Faran: Yes, there's more. Don't underestimate the extent of my long-windedness. ;)
Chapter Twenty-Three
He didn't see her at first when he opened his eyes, but he noticed right away that the room was unusually light. Then he raised his head from the pillow and spotted her, sitting in the window seat with the curtains drawn all the way back. She had the window wide open, and she was leaning out slightly, with a faraway, distant look in her eyes. A cool autumn breeze drifted in and fluttered her hair back from her face. He watched her, mesmerized, wondering what she was thinking about, and then realized with a tinge of irritation that he had absolutely no idea, and most likely never would. He sighed a little, and she finally turned in his direction.
"You're awake," she said.
"Good observation," he drawled. "You mind tellin' me why you're hangin' out the damn window?" As he said this, he lazily tossed the blankets off and shuffled over to stand next to her.
"When we were outside yesterday, I noticed the leaves were changing color, but I didn't really have a chance to look. This is my favorite time of the year," she explained.
"That so?" he asked, sliding into the space behind her on the seat and pulling her back against him.
"Uh-huh. What's yours?"
"My what?"
"Your favorite time of year."
"Don't have one."
"Everybody has one, Sawyer. Which season do you look forward to the most?"
"I don't know," he groaned. Why did women always feel the need to ask shit like this? Couldn't they just accept the fact that guys didn't give a damn?
She waited, trying to force an answer.
"Winter, I guess," he finally admitted.
"How come?"
"Because it's cold and you gotta do stuff to warm up," he said slyly. He trailed kisses from her shoulder up to her ear, trying to lead her thoughts in a different direction.
It didn't work. "Look at that maple out there," she said, gesturing down toward the valley. "Isn't that beautiful?"
"Mmm-hmm..." he murmured, still kissing her.
"You didn't even look!" she sad accusingly.
He ignored her.
"Your aunt took off in the middle of the night."
Now he stopped kissing her and sighed. Any mention of Aunt Meg was a surefire way to take his mind off of sex.
"How do you know that?"
"Because I was down there when she left. Don't you remember me coming back in and waking you up?"
"Yeah...what the hell was that about?"
"I don't know," she said softly. "But you were right...we can trust her. I'm glad I got a chance to talk to her before she left."
"What'd you two have to talk about?" Sawyer asked, sounding incredulous.
"You, mostly." She turned around slightly to look at him, smiling.
"Great," he replied, sounding less than thrilled. "What did she say?"
"My lips are sealed," Kate said, turning and leaning back against him.
"Nothin' new there," he muttered sarcastically.
He felt her tense up a little and knew that she was hurt, but he couldn't exactly say he regretted it.
After a few seconds, she said quietly, "Listen. Do you hear that?"
At first, he didn't hear anything, but then his ears picked up a faint, discordant honking.
"Geese," he told her.
They both looked out the window and up at the clouds as an enormous flock passed by far overhead, tiny Vs of black against the overcast sky. The sound of honking rose to a crescendo. It looked like at least twenty flocks banded together into one, on their way south for the winter, following the path of their ancestors down the Appalachian corridor.
"There must be thousands of them," Kate breathed.
He felt her shiver slightly, and intrigued, he looked away from the geese and watched her face instead. There was something about her gaze that deeply unnerved him, although he couldn't pinpoint why. She watched the flock wistfully, and also, he thought, a bit enviously. He felt a shadow pass across his heart. With a vague sense of dread, he laced his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand tightly, almost as if he was trying to hold her back from something.
Distracted by his movement, she turned back toward him with a questioning look, trying to read his expression. They looked into each others' eyes for a second.
Perhaps picking up on his undefined fear, Kate leaned into him and kissed him, lingering on his bottom lip. When she pulled back, he raised his hands to the sides of her face, searching her features, trying to determine if what he'd seen there was real or imagined. But whatever it had been, it was gone now. She looked like herself again.
Running his fingers lightly from her temples down to her jaw line, he realized that he'd never once seen her with makeup on. She hadn't had any on the island, and she didn't have any here. Did she ever wear any, even when she had access to it? In a way, he hoped not. She didn't need it. There was something incredibly erotic about her naturalism, the way she could always look beautiful without any effort at all. Besides, makeup would cover up her freckles, and he couldn't stand the thought of that.
