.” She gives a little laugh. “Not that I monitor Graham’s phone.”
“I’m glad you picked up. How have you been?”
We chat for a few minutes about her upcoming retirement plans and a few new tea varieties she’s discovered. She turns the phone over to Graham.
“I figured it out!” I tell him. “Where I’ve seen the Maria Wood illustrations before. She did an entire book of them. Maybe even more.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, definitely. I saw one in Uncle Max’s collection years ago. Before I went to college. I remember thinking they were so weird and disturbing, but I wasn’t an art history major then, so I didn’t look at them academically. Then I must have forgotten about them… until now. I can’t believe I didn’t remember. If I can find it, I’ll have a ton of material for my paper. Maybe several papers. Maybe a book.”
He chuckles. “I love hearing you so excited about this. Do you remember the title?”
“No, but it must have been a volume of fairy tales. I just hope it’s still in his collection.”
“Well, you’ll have to find his collection first.”
Shit.
My exultation pops like a needle-pricked balloon. I can’t tell Graham that I have full access to Max’s collection. I can’t tell him much of anything.
“Yes.” I swallow a knot of guilt. “Of course.”
“Did you ever ask Max about it?”
“I don’t think so. If I did, I don’t remember what he said. I mean, I loved the storybooks back then, but I didn’t have a critical eye for the drawings. The version of Sleeping Beauty was so awful, though, and I know Maria Wood was the one who illustrated it. Whoever she was, she subverted the fairy tales with this violent, disturbing imagery.”
“It sounds like it could be extraordinary, if you can locate it.”
“I’ll try. In the meantime, I’m almost done with my Red Riding Hood rough draft.”
“Send it to me when you’re finished.”
I thank him and end the call, suppressing the urge to hurry back to the lighthouse to begin my search. I’m sure Flynn wouldn’t appreciate me showing up outside of work hours.
On Monday morning, I arrive at the workroom fifteen minutes before eight. Though I expect to wait for him, he opens the door right when I walk up.
“Oh, sorry.” I pause. “I know I’m early. I can wait out here, if you want me to.”
He frowns. “Why would I want that?”
“Because you seem very schedule-oriented.”
“Come in, Eve.” With a hint of impatience, he steps aside to let me in. “Any questions?”
“Not about the cataloging, no.” I set my satchel on the desk. “But would you mind if I look for a particular book? While I’m doing my work, of course.”
“What book?”
“I remembered Uncle Max had once owned a fairy tale collection illustrated by Maria Wood. At least I think it was illustrated by her. If I can find it, I’ll have a much bigger scope of material to write about.”
“Go ahead.” He turns away. “And if you find any Hansel and Gretel stories, I need those too.”
“Oh, I unpacked a few of those the other day.” I hurry to the shelves to retrieve a few books. “Here’s one that places the origins of the story during the medieval famine of the fourteenth century when it wasn’t unheard of for parents to abandon their children. This book has the original Grimm Brothers version from 1812, and this one has incredible black-and-white illustrations by…”
Flynn has stopped right behind me to look over my shoulder. He’s close. So close that his body heat warms my skin. So close that my arm is almost brushing against his side, and I can practically feel his breath stirring the tendrils of hair at my temple.
“By…?” His voice rumbles through his broad chest.
“By… um…” The artist’s name has vanished from my now-blank mind. I flip to the front cover. “John Batten. He was a… a British illustrator and printmaker, part of the Art Nouveau movement.”
Flynn makes a noise low in his throat, something between a hmm of interest and a murmur of appreciation. His breath escapes on an exhale.
Oh my God. Is he smelling me again?
I’m seized with the sudden urge to turn and breathe him in, to bury my face right up against his strong neck, press my lips to the hollow of his throat where his pulse beats…
“Thanks.” He takes the books and steps away from me. “Appreciate the help.”
A rush of colder air fills the void where he was standing. I return to my desk, attempting to gather my composure and wondering if that little interaction really happened or if it was again a product of my vivid imagination. My imagination has been working overtime lately.
