Mrs. Meeks sighed blissfully. She settled herself comfortable at the pristine kitchen table in her navy blue silk robe. With sleep still in her eyes, she flipped through a catalogue lazily with a blue and white striped mug of tea in her other hand.
At last. Peace and quiet. There was a soft sound on the floor and it registered as Tolstoy waking from his nap and stretching. The Russian Blue yawned, exhibiting his pearly teeth and pink tongue before confidently padding across the tiled floor and leaping onto Mrs. Meeks lap. She put her hand to his head, he stretched and preened before turning around so her hand ran down the length of his back before he sat and curled.
Both of her children were out of the house with friends, Gavrel was at work and she had given the staff the weekend off. It was time for her to just…settle in her home. She inhaled deeply, the kitchen still smelled like lemons from yesterday's cleaning and like summer from the windows that Bridget had opened when she had initially traipsed downstairs.
The wind chimes tinkled with the summer breeze and the wind kicked up the gauzy white of the curtains into the house. Bridget inhaled deeply, her face serene and eyes closed. Her fingers were nestled in Tolstoy's soft fur; she smiled when he started purring; vibrating on her thighs.
The slam of the front door shattered everything with a scared cat, scratched legs, split tea, a chipped mug and a drenched catalogue. The stairs thundered as someone stormed up them-clearly upset. Bridget clenched her teeth, inhaling deeply and slowly as the piping hot tea on her robe gradually turned freezing.
The chic lamp over her head started to sway as (she presumed her son) stormed around in his room. She sighed deeply, wondering what was bothering one of her teenagers now and lamented the loss of her private time.
She stood at the foot of the carpeted stairs and gazed up them cautiously. A part of her was sure that a flowerpot was going to come flying out of nowhere. After a moment however, when she was quite convinced no shrubbery would be hurled in response she called up after her brooding son, "Steven?"
The thumping suddenly ceased as though the normally quiet young man had become embarrassed by his outburst. There was a creak of a door and the soft tapping of shoes on plush carpeting. Mrs. Meeks frowned slightly at this thought but decided that her son's wellbeing was immensely more important than the cleanliness of her carpets.
"Yes mom?" Steven's voice sounded hollow and his tone was uncomfortably formal for the addressing of ones mother. He gripped the banister tightly, causing his knuckles to standout, a white mountain range along his hand as if he didn't trust himself not to pitch forward down the staircase in his current state.
Mrs. Meeks sighed, she knew this look all too well. "Are you feeling alright dear?" The flight of stairs between them suddenly became a gaping canyon as the two studied each other quizzically. Mrs. Meeks in concern and Steven in annoyance and cooling anger, however misdirected it may be.
It was neither the mother nor the son who broke the brittle silence but rather a loud and panicked knocking on the front door which had been slammed mere minutes ago.
Steven say his mother beginning to pivot towards the front door, "Don't!" He shouted. At his mother's sceptical expression Steven composed himself.
"Steven! Let me in! I swear it's not what you think!" The pounding on the door continued as Steven glared daggers at it.
"Please don't answer the door, I don't want to see him." At this point the intense anger had melted away leaving behind the residual and vulnerable sadness of a broken heart.
She felt torn between the conflict-naturally she knew she was going to have to find out what happened but the desperate pleas at the door sounded too desperate to ignore but the look on Steven's face made her realize that someone had hurt her baby-and that dog just wasn't going to hunt. "Steven," Her voice was paternal, soothing and laced with enough authority that said: I will fix this. "go to your room, I'll be there in a moment." Steven obeyed and shuffled away as his mother attended to the front door.
"Oh thank God, Ste-good morning Mrs. Meeks…" Charlie shrank under her stern expression.
"Young man, it is ten-thirty in the morning. Please refrain from using my home as your personal percussion set." She ordered in a clipped fashion.
"Ma'am, if I may, I really need to see Steven." He looked at her with desperation in his face. Mrs. Meeks merely shifted her stance as if to say: if your story can move me, I may let you in. "See," Charlie started to explain, the binoculars in one hand making his hand expressions heavy and cumbersome, "There was a bit of a misunderstanding-"
"Look," She interrupted, "Steven is preoccupied at the moment, you'll have to come back again later-" Charlie opened is mouth to protest but one stern look from her shut him down. "When he isn't busy." Charlie nodded morosely, clearly upset. He dragged himself off their patio and found himself a spot of shade to sit in under a tree not too far from the front door.
Mrs. Meeks looked at him quizzically. "I'm sorry, I can't leave until I talk to your son. A mistake was made and…I can't." She inhaled deeply trying to quell the urge to physically remove the boy from her property. Instead she returned to the inside of her house and decided to try and get an understanding of what happened from her son.