Title: Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series
Chapter 35: Eppes in Love
Authors: Rabid Raccoons
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
Don and Ana pushed open the door of the cabin and flicked on a light. Minnie had dropped them off after dinner; the cabin was the fourth one down; a healthy distance from Minerva's own home, and set back in the woods a bit from the other cabins, for added privacy. The camp was full; all of the dozen or so cabins were occupied, although most of the renters were in for the evening.
They escaped gratefully; dinner had been a tense affair. Charlie maintained that he wasn't up for it, but Minerva insisted on serving him soup in bed. The rest of them ate chicken breasts with wild rice and mushrooms; the food was delicious, but the atmosphere between Alan and Minerva was icy. Don and Ana beat a hasty retreat afterward, and only Don's injuries kept him from carrying their luggage down to their cabin himself.
Inside, he breathed a sigh of relief, but found himself suddenly tongue-tied, not a normal situation for him around anyone, especially a beautiful woman. Minnie had tucked a bottle of wine in his bag, a nice Cabernet, and he pulled it out, as Ana feigned interest in the knick-knacks on a shelf. "Wine?" he asked, holding it up.
Ana jumped at the offer. "Oh, yes, please, that would be nice." She would latch onto any distraction at the moment, she thought to herself. She finally had some real time alone with a man who had already won her heart, but suddenly she felt shy. What did he feel? Was he as attracted to her as she was to him? He must be, to invite her along on his family vacation, she told herself. She tried to bolster her courage with a sip of wine as he handed her a glass, but her past, as always in a new relationship, came back to haunt her. Part of her was broken, she knew, by Macedo. She had never been able to shake the feeling that she was somehow unclean, undeserving of a real relationship. It had undermined every other liaison she had ever attempted; why should she think this one would work?
Still, it seemed different, this one. She was so comfortable with Don; in spite of the electric physical attraction. It just seemed right, she thought, as he took her hand and drew her to sit on the sofa next to him. She leaned against him, fitting perfectly into the space under his arm, and they clinked glasses. "To vacation," proposed Don.
"To vacation," she echoed with a smile. She followed it with a shake of her head. "Ai, poor Charlie. I am not sure what a vacation this will be for him."
Don chuckled. "Are you kidding? My dad and Minerva will be fighting over who can coddle him more. He's got it made. Besides, he's not up for a lot besides that, right now; he needs rest, to recuperate. I can't think of a better place to do that than here."
She cocked her head, questioningly. "Why did he come here before?"
Don's smile faded a little, and he took a drink of wine, and set his glass on the coffee table. "I imagine for that very reason. He was struggling, after what had happened – he'd been imprisoned, kidnapped, nearly killed. He was dealing with all of that, plus the loss of Amita."
She set her glass down next to his and considered that for a moment. "I'm surprised you let him come alone."
Don shook his head. "I didn't. He took off without telling us – scared us half to death. It was days before I figured out where he was, and then when I got here, Penfield was here." His voice trailed off, his jaw hardened, and his eyes grew dark. Ana got a glimpse of something she hadn't seen in him before – the agent, the man who dealt with a darker side of life.
Instead of repelling her, she felt a deep bond, a connection. They had both been touched by things that were black, that were evil, which were avoided by most. They would forever be affected by the association, but it had not conquered them; in spite of it, they had survived. She turned to look at him, and found him studying her; and their eyes locked.
Don stared into her eyes, mesmerizing, beautiful, even with their undercurrent of pain. He wanted to wash it away, to make her forget. Her breathing had quickened, and he suddenly drew her to him, burying a hand in her hair, his lips meeting hers in a deep, passionate kiss. Don felt his entire body, his soul responding, with an intensity he'd never felt before. It was a declaration of something unspoken, an acknowledgment of where they were headed next, and when they parted, each of them could read it in the other's eyes.
"Are you ready for this?" he asked softly.
Her lips brushed his. "Yes. More than anything in my life."
He smiled, and rising, took her hand and led her into the bedroom.
