Silhouettes Chapter 3

There wasn't as great of a response to chapter 2 as there was previously. I really appreciate reviews guys, so anything you'd be willing to throw at me would be great. They keep the creative juices flowin'!

Lately, I've been working on another multi-chapter Star Trek piece to balance me out a bit - working on one thing at a time can be boring - so it would appear I'm a little caught on Benny at the moment, haha.

-XXX-

I begin appearing at his doorstep at random intervals without announcement. The bell is wrung, the door answered, host peering out with brows raised until he moves to let me pass indoors. Sometimes the dog accompanies me, always politely stepping through the threshold and curling up soundlessly by the fire. For the most part I make tea, read, maybe do a bit of cleaning, and occasionally converse with the still-mysterious, slightly-gaunt-but-getting-better Benjamin Holly. Basically all of the things I'd be doing at home. Except they're in his cottage.

It's an odd dynamic. Ben doesn't seem to mind – in fact, he's rather indifferent, though I suppose having someone around to do the washing and fix an egg sandwich or take out the trash occasionally pleases him well enough, as he doesn't tell me to go away. He rarely asks for anything except for tea, or perhaps for me to pass something or find this-or-that book. He is childlike in his laziness. I find it exasperating and simultaneously slightly endearing.

So far I've resolved to befriend and feed Mr. Holly. He's a slip of a creature, and not from lack of trying. His skinny form is all from skipping meals, I'm sure, and the maternal part of me is determined to see more meat on his gangly bones. In the process, I'm certain I can make a friend of this new tenant. At least, we're off to a good start.

-XXX-

Two weeks later I find myself again in Ben Holly's cottage, tucked into an armchair, browsing a book as he dissected some kind of plant-thing using tweezers and a scalpel. I feel rather bad for the next family who takes residence here, as the desk has been brutalized by Ben's "experiments" and "projects." Besides this, they'll never know what, exactly, has occupied that fridge.

"Speaking of which…." I glance at the clock on the mantle – a heavy pewter and walnut thing my father found at a flea market when I was eleven – and note that it's passed lunchtime.

"Are you hungry?"

A grunt.

"Some tea, then?"

A longer pause, then a more positive kind of grunt.

"I'll get the kettle."

Bustling about the kitchen, I find a box of biscuits and shake a few out onto a small plate. I lean against the counter and watch Ben strip away the outer stem of the flower. I've no clue what he's doing, but I don't dare ask, either. Especially considering I kind of invaded his space without permission. After my morning chores – answering calls, ordering the latest post into our guests' boxes, taking a few reservations, and setting an appointment with a plumber to check out one of our beach houses. Bored, I leashed Hugo and headed for the hills. Ben answered the door, brows raised, and without a word let me slip in. Hugo came with me, immediately settling by the desk, curling into a ball. Sitting down, Ben absent-mindedly patted my dog on the head. I took up a book.

When the kettle screams, I jump to fill the mugs. Spooning two scoops of sugar and a drop of cream into mine, I laden Ben's tea with a load of sugar, stirring quickly until the granules dissolve in the hot amber liquid. I set the biscuits and tea on the desk beside him. I get no thanks, but I'm fine without it.

For a while we're silent. I drain my tea. Turning to the window, I see clear skies and a wave of green hills. If I crane my neck I can just see a sliver of darker blue that is the ocean.

"We should go out."

"Why would I want to do that?" Ben's occupied with his magnifying glass, eyes narrowed and focusing on the veins of one leaf.

"It's a nice day."

"Hmmm."

"Have you even seen the countryside? We've got some beautiful hills and fields. And the beach…the cliffs too, they're grand. It's a pity if you haven't seen -"

"I've been out walking, yes. Why are you here?"

I close my book. "You're asking me now? I've been here nearly two hours, Ben."

He lowers the glass. "I didn't invite you."

"It's my house," I point out."

"Your father's, actually."

Scowling, I swing my head 'round the chair. "Let's not get technical. Come outside with me."

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. "Viola, I'm currently disassembling a very rare and very fragile Trollius laxus. It really isn't the best time. And you're distracting me."

Feeling like a scolded child, I sigh, sinking into my chair. "Fine." Snapping my fingers, I rise. "Come along, Hugo."

We're almost to the door when Ben speaks again. "But you needn't leave."

Suppressing a smile, I stand by the door for a beat before turning back to drop into the armchair again. "Alright."

