As a man who'd grown up in a house dominated by females, Brody knew when a woman was giving him the silent treatment. And this, in his opinion, was not what Violet was doing. No, she wasn't silent. What she was, he thought, was brutally polite.
She spoke to him as she might a stranger, in cool, clipped sentences and with minimal eye contact. He'd never be able to say she ignored him, as she was constantly changing his bandages, rubbing salve on the sunburns he'd suffered from during his little trip to the cliffs. She cooked for him, hung out his wash, and asked –though she obviously didn't care very much– what he'd been up to during the day while they ate dinner. But one of the things that told him he was definitely in some deep you-know-what was the way she addressed him. She was calling him 'Broderick' now. Not 'Brody' or 'sailor' or even Mr. Warfield. She simply called him Broderick, in the same tone his mother did when she was none too pleased with him but refused to tell him exactly what he'd done wrong.
Not that he needed to be told that, of course. He knew what he'd done. He'd infringed on her privacy, had followed her after she'd told him not to. She'd obviously been having a private moment, and there he'd been, trudging up the hill and demanding answers during her moment of grieving. And there was no doubt in his mind that she had been grieving. Beyond the calculated blankness in her gaze had been pain, pure and simple. That pain had deepened when her gaze had gone to the three crosses on the cliff, and he'd used that pain, that vulnerability, to get answers out of her that he'd selfishly considered his right to know.
He'd tried to make it up to her, of course. He'd pulled out every trick in his arsenal. He'd brought her flowers –and had been subtly scolded when she'd figured out right away that he'd taken them from her gardens. So that had done nothing to put her in a better mood, though she had put them in a vase. But he suspected that was only so they wouldn't die and go to waste.
He'd gotten up before dawn that morning to cook breakfast for her and do some cleaning. And even then he'd still come downstairs to find her already up and cooking, the cleaning long since finished. He'd offered her –at last count– four sincere apologies, which had all been accepted with a cool nod and a subtle dismissal. He'd gone out and plucked shells from the sand for her, shining them to a bright gleam and arranging them on the kitchen table for her. She'd taken one long look at them and had proceeded to scoop them into glass jars that she set about the house. Once again, seeing as she had shown no pleasure in the offering, he had to assume that she'd only done it so as not to waste his efforts.
Hell, he'd even tried complimenting her on anything and everything, trying to get through. But there had been no blushes, no stammering or momentary pauses. She'd simply arched a brow, every time, in a look that clearly said she was not amused. He was running out of tricks, and for a man who'd rarely had to do more than wag his finger to have a willing female come running, it was a huge blow to the ego, not to mention his dignity once he found himself contemplating getting down on his knees and begging for forgiveness. Now that was something even he wouldn't do.
No, she'd erected a second wall between them to go along with the first, and all of his efforts just seemed to be bouncing right off of her. She permitted no touching, no idle chitchat. Alarmingly, she seemed to be dedicating much more time to fixing up the old boat in the shed, as throughout the day he'd heard banging and the sound of a saw coming from behind the house.
Of course, every time that hammer hit, his resolve grew stronger. He would not leave this place. He would not leave her. Perhaps even he couldn't explain the strange pull he felt towards her, towards this place. All he knew was that even the thought of sailing away from this little island, away from the mysterious and lonely Violet Baudelaire had his heart aching and his stomach twisting. Shaking his head, he stood at the kitchen window, much as she did every day, with the cat winding around his legs.
Bending down –something that was much easier these days– he scooped up the cat, rubbed his cheek against Quigley's sleek fur. "At least you still love me. She treats you better than any human, boy." He murmured, sending the cat into purrs of ecstasy by scratching him between his ears.
Quigley, he thought, the loyal cat named after a dead…lover? The title didn't really matter. What did was the fact that, at one time or another, Violet had loved the boy enough to erect a cross in his memory, to name her beloved pet after him. A pet, he thought with a humorless smile, that she treated with more patience, more compassion, than any human.