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
The ensuing week brought healing for all of them. During the course of it, Minerva and Alan had seemed to come to a truce, and much to Don's surprise, actually progressed to the point where they seemed to be enjoying each other's company – although he had to admit, that scared him a little.
Charlie was up and around again, and seemed to be in the process of regaining his strength. Sleep, good food, and sunshine had put a little weight back on him and a little color in his face. He seemed unusually quiet, but always had a smile for Don and Ana when they were around, which Don had to admit, somewhat guiltily, wasn't much. He was head-over-heels, completely consumed with Ana – the sight, touch, smell, taste and sound of her, and he couldn't seem to get enough. Once in a while he would catch Charlie's eyes on him, dark and solemn, but as soon as their gaze met, Charlie would smile, and Don took it as his brother's way of saying he was okay with the arrangements. He kept telling himself that he needed to do something with Charlie, just the two of them, but the opportunity hadn't arisen, partly because of the fact that Charlie was on crutches, still not very mobile, and Don hadn't quite figured out what that something was.
Maybe today would bring an opportunity, he thought, as he strolled with Ana up the walk toward the water. Minerva had planned a picnic at the water's edge, and she, Alan and Charlie were rolling slowly over the trail ahead of them in a battered golf cart, a concession to Charlie and his crutches. They pulled out of the woods to a grassy area above the shoreline, and as Don and Ana stepped out of the woods behind them, the first thing that hit him was the view. It was a glorious summer afternoon; and the bay stretched out in front of them, blue and sparking. It was as always, in motion, with small choppy waves cascading on the rocks below, providing a soothing backdrop of sound. Minerva and Alan had already made at least one trip, and camp chairs had been set up, along with a small grill, and a fire had been laid for later in the evening.
The second thing that assailed him was a cascade of memories. Below and a few hundred yards to the right were the docks, where Crazy Pete had brought him ashore through the storm in his frantic attempt to get back to the island, to Charlie. He had run up that slope, and through the woods in the darkness, in the storm…His thoughts broke off as he caught sight of the boat chugging into a mooring on the dock; maybe it was his imagination, but it actually looked like Crazy Pete.
His suspicion was confirmed as Minerva shaded her eyes with her hand, gazing at the now approaching figure, stumping up the slope. "Pete! What is that idiot doing here?"
The rest of them raised their eyebrows at her description, obviously wondering what had generated her reaction, except for Don, who had a good idea. He moved in front of Ana, sincerely hoping the man kept his nasal secretions to himself, and watched with amusement as Alan performed the same maneuver, putting himself in front of not only Charlie, who was sliding off the seat of the golf cart, but also Minnie.
Pete's appearance was enough to generate a fight-or-flight response in anyone. Unshaven, clad in ragged clothes that looked as though they'd never seen a washer, he peered at them with a half-deranged look. At least Don thought he was peering at them – it was hard to tell which, if any, of his skewed eyeballs was actually making visual contact.
"Hey, Minerva," he bellowed, as he plodded up. "I was out to Pelican Point, and I thought I'd stop by and see ya." His head swiveled, and Don surmised that he was looking at them. He had an almost uncontrollable impulse to look out at the harbor, because that's where Pete's eyes, or one of them, appeared to be looking, but he stifled it with an effort. Pete sniffed, and Don braced himself for a spitball, but it didn't come. "Got a few rentahs, huh?"
Minerva was smiling, but her eyes were sharp. "Actually, Pete, I've got company, from California." She appeared to have a hard time getting the next words out. "You're welcome to sit with us a spell."
Pete broke into a gap-toothed grin. "Don't mind if I do." He stumped over to a camp chair and plopped into it. "Nice day, ain't it?" He was smiling, but one of his eyes wandered suspiciously toward Alan.
