Chapter 53: Chasing After...
Cully woke earlier than she'd meant, especially for a Saturday morning with nothing in particular to do until evening; she hadn't slept well with the final vestiges of her headache and she'd opened her eyes to the darkened bedroom at least once during the night, maybe twice. After a few minutes of trying to find another comfortable position despite the crick in her neck—the true reason she'd woken, she supposed—Cully gave up, surrendering to the new day. Throwing the covers back and crushing her elbows into her thighs, she rubbed the crust from the inner corners of her eyes with a yawn.
The fragile beginnings of dawn trickled through the window, fractured across the carpet by the glass, just enough to mark a faint path across the room. As she stood, Cully stretched her arms up and over her head, the muscles and joints aching from her poor excuse for a night's sleep. At least her headache hadn't followed her into the next day. "Thank goodness for small favors," she whispered, massaging the back of her neck and the dull throb deep between the bones.
Wiping her face with a cool palm, her eyes fell on that slim yellow volume, still laying where she dropped it on the side table the night before. Well, if you can't sleep...Reaching for it, she took a few careful steps to the door, grateful for the carpet, closing it behind her with a gentle hand. She made her way along the corridor quietly, mindful of the early morning even if not the actual hour. No use waking anyone else simply because she couldn't sleep.
Stepping into the front room and snapping the light switch up, banishing the sunlight peeking through the front window, Cully glanced over her shoulder, back along the hallway. It was cooler than she had expected, hardly through the first full week of October. Should have brought a jumper, she thought. Should I? No, not if she was already here; a few blankets lay folded across the cushions in the dim room, and that would have to do.
Leaning back in the settee and tucking one of the throws around her shoulders, Cully flipped through the script's first few pages, past the royalty information, cast, and setting of the first scene, through the portraits of Edgar and Mavis. She'd read the play from start to finish once and probably would do so at least once more, but now her attention turned to the passage she had already marked off.
'Edgar! Edgar! Oh, what have I done! What have I done!' Mavis began, just having shot her new husband of a few hours three times and wringing her hands with the shock of it before beginning to shed crocodile tears for no one but the audience.
"I think you know," Cully muttered, drawing the throw closer in the chilly room. "I can't say it hasn't crossed my mind, once or twice." Maybe more than once or twice like most women, if she was honest with herself.
'This is dreadful! I must have been out of my mind! Whatever will I do?! Hello?...Darling! It's you!...No no, don't worry, it doesn't matter if I call you 'darling' or not, Edgar's gone!...No no, I'm sure he won't be back unexpectedly. The fact of the matter is, I've shot him!'
"That will certainly do it," Cully said, the faded page crinkling between her fingers as it turned. 'Yes, with a pistol...Can I what—?...Mmm, no, I don't think so, really...Well, you see, darling, there's just no way in the world I could make the police think it was suicide. Unfortunately, in my enthusiasm for the project, I shot him three times...'
That was the bit that always drew a laugh, Cully remembered: so precise, yet so careless. And then Mavis' babbled words, her justification to her unknown lover at the other end of the line, her protests to her now dead husband. "Why did you make me do it?" Cully said quietly, rolling her neck with a few gentle pops from the bones within. "You might want to ask yourself that question, not him." As a play, it was not without its problems, but as a monologue for another farce, it was more than merely workable.
Over the next couple of hours, she read and reread the short passage several times, sometimes slowing to consider intonation, movement, once rolling her eyes as she asked herself if there was any deeper motivation. After a few readings, she skipped forward, past the introduction of Lottie and Inspector James Crandall, to the entrance of Constable Abel Howard, clutching a dead cat. You could spot a writer a mile a way, her years in the theater had taught Cully that: when even the stage notes dripped with snarky humor, only to be read by the director, cast, and crew...She flicked back through the pages to the start of the excerpt.
"'Edgar! Edgar! Oh, what have I done!'" The words tumbled from her lips after the early morning revision, still quieter than she would tend to read her lines, even as the minutes crept past. "'What have I done! This is dreadful! I must have been out of my mind! Whatever will I—'"
A finger ran lightly along the back of her neck. "You tell me."
Cully jumped at the unexpected words, almost dropping her script into her lap as she peered over her shoulder. Behind her, Gavin stood with his arms crossed over his bare chest, a small smile cutting through the faint overnight stubble dappled across his chin, having probably just crawled from bed. "How long have you been standing there?" she asked, closing the book on a finger to hold her place, her heart slowing after his unexpected touch.