What went through her mind, he wondered, when she looked at this creature who stared back with such solemn, adoring eyes? Did she remember the Quigley who'd lived so long ago? Did she remember a lost love, a lost life? And if so, why would she do that to herself? Surround herself with memories of those who were dead and gone, blaming herself for something that happened when she'd been nothing but a child herself. And there was no doubt in his mind that she blamed herself. It was in her voice, in her eyes, in the way she punished herself by staying alone on this island. He'd t that was why she stayed here, year after year, without human contact. Punishment for not being able to 'save' her family, her man, that's what this island was.
He looked out the window to the sea; saw a vast ocean full of possibilities, of promise. There was life below those calm waters, he knew, thousands of little lives. And there was life beyond the ocean as well, strong and true and real. But there, blocking the way back to that life, were the dead, dark rocks of Baudelaire Island. Obstacles, he thought, but not bars on a cage. She was trapped her by nothing but her own mind. And if he had his way, that would stop as well. He would not leave unless she came with him. And if she asked it of him, he would stay. Why, he couldn't say exactly. He only knew that to leave her would be to deny himself the best thing that had come to him in a long, long time. And Brody had never seen the sense in denying himself the things he really wanted.
That was how Violet found him when she entered the house, came into the kitchen looking for her afternoon cup of tea. She paused for a moment in the doorway, watching him; a strong, tanned man standing barefoot in her kitchen, with her cat in his arms and his eyes cloudy as he looked out towards the sea. He'd already put the kettle on to boil, she noted, and there were two cups set out on the counter beside the stove, the canister of her favored tea leaves waiting next to them. The counters had been wiped down, the herbs in her window box watered and a vase of freshly cut flowers set in the middle of the table. There were glass bottles of sea shells and colored pebbles placed here and there, the glass reflecting the light.
Little touches, she thought, that he had brought into the house, making it not just hers anymore. She couldn't bring herself to take those changes away, but it didn't quite sit right. She was always suspicious of things that didn't sit right.
With a little sigh, she stepped into the kitchen, watched him turn, meet her gaze. She held it for one beat, then two, before she turned to the stove, checked on the water. "You've been busy today, Broderick. Sit down and have some tea." She was careful to keep her tone light, just this side of friendly. She wasn't mad at him, not really. But this was really the perfect excuse to make him keep his distance. And then, maybe, she wouldn't find herself thinking about him all the time. She wouldn't have to worry about making the mistake of becoming attached to another human, another person that fate would snatch away from her at a moment's notice. She would not, could not care for this strong, persistent man who was forever looking at her with such patient tenderness in his eyes. It was enough to make a body uneasy.
He smiled at her now with those 'don't be mad at me' eyes of his, setting the cat on the floor again as he walked over to the table, sat down at what had become his chair. They both knew she wouldn't have appreciated him trying to help her with the tea.
"Quigley and I have been thinking deep thoughts. You've been running around all day, Violet." She didn't like the way he said her name, almost reverently, or the way his eyes softened a bit, whenever he said it. Because it made her vaguely uncomfortable, she shrugged a slim shoulder, poured boiling water over tea leaves.
"I enjoy keeping busy. Your wounds are healing quite nicely." Such short sentences he thought, so clipped and to the point. Did she realize that only increased his determination? Because he knew she probably didn't, he merely smiled again when she carried his tea over to him, kept his eyes on her back as she strode over to the window, sipping her tea as she looked out towards the ocean.
And where he had seen clear blue waters, she saw, just beyond the rocks and all around the island, a black hole, waiting to swallow her up. This was not, in her mind, a prison. It was a sanctuary from the dark, from the misfortune and grief that tried to drag her back into its hideous grasp. Where he had seen possibilities and promise, she saw death and despair. She could not live peacefully beyond the borders of this place. She could not breathe easily out there with the rest of the world, always looking over her shoulder, waiting for the next disaster.
"There are some beautiful places beyond this island. I would show them to you." She nearly jolted when she heard Brody's voice right next to her, nearly cursed when she turned her head and saw him standing right behind her, his lips next to her ear. Because her heart wanted to race, she set her cup down on the window sill, crossed her arms over her chest.