“I’ll leave you to work.” Flynn starts toward the door.
“Hold on a sec.” I unbuckle my satchel. “I brought you something.”
I dig around and produce a fat little clay pig that fits into the palm of my hand. Two dimples appear on the pig’s cheeks, and he’s laughing at some unknown joke, his eyes scrunched up and ears perky.
Flynn eyes the pig dubiously. “What’s that?”
“It’s called a tea pet.” I extend it toward him.
He takes it, his fingertips brushing my palm. The light touch ripples my entire arm with sensation. He examines the pig closely.
“Tea pets were started in China back during one dynasty or another,” I explain. “Basically a long time ago. They bring good luck and good fortune, and they protect your tea collection. You just have to make sure you feed them regularly.”
“Feed them?”
I smile at his confused expression. “Just pour a little tea over it, preferably the same type. I use Darjeeling for the pig.”
Flynn shakes his head, as if he’s still not following the conversation.
“It’s for you,” I clarify. “I’ve had it for a couple of years now, which is why it smells like Darjeeling. Tea pets absorb the color and scent of the tea.”
“You’re giving this to me?” A crease appears between his eyebrows.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“As a thank you for giving me the chance to work with Max’s collection. And because we could all use a bit of good fortune. I can’t say it actually worked for me, but maybe it will for you.”
Silence falls. He turns the pig over in his hand.
Suddenly feeling rather silly, I sit at the computer. “It’s just a superstition, like stirring someone else’s tea. I don’t know, I thought you might like it.”
“I do.” He closes his fist around the pig and clears his throat. “I mean, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I hope it works.”
“So do I.”
I open my organizer to my To Do list and pick up a gel pen. Flynn is still standing there. I glance at him, my heart skipping as our gazes meet. Never before have I met a person so capable of concealing his thoughts, of not letting anyone see past the steel-gray of his eyes.
“Is there something else you need?” I ask.
“No.” He gestures to my organizer. “Is that your plan?”
“Yes, I just wrote up a best practices way of approaching the cataloging, with subject headings, hierarches, and bibliographic records.” I turn the organizer toward him so he can see what I’ve written. “I’ll use this as a framework for the paintings and lithographs. Those will have variances since they’re different media. I’ll create a separate index for the artwork, but you’ll also be able to search it in the main database.”
He doesn’t respond.
I raise my eyebrows. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s fine.” He takes a step back. “No questions?”
“Not right now, but I’ll write them down as they come up.”
He nods. “Good.”
“Good.” I turn my organizer back to me.
He hesitates, then turns and strides toward the door, closing it behind him with a sharp click. Only after he’s gone does it hit me that he might actually have been looking for an excuse to stay.
Wouldn’t that be something?
Right, Eve, and maybe he’ll ask you to the movies next. Stop daydreaming.
Pushing him out of my mind, I organize my desk for the day’s work. As I unpack and catalog books, I keep an eye out for both the Maria Wood book and more Hansel and Gretel tales.
At two, I head into the kitchen to make tea. Flynn shows up again right as I’m steeping the leaves. Without asking, I pour him a cup, adding cream and sugar the same way I take it. We sit at the table.
“Hansel and Gretel isn’t your favorite fairy tale.” I stir my tea and hand him the spoon.
He glances at me. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t think your favorite tale is about parents who abandon their children. Or about a brother and sister.” I study him, trying to process the few things I know or sense about him. “I don’t think it’s The Little Mermaid or The Brave Tin Soldier either. A theme of dying for love doesn’t seem quite your thing.”
A smile tugs at his mouth, but doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know what my thing is?”
“No, but my job is to decipher the meaning and secrets of paintings, even if I don’t know much about them to start. So you’re kind of like my new thesis.”
“I’m not interesting enough for a thesis.” He drains his tea and sets the cup down. “Find another topic.”
“Is your favorite fairy tale Jack and the Beanstalk?” I ask. “The giant does have a keen sense of smell. I’ll bet he could smell apple-lavender body lotion from a mile away.”