"Long enough," he said quietly.
"Long enough to what?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Just watching."
"Watching?"
"Observing, then."
"Either way…"
"You looked engrossed in—your book."
"What sort of answer is that, Gavin?"
"The truth. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
She rolled her eyes. "Of course."
"So don't argue with it."
"I wasn't planning to—not for something that doesn't matter."
He dropped a hand onto her shoulder, his fingers working their way beneath the blanket, grinding against the knots lingering in her muscles. "I'd expect nothing less."
She laughed. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
His touch drifted to the base of her neck, as though he felt the ache there himself, ready to crack and be released. "What, when you got out of bed?"
"Yes."
"Nah"—he shook his head—"or at least I don't think you did."
The sun had climbed steadily as she huddled on the settee, cocooned in that blanket and lost in a world of words ready to be transformed into life and action. The splash of sunlight was almost grey as it lay spattered across the wall of their small sitting room, a typical cloudy October morning in England, the sort that turned prying yourself from bed at such a gloomy hour into a monumental task, more so on a Saturday when a warm embrace beckoned you to stay. "I suppose it has been a while."
"I wouldn't have minded even if you did."
"Of that, I had no doubt, Gavin." Over the past several months, more than a few languid weekend mornings had left them both exhausted and tangled together. "Fancy a cup of coffee?" she added, letting the blanket fall behind her back, about to stand—
"No, don't worry about it," he said, leaning forward, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "How's your reading coming along?" Once or twice, his face brushed hers, the tiny hairs rough and itchy on her skin; and where his naked chest touched her back, his delicious warmth bled into own body her even as she shivered beneath her shirt.
"One line at a time," she said quietly, swallowing a sudden lump in her throat. Really, after so many months of sharing a home—waking up to his mussed hair and faint snoring, more often than not falling asleep to the cadence of his breathing—why did she still occasionally tremble like a schoolgirl holding her childhood sweetheart's hand for the first time?
"Like it always does?"
"Well, even you know that."
His body heat vanished, like he was standing straighter, and the cool morning air rippled a new round of goosebumps over her upper back. "So what's happening now, in your play?"
"The same as when you last asked: she's shot her husband three times."
"And wasn't that what she was up to the last time you said much about it, without me asking?"
She bit back a smile. He would remember that part, she thought. "Because it's the passage I'm worried over, for my audition."
"What for?" he asked.
She narrowed her eyes. "What for what?"
"What are you worrying for?"
"Nothing's ever certain, that's why."
He pulled her closer again, his mouth just behind her right ear, his breath hot against her neck. "You always say that."
The goosebumps spread further, now running down from her shoulders all down her arms. "It's always true."
Lifting one hand, Gavin reached toward her script, pushing the front cover to the left and opening it to the page where she had paused. "So what about it?" he asked, pressing his finger against to it, right in the midst of the segment she'd selected, marked in yellow.
His face grazed hers again, sending another shiver down her spine. "About what?"
"What does happen next?"
"Oh..." Well, how best to answer it? There was no use spoiling it for him, if she ever managed to get him to the theater to see it; apart from her own performances, that remained something of a struggle. Besides, but for her recent quick read through, at least a few years had passed since she read it herself. "Well," she began, pushing his hand away and flipping a few pages further into the script, "the inspector, the housekeeper, and the constable all put in an appearance—"
"Waiting on Colonel Mustard and Mrs. White, eh?"
"—alongside a dead cat," Cully finished, louder than before.
She already knew his gaze was confused. "A dead cat? Really?"
"Yes, Gavin, a false looking dead cat."
"And I thought the theater was boring," he whispered, dropping his chin onto her shoulder.
"I'll pretend you didn't just say that."
"You did say before this was somewhere in Yorkshire, not Midsomer, right?"
His left hand drifted to the back of her neck again, the pressure from his fingers chasing away the last remnants of that ache. "It might be a little much here, piling that on," she said quietly, her half-memorized monologue fleeing her mind, thrust aside by Gavin's fingers against her skin.
"I thought this was fiction, Cully."
"It is."
His hand abandoned her neck, drifting back around her shoulders, pulling her still tighter. "It sounds like it could have been my case load, this week."
She glanced back again, just able to catch him at the edge of her vision. "You said it wasn't that bad."
Gavin pressed his lips to her cheek for a quick moment, drawing back before his stubbled face had a chance to scratch hers. "It wasn't," he said darkly, rubbing his hands against her shoulders and the bare skin of her upper arms, that same warmth she had felt from his chest flooding into her from his palms. "Just finishing up from last week, really."