I'm not sure why I have taken to spending so much time at Ben's. Maybe it's 'cause he is "new." Or maybe it's because he is the only tenant we have at the moment anywhere near my age, and he's interesting and mysterious and a little fun, sometimes. He hasn't, as he pointed out, invited me or otherwise indicated he wanted or enjoyed my presence. But neither has he shunned me or asked me to go away.

-XXX-

The following day, Sunday, I've again taken to the hills with Hugo. He's bouncing beside me on his leash, trotting happily. We both love the fresh air and solitude. Perhaps, if we're not tired later, we might go to the beach for a few tosses of fetch. On Sundays the beach and walking paths are usually pretty vacant – everyone is having dinner with their family or visiting.

Almost as soon as I think this I catch sight of a large dark-ish shape moving up the hill towards us. We're taking a break at the top of one mount. I sit in the grass, with a content Hugo laying beside me, nipping at blades of grass that dare to blow in his face. Craning my neck, I attempt to identify the walker. From this distance they're a mere silhouette. It takes me a few minutes to recognize Ben. He's wearing a great black coat and lace-up boots, things completely foreign to me.

"It's approximately seventy degrees," I inform him by way of greeting.

Brows raised, he stops just before me. The "And?" is silent, but I reply anyways.

"A woolly coat is rather odd attire for such weather."

"I find myself chilled." He looks at me, eyes crystal. "Good day."

"Yes," I agree. "What are you doing out here? Looking for flowers?"

"Walking."

"Just walking?"

"Perhaps," he allows, "I am getting a better feel for the spectacular glories of this countryside as you preached to me yesterday."

"I did not preach!"

Ben smirks. "But, alas, I am unimpressed. So, you've got some hills and a few white cliffs. I have not been struck by any particular epiphanies by this Sussex beauty."

"I promised no such epiphanies. Besides, you're clearly not going to the right places."

"Then indulge me," he says smoothly.

Surprised, I duck my head, fiddling with a few strands of grass. Plucking one clover, I spin it between my fingers, thinking. Besides me, Hugo stretches. He yawns, curling closer to me.

"Why the sudden interest?" I ask the clover.

"You intrigued me."

Somehow, I feel that he isn't just referring to the landscape. Frowning at the flower between my fingers, I consider.

"Pouting is not attractive, Viola."

"I am not pouting!" I cry, shooting up. To my surprise, he's moved closer, so that when I stand, we are nearly toe-to-toe. I reach his throat, my eyes level with the collar of his coat. Slowly, my eyes roll up to meet his. His are amused.

"Will you walk with me?"

"Yes." I wiggle my fingers at Hugo. The dog stretches again, then steadily climbs to his paws. "I hope you're ready for a lot of walking."

-XXX-

"The paths have been here forever. I don't know when they were made. People still use them for the scenic walks, mostly the tourists. These were the first places Dad would let me go off to walk alone, when I was a kid. I couldn't go to the beaches, but here was fine."

"He wouldn't let you go down to the beach?"

I tilt my head, looking at him. "Um. When you're a kid hanging around by large bodies of water, unattended by adults, isn't considered 'safe.'"

He doesn't respond to this. Hands held behind his back, Ben stare forward, expression impassive.

"When did you start working for your father?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "When your parent owns their own business, you sort of always work for them. I've been taking calls and sorting mail and delivering since I could read."

"So, your father has been in this business for some time. That must have been a handful."

We've owned the rentals for over fifteen years. He'd inherited the land and the house from my great aunt Harriet when I was four. We'd initially had another person, a groundskeeper of sorts, who looked after the maintenance things, but he'd left less than a year in. Dad really struggled, in those first years. I took to walking home from school because he'd forget to pick me up so often. "Ah, yeah," I say fairly. "But he did the best he could."

"Yet you still seek to get away," he remarks.

"Well. Yes." Frowning, I look up. "That's perfectly natural, though."

"Most children are content to find their own flat, maybe move a few counties away. But you want to cross an entire ocean to escape your father…."

Flabbergasted, I halt. My fist ball. "That's not – I never - how did you know?"

Ben's lips purse. "It's relatively common knowledge about town that you wish to move to New York."

"But you don't talk to anyone!" I cry. "And I don't see how they would know as it is a private matter between myself and my father."