He blinks. A slight flush crests his cheekbones. He pushes to his feet.
“Get back to work, Eve.”
“Yes, sir.” I smile.
Even through his scowl, amusement sparks.
“Now.” He strides to the door and leaves.
Though I’m enjoying the loosening of tension between us, I’m still aware of the contract. What if I push him too far with my questions and he stops joining me for tea? I finish my cup before returning to work.
My concern eases when he appears in the kitchen again the next day.
“Ceylon Kenilworth.” I set a cup in front of him.
He swallows the tea and nods his approval like he always does. “What makes it Ceylon Kenilworth?”
“Ceylon is a black tea grown in Sri Lanka, known for being especially aromatic and strong. I think it’s also used as a base for other teas like Earl Grey, but I like it as it is. Kenilworth is the estate where this tea was grown. Apparently the leaves are picked after the first monsoon, and then processed in cooler weather. That gives the tea its distinctive flavor.”
He takes another sip. “Only a tea connoisseur would know such details.”
“Do you like it?”
“Sure, but I can’t tell anything about a distinctive flavor.”
“That’s because you haven’t had a chance to compare different kinds of tea. I’ll brew a few varieties next week and see if you can tell the difference.”
“A tea tasting?” He looks dubious.
I grin at him. “Think you can handle it?”
“Sure.” He tilts his head back and drains the cup. “Sounds like a par-tea.”
I laugh, another burst of amusement that surprises me as much as the sudden lightness filling my chest. When was the last time I laughed spontaneously, without thought or worry?
Flynn’s gaze is on me, and while he doesn’t join in the laugh, a genuine warmth infuses his eyes.
“I’ll plan it for next week.” I rise to collect our tea things. “But I’ll tea you here tomorrow?”
He takes his cup to the sink. “I’ll be here, cu—”
His voice cuts off abruptly. He shoves his hands into his pockets and clears his throat.
“Uh, I’ll be here.” He ducks his head and leaves the kitchen.
I gaze at the closed door. I know instinctively what he was about to say. He was about to call me cu-tea.
I turn to the sink, unable to stop smiling.
To my distinct pleasure, Flynn shows up for tea the rest of the week. I even start making him a cup before he arrives in the kitchen, knowing he’ll be there right at two. And he is.
We exchange a few words about the type of tea and where it’s from (Chinese oolong from the Guangdong province, Assam tea from India), but since I don’t want to scare him away, I avoid interrogating him about his likes and dislikes.
Poke a bear too many times with a stick, and he’ll growl and lumber out of the cave. If he doesn’t bite you first.
Like Ghost, I should take a gentler approach to keep Flynn coming back to the kitchen.
Though our morning interactions remain the same, I start to anticipate my weird little teatime with the lighthouse keeper. I’m aware of him more than ever—his lips closing around the rim of the cup, the worn leather watch strap fastened around his wrist, the corded muscles of his arms—but tranquility surrounds our unspoken break in the day. A peace in our togetherness.
It’s an unexpected relief after having spent so much time in the past year fighting for myself. Arguing. Talking. God, the endless talking.
Answering questions. Giving statements. Delivering lectures in the burn of student judgment and barely suppressed laughter. Trying to explain my side of the story to everyone—my friends, the departmental chairperson, the university board, my lawyer, the police, my mother. It had been like talking to wall after wall.
Impenetrable though he is, Flynn isn’t like a wall. He’s a locked door. No wonder shutting doors is his preferred way of exiting a room. But maybe he’s like all other doors and can be opened with one twist of the right key.
On Friday, I bring my crossword puzzle book along with my tea accessories. Flynn arrives, distracting me momentarily by taking off his gray hoodie and tossing it over the back of his chair. He’s wearing a dark green Henley with the buttons unfastened, revealing the strong column of his throat and a tempting V of skin leading down to…
A few drops of boiling water hit my hand. “Ow.”
“What happened?” Flynn is at my side in an instant, closing his fingers around my wrist.
A tremble courses through my body, my pulse ratcheting up.