Having had enough of his scrutiny, Kate kissed him again, and then stopped, abruptly, asking with a mischievous smile, "What's that?"
"What?" he asked.
She lowered her hands slowly to his lap. "Did you wake up with that?
"I don't know," he said playfully. "Can't recall. Why...you interested?" If she was trying to distract him, she was doing a damn fine job.
"Maybe," she said, still smiling. Kissing him, she kept her hands moving on him in an infuriatingly gentle motion.
"Don't be startin' nothin' you can't finish, sweet cheeks," he whispered.
"I wouldn't dream of it," she said in an innocent tone, tugging on the elastic of his boxers.
Over an hour later, they were finally roused from the room by an impatient, accusing bark at the door. It was the first time Gus had ventured upstairs, and he seemed to be telling them that he'd had enough of their fooling around. They both felt a little guilty at the fact that they kept getting so wrapped up in each other that they completely forgot the existence of the dog.
To compensate, Kate spent most of the morning on the floor playing with the puppy, trying to make up for her lack of attention. The sky continued to darken and the thermometer continued to drop. At noon, the weather forecast predicted a bad thunderstorm with temperatures possibly reaching down into the forties.
"Told you it was a stupid idea to get that damn air conditioner fixed," Sawyer said.
She rolled her eyes and refused to answer him.
Later, for an experiment, she tried to turn the heater on just to see what would happen. She wasn't at all surprised when absolutely nothing happened.
Entering the kitchen, she stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, looking at him. He was going through the box of moldy record albums Aunt Meg had left, trying to decide whether to toss them out or not. Glancing up at her, he asked wearily, "What?"
She sighed and closed her eyes for a second. "You're gonna be pissed at me for even bringing this up."
"I reckon that won't stop ya though, will it?" Distracted, he held up another album, this one Wayne Newton. "What the hell was she thinkin'?" he muttered, shaking his head in contempt.
"Your heater doesn't work," Kate said. "How did you ever live here, Sawyer? What did you do, just camp out? Pitch a tent in the living room?"
He turned toward her again, annoyed. "Worked fine last winter. You're probably just not turnin' it on right."
"I flipped the switch to 'ON'," she said dryly. "You have some secret code built into it, or something?"
"Pilot light might be out. What do you want it on for, anyway? It ain't cold yet."
"No, but it will be tonight. And it'll just keep getting colder every day from now on." She waited. "So could you check the pilot light?" she asked impatiently
He exhaled slowly in irritation, but he was embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that he was starting to enjoy this quasi-domestic spatting. When she badgered him about things like this, it made him feel somehow useful...like she needed him. He knew she was perfectly capable of lighting a fuse herself, but she wanted him to do it. He was oddly grateful to her for that.
After lighting the fuse, however, both were frustrated to discover that the damn thing still didn't work.
Pulling on a flannel shirt, Sawyer headed downstairs.
"Where are you going?" Kate asked curiously, following him.
"To chop some wood."
"For what?"
"The fireplace," he said, looking at her like she was an idiot. "In the living room. You never notice it before?"
"I noticed it," she said defensively. "I just didn't think you were the type to actually use it."
"Well, looks like we don't have much choice, do we, Freckles?"
"What are you mad at me for? You act like I broke the thing on purpose."
"Lock the door when I'm gone," he said, ignoring her. "And stay inside."
He found a chainsaw in the shed and gassed it up, enjoying the heft of it in his hands. He hardly ever used the thing, but every time he did, he enjoyed it. This time was no exception.
Locating a dead and decaying hickory tree on the path to the lake, he proceeded to saw it into manageable sections, not hurrying, taking pleasure in the way the sawdust and wood chips flew up and scented the air, mixing with the gasoline smell of the chainsaw. It was a rugged, masculine smell, and he was suddenly surprised by what he could only describe as a pang of homesickness for the island.
