Part Four

Why, certainly! I had contemplated what it might be like to wake up in Henry Anderson's bed. I could hear him through the walls, flipping pages and using what sounded like an authentic feather pen and inkwell to take notes on a scratchy piece of parchment. Those noises mingled with the sweet aroma of his books, candlewax and a hint of cologne that one could not find samples for in an average catalogue or shopping mall. It was a spicy fragrance, natural and warm with notes of bourbon and cedarwood. I tore it apart with each inhale, parsing it like a complex source for a college essay. I wondered what it would be like to grow so accustomed to these smells that they would become the smells of home. I wondered how my spirit would react to this medley, this sensory orchestration of everything that was Henry Anderson if I took it in with every breath, every gasp for air leading up to... well. Indeed, he was seducing me with nothing more than his presence, his beautiful existence.

I remained there for a while longer, breathing and thinking. Immorally, immodestly. He was liable to send me home if he knew that I was awake, correct? Any other man, interested in me or not, would have phoned for an ambulance and had me whisked away to the cold, uncaring emergency room downtown where I would play the role of another name and number. I wondered what his choice to keep me there implied. He had spared me the discomfort of being hooked up to yet another saline drip, of having to prepare for another psychoanalysis, and the awkwardly quiet car ride home with Giselle. Had he personally diagnosed me for the mess that I was? Did he understand how deeply I hated the song and dance with paramedics and loved ones alike following a blackout? My mind, somehow, convinced me that he was on my side and I spent ten blissful minutes, dozing and feeling understood. Then the intercom popped on.

"Delivery for Henry Anderson," the static-riddled voice said, "you were the crazy dude who ordered everything on the menu, right?"

"Ah! Yes, yes! That was me," he responded, cheerfully. "I'll gladly assist you if you need help carrying everything."

The young man accepted this offer. Henry rose and left, closing the door behind him. I could hear every one of his movements for several seconds until he reached the furthest point of the hallway. An unshakable urge took over. I wanted to see what he had been working on- what had been so sacred to him that he eschewed the luxury of typing it up on a PC. Calligraphy was my first guess, but one look at the mountain of papers on his nightstand hinted otherwise. It was broken into three carefully piled stacks, two of which contained an even mix of the printer/notebook paper origin. Modern. The third was exclusively parchment paper, flourished with ink and signed with Henry's name. I examined the others, split between two authors: Emily Ballard-Tarleton and Arthur Tarleton, both of whom were writing from Columbia University in New York.

Emily's maiden name, Ballard, meant the most to me and so, that pile held my attention for the two quiet minutes that Henry had given me, alone in his private space. I wagered immediately and correctly that Emily was related to David Ballard, principal of Waterford High, and the bane of my existence, I might add. Her last contact with Henry was over a month prior and the envelope was addressed to his hotel room in the Fairfield Inn at Charleston Airport. The first paragraph was all that I was able to see before Henry's approaching voice forced me back into bed:

Hen,

I don't know what that ignoramus fool said to push you out of your ivory tower in Columbia. Do you know that I had to break into his office to find your address? Divorces are never easy and although Art and I never had children, this is the closest to a custody battle that I will ever venture. I care for you. You are just as much my responsibility as you are his and he is doing a piss poor job of keeping you in check. Charleston? Honestly? I suppose that is what happens when you combine the minds of a fraudulent history professor (I mean you no offence, honestly) with a crackpot (I mean all of the offence in the world to Arthur, honestly). You are an adult, when all is said and done. The five years that you spent under our watch has been life-altering for me. I can't believe how beautifully you have adapted into a respectable, high functioning modern gentleman.

As I listened to the crumpling of bags, paper and plastic alike, the friendly farewell (and apparently, gracious tip) from Henry to the delivery boy, my mind contorted and turned like a rubix cube. What the hell did I just read? I wondered, turning over on the pillow and growing distracted with how glorious it smelled. He didn't belong here, that much I understood. It sounded to me like he had intermingled with a strange bunch in New York and had undergone a transformation from who he was before. But who was he before he "became" the suave, intellectual Henry Anderson that I knew? A traveler, perhaps. Culture-shocked and alone in the largest and most baffling city in America. But would that cause such entitlement, such ownership from his two friends? Well, I knew nothing of Tartletons, but having known several Ballards, I did understand them to be controlling, persuasive creatures. It was a strange letter, to be sure. Stranger even than Giselle's weekly candy grams that she mailed to my Portland dorm. I believed that Henry was a treasure, someone who I would care about and hate being parted from and that is why I decided to forget what I had read.

"Miss Casey," he knocked softly. I rolled to my side and told him to come in. He remained where he was, standing politely beneath the doorframe. "I did not know what your preferences were, so I ordered one of everything from the Jade Garden."

After curling upright, I patted down my hair. "That was very sweet of you. But I had a huge lunch before my class," I lied.

"Miss Casey," he said, yet again. His eyes were filled heavily with concern and perhaps even confusion. "You might not believe this, but I possess the rare ability to read people. Shaking with nervousness, excitement, as a reaction to the cold and, in your case, with hunger, may appear similar to the untrained eye, but-"

"-you didn't call the paramedics," I started to shake again. This time, it was more nerves than hunger. Perhaps Henry spotted and understood that, too. "Thank you."

"Will you at least try something? I could start you off with a glass of water? A bit of the wine that you had in your tote?" He chuckled at my reddening cheeks and ears.