And so, Pete came to join the party. Much to Don's amusement, he planted himself firmly on one side of Minnie and Alan on the other, and they vied for her attention and conversation, glaring at each other, while she sat demurely in the center with a smile on her face that said she was enjoying it all thoroughly. The late afternoon passed quickly, with conversation, and a round of Frisbee for everyone except Charlie and Crazy Pete. Dinnertime brought white wine, and grilled seafood kabobs, which Minnie and Alan had concocted together.
Charlie sat quietly during the festivities, and watched as Don put an arm around Ana, and Alan and Minnie bent their heads together conspiratorially over the grill, giggling like teenagers. He was surrounded by friends and family, and had never felt more alone in his life. He was painfully certain that he was a fifth wheel, and only the presence of Crazy Pete kept him from excusing himself. Instead, he retreated to a blanket, and into a notebook, half-filled with scribbled equations. He had filled five of them during the week; they were the only thing that had kept him sane.
He had decided, that first morning, when Don and Ana showed up late, with a sparkle in their eyes, clearly infatuated with each other, that he would make himself scarce. As the week wore on, he alternated between sunning himself on Minnie's patio and secluding himself in his room, always with a notebook. He punctuated the sessions with half-hearted attempts at eating, and short jaunts on his crutches to build up his strength, but largely he kept to himself.
He had to admit, however, that his self-imposed exile wasn't just for Don and Ana's sake. He was struggling mightily with his own emotions. He was still dealing with the violence and horror of his bout with Macedo. Even more profoundly however, he felt a sadness that he hadn't felt since he first learned of Amita's death, and he wasn't at all sure where it was coming from. At least sadness was part of it; he couldn't begin to understand the rest of his emotions – frustration, a sense of loss, a sense that life was moving on without him and he was standing still.
Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and let his mind drift, a vision would fill it – cornflower blue eyes, and honey-colored hair, a shy smile…He'd jerk his mind back to reality almost angrily. How could he think about Lydia? It was completely unfair to Amita; she was gone because of him, because of her association with him. On top of that, Lydia was something he could never have. She was vulnerable after what had happened – and then he had taken advantage of her vulnerability and kissed her, made a pass at her. It was reprehensible on his part – the way she had run from the room had been testament enough of that. Yes, it was deplorable, and the worst part was, if she were here, he would do it again in a heartbeat. Desert Amita's memory; take advantage of a soft, beautiful, wonderful woman. What kind of uncouth, low person would do that, he asked himself, with disgust.
He had made it through dinner, and the sun was setting. He watched Ana and Don stroll to the edge of the slope and look out at the sunset, holding hands, and then saw Minerva and Alan join them. There was only him and Pete now, two misfits, and even Pete was oblivious of him; he sat glowering at the group. A wave of sadness washed over Charlie; he suddenly couldn't take this anymore – he needed to get away. He struggled to his feet, and crutched toward the docks up the coastline.
He couldn't go back to the cabin, as much as he wanted to; it was too far on his crutches, and he couldn't drive the golf cart with his injured leg. He was sure his father would try to convince him to stay – it was better to just pretend he was taking a walk - make that a hobble - of his own. One thing he knew – he needed some solitude, and he needed it fast – he could feel tears, humiliating tears, rising.
As he neared the docks he scanned the hillside leading down to them. He remembered, very vaguely, coming down the hill in the storm at night to the Coast Guard cutter, but he had been so concerned about Don and his injuries, he didn't actually remember how they had gotten down the hill. As he approached, he saw that there was a concrete ramp leading down to the docks, and he headed for it without hesitation. Maybe the others would think he'd simply gone down to look at the boats; it would be a good place to sit for awhile until he could get himself back together. He crutched down the ramp, fighting the rising lump in his throat.
Don caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head to see Charlie, silhouetted against pale orange sky, headed toward the docks. "Now where is he going?" he wondered aloud.
"Perhaps to look at the boats," conjectured Ana. She looked out at the water and sighed with contentment. It was the time of evening when the sun turned the sky soft pastels, and the water took on a gleaming metallic cast, rolling like molten silver.