Back there, this kind of task (although without the benefit of the chainsaw) had been necessary for existence. And although he'd wanted nothing more than to get back to civilization as fast as he possibly could, it seemed that part of him hadn't minded that kind of life as much as he'd thought. On the other hand...taking care of Kate was proving to require almost as much physical exertion as life on the island, so maybe things hadn't changed that much, after all.
He pulled the truck down to the spot where he'd sawed the wood and piled it into the back. As he worked, a low, distant growl of thunder rumbled across the sky. He glanced up at the slate-blue October storm clouds, and, for the second time that day, felt an unaccountable dread...for what, he had no idea. He liked storms. It couldn't have anything to do with that. Then what the hell was it?
He unloaded the wood next to the back porch and then used an axe to split the round logs into smaller pieces that would fit into the fireplace. Every few seconds, when he turned toward the house, he noticed the curtain twitch suspiciously. He realized with amusement that Kate was watching him. Even here, she was somehow drawn to the spectacle of him engaging in physical labor. Grinning secretively, he showed off for her a little, using much more strength than was necessary to divide the dry wood into kindling.
When he'd finished, he started to pile the pieces on the covered porch, up against the side of the house where they'd be protected from the weather. Kate came out to help.
"Thought I told you to stay inside," he said, trying to sound annoyed.
"It could start raining any second...We need to get that up here before it does."
He didn't argue with her, since the wood was right next to the house and she didn't need to go far. Besides, he liked it when she referred to them as "we." They worked without speaking, piling up the logs tightly in a rick formation next to the kitchen door. He watched her, admiring the way she lifted more than she could handle easily just to prove that she could. Unconsciously, they turned it into a kind of race, both piling from opposite sides and hurrying to see who could get the farthest before the logs ran out. It was close to a tie, which they didn't acknowledge, since they hadn't acknowledged they were even competing in the first place.
Almost on cue, the rain began just as they finished piling on the last handfuls. They stood and watched it for a second, Kate breathing in deeply as the wind picked up and blew a bracingly chilly gust their way.
"The color of the sky makes the leaves look even brighter," she said, almost as if she was talking to herself.
Sawyer grabbed a few of the split logs and held the door open. "Better come on in," he said warningly.
Tearing her gaze away from the yard, she turned toward him, smiling a little sadly. "I know."
She followed him in and he instructed her to wad up some newspapers. Stuffing them into the fireplace, he laid the logs on top and struck a match. "Here goes nothin," he said.
The paper took the flame and then transferred it to the logs. A cheerful, crackling sound began. Sawyer watched it proudly.
After a few seconds, however, Kate asked, "Is the smoke supposed to come back into the room like that?"
"It'll clear out," he said, sounding troubled. "Just give it a few minutes."
But the smoke continued to billow out into the living room; dark, acrid swirls of it obscuring everything.
Kate coughed, holding her hand up to her mouth. "I don't think this is supposed to happen, Sawyer! How long has it been since you've had the chimney cleaned out?"
"What?" he asked, looking at her like she was crazy. "Who the hell would I get to do that?"
"I don't know! A chimney sweep, maybe?" She picked up a blanket and flapped it in the air, trying to clear a space to breathe in.
"A chimney sweep? Sweetheart, unless you got personal connections with Mary Poppins, I think you might have a hard time hirin' one in the 21st century!"
"Well, somebody must still do it!" she said, exasperated. She went to pull back the curtains, opening up the windows as wide as they would go. "You're gonna have to put the fire out...Go get some salt!"
Annoyed, he knew she was right. He went to the kitchen and returned with the bag of salt. Luckily, there was just enough left to quench the still meager flames. After most of the smoke had cleared out, sucked through the open windows, he stuck his head into the chimney, and, with a flashlight angled into the darkness, peered up the flue.
"What are you doing?" Kate asked wearily.
"Bird's nest," he said, spotting the problem. "It's as big as a damn pizza. That's what's blockin' the smoke. Go get me a broom," he said, craning his neck to look at her.
Sighing, she brought him one from the pantry.
Holding the flashlight with his left hand, he raised the broom awkwardly with his right and began poking around, lifting it as high as he could reach. Kate almost held her breath, clenching her fists together apprehensively. Dislodging the nest with the broom, he was able to lower it fairly slowly down beside him. "See?" he asked, looking at the long-abandoned, petrified bundle of sticks and straw. Kate let her breath out in relief.