“Nothing.” Trying to regain my composure, I set the kettle down with a rueful grimace. “Just burned myself a little.”
“Put some cold water on it.” He guides me to the sink and puts my hand under the cold water. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, really.”
But I will quite happily stand here for an hour with you holding my wrist and our bodies almost touching, and did I mention how much I love the warm, squishy feeling you elicit every time I’m close to you?
“Doesn’t look bad.” Flynn studies my hand, his eyebrows drawn together. “Keep your hand under the water. I’ll pour the tea.”
He releases me to pick up the kettle. “Uh, how do I pour it?”
With a smile, I direct him through warming the teapot, adding the right amount of tea, and setting it to steep. After he pours two cups, we sit at the table and settle into our now-usual silence.
I open the crossword book to a puzzle I’ve been working on and pick up a pencil. I feel Flynn studying the puzzle from the other side of the table.
“A witch doctor might be in one.” I read the clue and tap my pencil on the grid. “Five letters, ends with an E.”
“Trance.”
“Accessory on a chain, using the N. Monocle.” I write in the word. “Go pirating, six letters.”
“Maraud.”
We keep going. Auk, stamina, Brecht, allegory. Though it doesn’t qualify as a conversation, the activity diminishes the wall between us a bit more. As we figure out clues, I tuck away the little things I learn about Flynn. The man knows a lot, especially about history, sports, and literature, but he’s not up on pop culture, TV shows, or musicals.
“Pirates of Penzance, for example, eight letters.” I write the word for ten across. “Operetta.”
“What’s an operetta?”
“A short opera, usually with a kind of funny theme.” I glance at him. “You’ve never seen Pirates of Penzance?”
“No, but I know that pirates maraud.” He gives me a smug look.
“Good point. Have you seen any Gilbert and Sullivan? The Mikado? HMS Pinafore?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about Rodgers and Hammerstein?”
He slowly shakes his head. “No idea.”
“They wrote The Sound of Music. When I was in middle school, we put on a stage production of it. I played one of the von Trapp children. Brigitta. My best friend Margie was Maria von Trapp, and we were always getting in trouble for giggling during rehearsals.”
His eyes crinkle with amusement. “You ever had ambitions for Broadway?”
“Nah, I wasn’t good enough.” A bittersweet memory washes over me. “Uncle Max flew out to see the show, though. He gave me a bouquet of flowers afterward and asked me to autograph his program. I tried out for another show the following year but my mother wouldn’t let me do it.”
“Why not?”
“She wanted me to focus on my grades rather than stuff like theater.” I shrug and close the crossword puzzle book. “Were you ever in a school play?”
He doesn’t respond, but his body goes oddly still. He stares out the window at the grasslands. Regret hits me. I have the sudden sense I said something wrong.
“I was…” His throat works with a swallow. “I was in Peter Pan once. Two of us played the father… can’t remember his name… and Captain Hook. We exchanged roles.”
It’s the most personal thing he’s ever told me. The revelation rolls through me like a polished jewel. I have a sudden image of him as a tow-headed boy, brandishing a hook and a sword while darting around a cafeteria stage.
The picture brings up all the other things that go along with a school play—family, friends, teachers, a hometown. Surely he had all that, once upon a time. Didn’t we all, to varying degrees of happiness?
A shutter descends over his expression, as if he’s sorry he said anything. He scrapes his chair away from the table and stands. “Thanks for the tea.”
And the door closes.
I rise to bring our tea things to the sink. His sweatshirt is crumpled on the floor behind his chair. I bend to pick it up, inhaling the scents of sea salt and fresh air clinging to the soft cotton.
When I hang the shirt over the chair again, my fingers brush against a bump in the front pocket. The size of…
I reach in and pull out the Darjeeling-scented, clay tea pet. For a moment, I look at the laughing pig, which had just been nestled deep inside Flynn’s pocket. Kept there like a treasure.
I press my lips to the little pig and tuck it back into the pocket.
As I turn to wash the dishes, a vibration echoes in my blood, the striking of a chord. Like music starting.