Don could see that Alan's eyes were on Charlie also, his expression sober, contemplative. "He seems like he's doing okay," offered Don.
Alan shot him a sharp, calculating glance, as Minnie moved beside him. "You think so?"
Don looked a little taken aback. "What, you don't?"
Alan turned his gaze toward Charlie again, and watched as the curly head descended the ramp and out of sight behind an outcropping of rocks. "Physically, I think he's healing. Mentally, well, he's struggling a bit."
Don felt a twinge of uneasiness. "He seemed fine to me," he protested.
"Oh, he tries to be upbeat, I think, especially when you two are around. The rest of the time though, he hides in his room or out on the patio, alone, working in his notebooks. Minnie and I try to draw him out, but it hasn't been working too well."
Minnie's eyes were in the direction of the docks now too, and they watched as the solitary figure appeared on the other side of the outcropping, hobbling down the dock to the end. "I used to work in a VA hospital when I was younger," she said softly. "The men there had gone through a lot, but it didn't always hit them right away. Sometimes it took a little while, sometimes months, before they came to terms with what had happened to them. It's not so unusual, really."
Don looked from her to Charlie, stricken. Had his brother really been having that hard of a time, and he hadn't seen it? He'd been so completely consumed with Ana, and he'd spent so little time with Charlie, that he couldn't see he was in trouble. The thought brought a sickening wave of guilt, and he turned as he felt a gentle squeeze on his arm.
Ana looked at him sympathetically. "Why don't you go talk to him now? It's a good opportunity, yes?"
Don looked at her, and then at Alan, as if looking for confirmation. "Yeah, maybe I will. I'll be back in a bit."
He didn't wait for the confirmation, but took off with a loping jog, a concession to his injured leg. It didn't hurt too much when he walked anymore, but he could feel it now. He slowed as he hit the ramp; the downward tilt made any speed faster than a walk awkward. It emptied out onto a small wharf, built on the rocks, with docks radiating out from it. Small waves crashed against the pilings and the rocks, creating an overlying muted roar, and so Charlie didn't hear him as he approached.
At first Don thought his brother was simply admiring the sunset. He was seated at the end of the dock, his braced leg stretched out in front of him, the other crossed in front, with his crutches beside him. He was hunched slightly with his arms wrapped around his middle, his face in quarter profile; his chin lifted.
Don stepped up behind him. "Nice view, huh?"
Charlie's head whipped around, reflexively, and he turned it away immediately, but not before Don caught the wetness on his cheek. His heart sank.
"Yeah," Charlie cleared his throat, ran a hand over his face, trying to sound normal. "It's a great sunset."
Don paused, trying to figure out his next statement. Clearly, Charlie was dealing with some heavy stuff, and just as clearly, he was trying to hide it. Was it better to tackle it head-on, or work up to it? Don wondered. He sat down on the rough docking next to Charlie, ever so slightly behind him to give him a little privacy, a chance to hide his face, and crossed his legs.
"So, uh, how are you feeling?" It came out sounding lame, and Don winced, but Charlie answered it matter-of-factly.
"Okay." Shrug. "The staples in my leg are itching."
"Yeah, Ana said they need to come out tomorrow. She got permission from your doctor for her to do it – she's done it before. They gave her some kind of kit." Don paused. "You've been pretty quiet. You okay?"
Another shrug, and then came a response so low that Don could hardly hear it. "I guess so."
Don sighed. The roundabout tactic wasn't working very well, so he decided on a direct frontal approach. "Look, Buddy, I can tell something's bothering you. You know you can talk to me, right?"
Charlie turned his head a bit to the left, so that Don couldn't see his face. A part of him wanted desperately to talk, but a part was afraid of what would come tumbling out, afraid he'd break down. He paused for a moment on the precipice. "I don't know – I just – I just feel that life is moving on without me, I guess."
Don felt his heart twist. He had been a big reason for that; he was sure – he and his involvement with Ana. He cast about for words, but Charlie continued before he could say anything.