I would use the same method on him as I did with Giselle. Eat something out of politeness now and "detoxify" myself later. "Wine and a spring roll," I requested with shyness, "please." He brought our plates to the bed, along with two stemmed glassed filled with wine. My heart was sounding noisily behind my ribs like a tiger in a cage. I didn't want to eat in front of him. It seemed a disgusting, savage act. "Cheers," I muttered, sipping as daintily as I could with a wobbling hand.

"To your good health," Henry replied. He didn't mean to sound ironic and yet, he did. "Do you remember what you told me before you blacked out?" Those eyes, those extraordinary blue eyes watched me as I took my second, third and fourth sip in silence. "Marigold? I must know what is wrong before I can help you."

Annoyance was my initial reaction. Was he one of those people who wanted the satisfaction of hearing the word? That single, stupid, clinical-sounding name that supposedly encompassed the depravation, the cancelled meetings, the broken friendships and hearts that it left in its wake? I would not give it to him or anyone else. "I miss Portland," I looked at him, straight and focused, knowing that liars had wandering eyes. It was the truth within the lie, however, that kept my gaze steady. He seemed a genuine, trustworthy man despite the cloud of mystery that surrounded him. "I miss Waterford," my chest began to swell with emotion. One by one, I plucked each thought from my soul and laid them bare in front of us both for examination. "I miss what Waterford used to be. When my parents were still here. When the museum was all that mattered to my family and the schoolhouse was just a pretty trinket on the back shelf. All that I ever wanted to do was restore it. Now that it's in my hands, I don't know what to do with the responsibility. It should be easy… holding down my job, saving up, recalling each detail that my father told me about how the Old Hardwick House became the Waterford Museum, applying that knowledge to restoring the schoolhouse, navigating the bullshit that the schoolboard and Principal Ballard-" I stopped myself. The edges around his eyes wrinkled endearingly as he grinned. This was our common ground, our pivoting point. "You know the bastard?"

"I know the bastard's twin sister," Henry chuckled. "We've had coffee once or twice. One might say the Ballard Family and my own go back for several generations!" Either it was the wine or the levity of being so close to placing this charming stranger within the geography and chronology of my own hometown, but I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. He could tell. He read me like a book. "You are concerned for the schoolhouse because it is on the same property as Dave Ballard's high school?"

I sloshed my wine around, creating a tiny, golden cyclone in my palm. "You might not know this about me, Henry, but I've had a vision for that building from the day that my father told me about Annabelle Casey. She was a storyteller, just like me. She loved theatre and poetry and she used that space to pass the tradition along. During a time when women had little say in the way that the world around them fit together and functioned, no less. That is what I want for the schoolhouse and what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to spread the gift of storytelling to young adults, who have since forgotten its power and are at that awkward, lonely time in their lives when no one else will listen. They need to find their voices. They are the ones who need stories the most." I had to stop. I knew that if I kept talking, I would tell him about high school and the origin of my illness.

"You have told Ballard this?"

"Not in so many words," I laughed, "he called me after my parents died… must have heard one of the Martins gossiping about my inheritance in the café. He asked me to name my price. Waterford High has been trying to turn it into a holding space for sports and band equipment for as long as I've been alive!"

He shifted into deep thought. For several minutes, we sat, memorizing the collection of bubbles and glints of lamplight on the surface of our wine glasses. He would look over at me from time to time but would not return my smile. Finally, he stood and without saying so much as a single word, crossed into the living room, lifted the handle of the rotary phone on his desk and dialed.

"Dave, hello," I heard him say, "… I am quite well, thank you. And yourself?... Splendid!... Are you free for coffee again this week?... No, Emily has nothing to do with this arrangement, but it is important…" He continued, traipsing around the heart of the matter, but not once revealing his intentions. Meanwhile, I tried to stand. It took a while to find my feet. Lightheaded and buzzed, I walked towards him. The mess of bags and takeout boxes on the counter made me blush. He was doing all of this, on my account, because he truly cared. "I cannot make you any guarantees," Henry told me once the phone call ended, "but it is worth a try." With crossed arms, I leaned against the wall for support. That look, the same one that I first saw when I was dabbing lightly at his bloody nose, returned. It was not born of affection or adoration, but of surprise. He must have felt as though he was staring too long and too intensely. "I can put a record on if you would like," the enchantment in his eyes diminished and he set his sights on the stack of vinyl across the room. "Every Waterfordian I've spoken to since arriving is barking mad over Johnny Cash! I finally gave his entire catalog a listen and let me tell you, "get rhythm when you get the blues" is the best bit of advice that I have ever received!"

"Some music might be nice," I went to stand alongside him. His collection was new. Nearly every cover bore a label from Waterford Records. Even the turntable, itself, had a sticker from the local thrift store on the inside.

"Lady's choice," Henry said, stepping aside.

I traced my fingertips over the line of worn covers. Every place in town from the café to the elevators in doctor's offices and business buildings played music of the Rockabilly genre. Nobody would be able to guess that he was not a local by looking at his vinyls alone. "We've corrupted you already," I joked, reaching for Elvis and dropping the needle on his most predictable love song. "How long have you been in town for?"

My song choice must have worked. I thought at first that he was going to ask me to dance. The way that his large, soft hand cradled my own was certainly an implication. The wine had worked, too, apparently. I wanted to tell him that we were being completely idiotic. But that fateful line in the music shot through our hearts like cupid's arrow. I can't help falling in love with you. Gravity did the rest. "Long enough to fall in love," Henry whispered before sweetening my lips with a tender, wine-drenched kiss.