"There is beauty here as well. It's all I need." She stepped forward as much as she could to give herself some room, some space between him and her, sliding a little to the side.
"Maybe," He said easily, and decided now was as good a time as ever to test his luck. Reaching out, he put a hand on her arm; felt the quick, automatic jolt. She was cold, colder than normal, and he wondered what she'd seen when she looked out that window. But he didn't think of that now, not for long. He watched her spin around; saw the exact moment when she realized that by stepping forward she'd trapped herself between him and the wall.
He couldn't help but be flattered by the wariness that flashed into her eyes, the panic that had her pulse racing beneath his hand. Before she could slip by him –and God knew she was quick as a snake when it came to getting around him– he slid his hands down her arms, linked them loosely around her wrists, stepping forward even as she edged backwards, her back pressing against the wall.
"What…What do you think you're doing?" She was surprised she could speak, and wondered that her heart didn't just beat right out of her chest when he ran his thumbs over the undersides of her wrists. He was close, much too close, and she noted vaguely that he was much taller than one would think. She barely came to his shoulder, and so she had to tilt her head up to stare at him.
His lips quirking up at the edges, he eased closer, his eyes locked on hers. Who would've thought her eyes could be so wide, so dark? Her pulse was quick beneath his hands, confusion and panic in those big brown eyes of hers. For just a moment, he saw a pin-sized hole in the wall she always had up. And, knowing he wouldn't get another chance, he took advantage of that split second.
"Well, this is the only way I have left to apologize. It usually works." Without giving her a chance to speak, he ducked his head, and felt the punch to his heart, to his gut, when his lips touched hers. They were cool, like the rest of her, but they warmed quickly beneath his, and she tasted…God, there weren't words for it. There was sweetness there, just a hint of it, and strength that he'd been almost positive he'd find. But she tasted like the woods she walked through, dark and mysterious.
He tasted like the sea. That was the first competent thought that entered Violet's mind after it blanked completely. He tasted of the sea, and his lips were gentle on hers, persuasive. She didn't fight him. The thought never occurred to her, and if it had, she doubted she'd have been able to pull it off. Her body seemed to have gone limp, all the feeling in her body going into her lips and down to her wrists where his hands still held her still.
No one had ever…She knew what kissing was, of course, from books and movies and fairy tales. But she'd never actually…Oh, God. She made some noise in her throat, a little sound of distress as her wide eyes locked on his. Automatically his hands gentled, running soothingly up her arms, and then down again to her waist. Pressing closer, he slid his arms around her, one hand moving up to slide into her hair, tilting her face back a bit more.
"I'm sorry," He murmured against her lips, and kissed her again. "I'm sorry," He said it again, and his lips ran over her chin, her jaw, over her ear as he repeated his words one more time. When he felt her start to tremble, he eased back, and had to make himself take a step backwards when he saw her flushed face, her wide eyes.
"Am I forgiven?" He murmured, running his hands up and down her back, and almost chuckled at the blank, dazed look in her eyes.
"Um…What?" She could do nothing but stare at him as her system tried to level out, as her brain tried to reboot.
"Do you forgive me for yesterday?" He said patiently, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. He watched her blink, and fought the urge to smile when she seemed to forget how to speak for a moment.
"Ah…Yes, yes. Forgiven…Excuse me. I need to…pee." She said, for lack of anything better that could come to mind, and his eyes lit with appreciation as he stepped aside, gestured towards the door.
"Go right ahead, darling. I'll feed the cat." He watched her nod blankly, then snap herself back and slip around him, all but running out of the kitchen. He took a moment when she was gone to gather himself, to steady his own system.
It wasn't every day you kissed the love of your life stupid. No doubt she'd go out of her way to avoid him now. But at least she wouldn't be calling him 'Broderick' anymore. Shaking his head, he picked up her forgotten tea, took a sip as he looked down at the cat.
"She can run, but she can't hide. I'll catch her again, Quigley. Just you wait." And it was with this statement that Broderick Elton Warfield sat down to plan his battle strategy. But first he fed the cat.