"A part of me wants to move on, but I still miss Amita – so much. And I feel like if I were to move on, I would be deserting her. It wouldn't be right – I'm the reason she was killed to begin with." In spite of his efforts to sound emotionless, his voice cracked a little, and Don's heart melted.
He scooted closer and put an arm around Charlie's shoulders. "You need to get one thing straight, bro," he said, gently but firmly. "You were not the reason she was killed. You didn't ask Macedo to come after you – you were every bit as much of a victim as she was. It was not your fault."
Charlie drew a shaky breath. Don could see his face now, twisted with pain, a fresh tear coursing down his cheek, and he continued. "Actually, I don't think you're standing still, Buddy – the fact that you are talking about wanting to move on means you're making progress – it's the first time you've said that since Amita's been gone. She would want you to move on, Charlie. You're only thirty-two years old. She would never expect you to give up the rest of your life, any more than you would expect her to, if the situation was reversed." He paused for a moment, and looked at Charlie questioningly. "When you say move on, what did you have in mind?"
Charlie shot him a glance; then looked away again. "I don't know," he mumbled despondently, so low that Don could hardly hear him over the sound of the wind and the surf. "It doesn't matter – we couldn't have a relationship anyway."
"Who is 'we?'"
Charlie looked at him miserably. "Lydia Campbell. I can't stop thinking about her. I kissed her – she'd just been through that – nightmare, and I took advantage of her. The second time, anyway. The first time Macedo made us do it."
Don frowned, bewildered, trying to make sense out the statements. "Wait – Macedo made you kiss?"
Charlie looked away. "Yeah, I wasn't sure why at first, but when you told me that the police said he planted the notes on her computer and mine, I realized that he was probably trying to plant DNA evidence – our DNA, on each other." He shot a sideways glance at Don, taking in his shocked look. "Pretty sick, huh?" He looked back out at the water again. "So she had me forced on her – twice. The second time was in the hospital – I kissed her again."
Don raised an eyebrow. "Forced on her, huh? Did she kiss you back?"
Charlie's voice was low. "Yeah. I think she was being polite."
Don snorted softly. "Charlie, I saw her in action. She's one determined woman when she wants to be. I don't think she'd kiss a guy just to be polite."
Charlie groaned and ran a hand over his face. "I don't know – I'm so confused. I keep thinking of Amita, and I feel like I should forget all of that – just concentrate on my career – it's safer. I can't stop thinking about Lydia though, and I know it's not right – I don't know what's wrong with me."
Don gave him a squeeze. "Nothing's wrong with you, Buddy. Not a thing – you're in love, that's all. Trust me, I know the symptoms."
Charlie finally turned his face, and looked him directly in the eye, with a forlorn expression. "But it doesn't matter much. She's in Kansas City – and anyway, it's not fair for me to try to start anything. She can't be thinking straight after what happened – she just lost her husband – it's too soon. I'd just be taking advantage of her again."
Don was just preparing to reply, when a shriek made both of their heads snap around. From their seated position on the dock, they couldn't see up the rocky slope behind them, but the sound had come from the picnic area. Don jumped to his feet, as Charlie grabbed for his crutches. To his shock, Don could see Alan and Pete, grappling with each other in an awkward dance in front of the fire pit, each of them trying to get a grip on the other man. "Aw, geez, Buddy – I gotta break this up!"
"Break what up?" gasped Charlie. He frantically tried to get his good leg under him, as Don sprinted up the dock. Using his crutches he pushed upward – too hard, in his haste. He was trying to turn, and that compounded the issue. He'd just managed to get erect, and get a brief glimpse of the group in the distance, when he staggered badly. He stepped hard on his bad leg, which threw him back a step, and his good leg landed on the very edge of the dock, with part of his foot hanging backwards off it. He dropped his crutches, and for a moment, he was suspended in a wild dance, arms wind-milling frantically. One last desperate grab at the air, and he was gone, plunging over the edge of the dock into the icy Atlantic.
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
End Chapter 35