Suddenly, with an audible whoosh, a veritable gush of soot and ashes raced down the chimney, apparently disturbed by the passage of the nest.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Sawyer yelled, jerking his upper body out of the fireplace. But it was too late. His head, neck, shoulders, and chest were almost completely blackened. Standing up, he spat ashes from his mouth and wiped his eyes in a fit of rage.
Kate stood completely still, her hand frozen to her mouth, not moving.
He glared at her. "You think this is funny?"
"No," she said, very carefully. She tried to avoid looking directly at him.
"Like hell you don't."
She almost looked like she was in pain. "You should probably go take a shower," she whispered.
"Yeah, thanks for the advice," he said savagely. "Why don't you do me a favor and try to get all your laughin' over with by the time I get back, all right?"
She bit her lip, hard, still not looking at him. He climbed the stairs in a heavy, angry manner and she heard the bathroom door slam.
Collapsing onto the couch, she buried her face in a pillow and let the hysterics take over, laughing until she couldn't catch her breath.
Gus trotted in, took one look at her, became alarmed, and went back out.
When Sawyer came back down, she looked somewhat chastened and guilty. Her face was still red and her eyes were gleaming, but he could tell she felt bad. In his absence, she'd cleared away the bird's nest and the mess he'd tracked across the floor, and she'd even managed to re-light the fire. It burned brightly now, the smoke disappearing neatly up the chimney.
She stood up and kissed him, a form of apology. "Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?" he asked, still sulking.
"For the fire. It feels warmer in here already."
"It better," he muttered. "See that?" He raised his hand, palm up, for her inspection.
She looked at it, not seeing anything. "What am I looking at?"
"It's a splinter," he replied, offended.
"Oh," she said, still not seeing it, but pretending that she did. "Do you have a needle anywhere?"
"I don't know. Doubt it."
"In this entire house, you don't have one single needle?"
He thought for a second, annoyed that he'd even brought this up. "That room you were stayin' in...It used to be my grandma's sewing room. There might be one in there."
"I'll get it," she said quickly.
"No, you don't where to look. I think I know where it would be, if it's there."
Her eyes followed him nervously up the stairs.
He entered the room and flipped the light on, going over to the other side of the bed and opening the drawer in the nightstand. If he remembered correctly, there was a pincushion in here. Where there were pins, there might be needles. At least that was his reasoning.
He saw the pincushion immediately and pulled it out, but his eye was distracted by something else. A bulky handkerchief, wadded up into a bundle. When he brushed it aside, it felt heavy.
Curious, he pulled it out and unwrapped the fabric, spreading it out on the bed. Stunned by what he saw, at first he couldn't figure out how it had come to be here, of all places. He knew it had never been in this room, before - it had most likely been in the attic. But then, with a sickening flood of disappointment, it dawned on him. Kate.
He looked at the pieces, barely even seeing them now. His grandmother's diamond earrings. Her cameo brooch. A few other trinkets that he didn't recognize immediately, but that he could tell, just by glancing at them, were extremely valuable. But the thing that caught his attention and held it, almost making his vision blur in the force of the betrayal and rage that washed over him, was a small, almost insignificant gold band. His mother's wedding ring.
His thoughts were such a whirl of confusion that he didn't even attempt to formulate anything coherent. The questions were all there - How long ago had she done this? Why? Was she planning to leave, or was it just a precaution? How could she do this to him, when she knew he would supply her with money? - but he made no effort to answer them. Not yet. He just sat there, feeling sick.
"Did you find one?" he heard her ask from the doorway, her voice sounding tight and unnatural. Or maybe he only imagined that.
Turning toward her, he moved his arm so that she could clearly see what he had found.
She paled almost at once. He watched her closely, hating with every fiber of his being that closed-off, cornered, self-protective look she immediately assumed. It was the same way she'd looked when he'd accused her of trying to take his spot on the raft. It meant that she would fight back, and that she had no intention of admitting she was wrong.
He stood up with exaggerated slowness.
They faced each other across the room, silently.