By now, Cully knew not to pry much further, just like her mother. No matter what either said, both Gavin and her father sometimes gazed into the wretchedness of humanity, an abyss not made terrifying by only blood and gunshot but by chilling disregard and hatred. And sometimes, it was impossible to know which was more pressing for the policemen in their lives: the desire to shield them from at least the nastiest of human impulses whenever they could, or the need to leave that black pit at arm's length. Either way, the result was the same, and she had to wonder if Gavin's gaze was flitting to his memory and some somber hour.
"You know," she said, hoping to drive the silence away, "I can always call Dad to check on you, to be sure."
"Would you?"
She nodded, not certain if she had imagined a stifled laugh just beneath her ear. "I could."
"He might like that."
"You think so?"
"You remember: he needed a couple weeks to stop muttering how I see you more than he does."
"But he did."
"He doesn't know everything I'm working on, not anymore."
"He can still look over your shoulder, if he wants."
His chin fell onto her shoulder as he released a deep breath. "He already does—don't encourage him."
She brushed a couple chunks of his hair away from her jaw, leaving it more tousled than before. "Mum said he's been better about it, at least lately."
"That's a low bar."
Cully shook her head as well as she could, just remembering his face beside hers before her cheek smacked into his. "Gavin..."
"You know it as well as I do."
"He only does it because he does care."
She didn't miss his quiet snort of laughter. "I'm sure that's the only reason."
"You know it's true."
"I do." He pulled her closer, his scratchy face buried into the swell of her neck; her pulse pounded against his skin, and she couldn't help but wonder how strongly he felt it, throbbing within her throat. "But...come back to bed, Cully?" he murmured. "It's only just gone nine on a Saturday."
It was more than tempting, forgetting the beginnings of a brisk autumn morning for the laziness of their bed and that same heat warming her from the inside out, just drifting in and out of the lightest sleep, listening to Gavin's hushed snores as he did the same. "And here I was making progress," Cully said, letting her script fall to the settee.
"I'll read it with you later, before we leave this evening."
"You promise?"
"I don't think I have a choice," he said quietly.
She peeled one of his arms away from her, twisting around, his nose only a couple of inches from her own. "Probably not."
"Good." And, as he stood straighter, holding out his hand for her, Cully nearly had to remind herself to breathe.
She folded her hand into his, offering no resistance as he pulled her forward through their shoebox of a flat: the kitchen just off from the sitting room, down the far corridor, past the spare room and washroom, over the threshold of their bedroom. The greyish sunlight cast its own shadows about the room, still sparse and rather unadorned after months. But the cream-colored walls and mismatched lamps melted away as he pulled her closer and closer, finally falling back into their bed, crushing her atop him and pulling her to the center with him.
The force knocked the air from Cully's chest and she felt a cough rising in Gavin's. Even in the dim morning, his light eyes stood apart from the darkness. As he caught his breath—his torso rising and falling against her breasts—his fingers danced along her spine, round to a spot on her side he knew always pulled a quiet, ticklish yelp from her as strongly as the back of her arm.
Swatting his hand aside, she pinned his wrist down, lifting her face to look him dead in the eye. "You could have just asked."
"I thought I did."
"You asked half of it."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"Fun?"
"It's a fair question," Gavin said, raising his free hand, tracing her jawline. His fingers were so light, they might have been a breeze brushing over her skin, delicate and ever so cautious, so faint she might have believed she was imagining them if her eyes were closed.
Cully caught that hand too, shoving it down and not missing his gaze as it raked over her body, striving to peel away her t-shirt and pajamas, laying her curves bare. If he wanted to make this into a game, well then, everything was fair. "It might not be fun," she said, pressing her forehead to his, "but it might stop me from being Mavis Hollister and shooting you three times."
"That wouldn't be your best decision, Cully."
So close to his face, she felt his breath as quickly as she heard his words. "Oh?"
"Shooting at home, it's a domestic for sure."
"Some would argue a justified one," she said, just grazing his cheek with a quick kiss.
"They'll interview my girlfriend first—remember that."
Cully burst out laughing, releasing his arms and falling heavily back onto his chest, folding her hands together on his bare skin, just gazing down into his pale face. A year ago, he might have worn that gentle flush on his cheeks she knew so well, but those days lay abandoned long in the past after more than half a year of sharing a life, well beyond thoughts and feelings and bodies. "Gavin, you are incorrigible, you know that?"
"Maybe," he answered, his newly freed hands caressing her back once more, surely preparing to threaten that ticklish spot on her side again.
"Hopelessly," she added, rolling off his chest onto their bed, just watching him as she lay on her side. Her shirt was twisted around her waist, and as he propped himself onto one elbow, Gavin tugged it back around, his fingers lingering as she expected. Reaching for his hand, Cully twined her own through his, and as ever his rougher palm enveloped hers. Something about his grasp—his touch—always felt so right, so real, like without it a gaping wound would grow in her life, desperate for some salve that she would never find.
"What is it?" he asked quietly, and she blinked heavily.
"Just thinking." As she spoke, a yawn escaped her mouth, the bad night's sleep and her early morning finally catching up to her.
"What about?"
Cully slid closer, almost molding her body to his, their faces pressed against the same pillow. His nose and brow were sharper, now, the small marks life inevitably left over the years more visible on his skin: a freckle here or there; faint lines etched across his forehead; and on his cheek one or two tiny spots, perhaps the scars of a bought of adolescent acne. "Just you," she mumbled, her eyes falling closed, "and us, and..." Her words wavered, fading into the cushion. "Just that."
"I was wondering, why were you awake so early, at the weekend?"
"Hmm?" She opened her eyes again.
"Just curious."
"I'm not really sure," Cully said, her free hand rising to the back of her neck and the memories of the ache that woke her from an empty sleep. "I didn't sleep well."
"Sorry to hear."
"It happens—you know that."
"That I do."
"Slept on my neck wrong, that's probably all," she added, kissing him a final time as the exhaustion finally overwhelmed her. "So thank you for working out the worst of them."
He pinched her cheek and Cully smiled against the slippery, cool pillowcase. "Any time," he whispered. Goosebumps flared along her arms yet again, both at his touch and a sudden chill wafting over her skin; she pulled herself against him, his breath on her face as his chest rose and fell and his heart beat against her breast. "Here..." he said, beginning to sit up, reaching for the layers of sheets and quilts knotted together at their feet.
Cully caught his shoulder, holding him still and drawing him back. "Gavin, don't." Despite the cool morning air, she wanted his warmth, his comfort—nothing else.
"Sorry." He settled back onto the bottom sheet, draping his hand over the small of her back, keeping her close.
"Just stay like this?"
"Of course," he whispered, his lips just pressed against hers as he spoke, "of course, my..."
She still heard his voice, muttered words growing faint and incomprehensible, muddled by a new silence. "Gavin?" And his hands, his touch, their pressure and heat ebbed away, leaving her skin cold in their wake. "Gavin?"
And blackness and darkness, the deafening quiet...
Her eyes flew open, the first drops of bright morning sunlight streaming through her curtains. Gazing up at the ceiling, Cully let out a deep breath. Whatever remnant of a headache she had battled when she finally fell asleep was long gone, but her mind was filled with fog instead. What?...She threw one of her arms out, searching for him and…
Her fingers found her quilt, nothing else, no warmth or gentle touch to chase away the cold. Rolling away from the unoccupied corner of her bed and blinking against the crust in the inner corners of her eyes, she just spotted the time. Not quite half nine. I don't...A minute ago—if that!—it had been a different world, a new world: no worry about approval churning and ready to break through the surface, where words were spoken without a tinge of fear. Of course, she thought, a new chill spreading through her limbs. Just a dream. But one so real, she almost thought she could recite those lines, though she hadn't even skimmed through it the night before!
Sitting up, the same quilt and sheet pooling around her waist, Cully pressed her fingers to her temples, clutching for the threads of her dream before they vanished like a cloud shredded by a gust of wind. Already, the brightest moments lay scattered, that breeze throwing them asunder, tantalizing her with the faintest glimmers. She still didn't glance beside her, something holding her gaze back. When she woke, confusion—disappointment?—had melded with some happiness deep in her mind, teasing her as it fluttered just out of reach, the briefest snippets playing out before her as she clenched her eyes against the new day and the memories of the previous night. His reticence, her rising uneasiness...for now, she just wanted to hold that dream closer and tighter, remember the silly thing, not watch it drift away. The joy was ebbing away the more she struggled to remember, leaving her in the sea of her confusion, tossed to and fro by the waves she couldn't see ahead of an empty day.
But why did she feel that, in the end, it had been a sad dream?
A/N: Well, that is so far outside my comfort zone, it's orbiting another star.