Tutting, Ben frowns. "Nothing is a private matter." He tilts his head. "But fair enough. Alright." He clears his throat, and begins rattling off his evidence. "You've been looking at tickets lately, and summer apartment lease in Greenwich, on your laptop. I noticed the history when you let me borrow it last week. And then you've been checking out guidebooks, in the library. There were cards on file."

Completely floored, I stare. Ben simply looks down at me, one brow raised in a very "Well-what-have-you-got-to-say-about-that?" manner. But I struggle to find anything to say at all, being utterly shocked and rather offended.

"Have you got nothing better to do than…than stalk me all day?!" I ground out.

"I did no such thing," Ben declares. "I merely noticed, and put the pieces together. You cannot condemn me for being observant. I should think it would be obvious to anyone."

"Yes, except not 'anyone' would bother to monitor my internet history – just you, Ben Holly." Horrified, I lift a hand to my mouth. "Is that why you said yours was broken?"

"No." He's annoyed now. "My computer was malfunctioning and I did need to check my email."

"That is still very, very creepy."

His lips twist in an unpleasant manner. "I told you, I was not seeking the information, they're merely observations I deduced to my conclusion," he snaps. "If it makes you uncomfortable, then perhaps you should consider avoiding my company, as I assure you it shall happen again. It's what I do, it's what I'm good at."

"Being a snooping ass?"

"Deducing!" He nearly shouts. Then, calming slightly, he grounds out, "Seeing between the lines to observe what is already obvious. Obvious, if anyone would pay attention. You people, you slodge around all day in this world, oblivious to all the occurs around you, unknowing and unobservant –"

Taken aback, I shuffle a few feet away. This is clearly a sore subject. I am forced to wonder what, precisely, Ben has been accused of in the past to make him so defensive of his odd little talent today. His usually unshakeable reserve is floundering with the mention of any dishonorable use of his skills.

Biting my lip, I near, stopping just before the gangly man. Ben looks down at me, eyes flashing.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "It's got to suck, living like that. But you do have to understand, to normal people, that kind of thing comes off as a little…a little unsettling. Even though that isn't your intention. You're incredible, Ben. What you can do….Not everyone is going to see that."

Immobile, he gazes down on me for a long moment before turning on his heeling and striding away. After a dazed second, I follow.

"…okay…."

Continuing on our walk, we take the trail down the hill, into a hollow of birches and pines. The path moves by one of our cottages, this one currently housing an retired professor of mathematics. Dr. Potter is a widow in her mid-sixties, though no one should make the mistake of assuming her to be a frail old woman. She had enough determination to earn a mathematics doctorate back when the field was dominated by men. She's sharp, tough, and loves gardening. When she initially took the place two years ago, she asked permission to clean up the yard. We were more than happy to grant it.

Today it's one of my favorite cottages, and my favorite stops on my walks. The professor is a wonderfully entertaining woman. More than once I've been invited in for tea, and ended up spending the afternoon listening to stories of her life. And, when she isn't home, the mere act of passing by is delightful. Potter planted some lovely peonies that are just starting to burst, along with some leafy hostas. Roses, the blossoms wide and inviting, hang just over the edge of the fence in the front yard.

When we pass by, I pause to bury my face in one of the peonies, inhaling. Peonies have long been my favorite flowers. We have a few bushes around our house, but nothing compares to Potter's.

"Will he let you leave?"

This is asked abruptly. I lift my head gently, looking at Ben from the corner of my eye.

"What?"

There is a tick of impatience in his tone. "Will your father let you leave?"

"Oh." I lean back, though I still cup the flower with both hands. Looking into the silken layers of white petals, I stroke a few with the pad of my thumb. "I don't know. We've talked about it a little. But he isn't keen on the idea. I'll get there myself, if I have to. Without permission."

Ben is quiet for a moment before saying, "You should do it."

I tilt my head. "You think so?"

"Yes. You're miserable here."

"Well," I say. "Not quite miserable. But not happy. Not as happy as I could be."

"Playing would make you happy. You ought to give it ago." He says this vaguely, looking not-quite at me, but just past my shoulder. When his eyes met mine, the seriousness catches me. "You're not suited to living out here, Viola. Move to the city. Study music. You've got a good ear and ability."

"You've never even heard me play."

"I don't need to," he assures me softly. "Now, I would suggest we move before the resident of this house comes outside."

I turn 'round to stop Dr. Potter standing at the window, her lace curtains aside, looking curiously out at the pair of people who have stopped just before her lawn.

"Oh," I cry. "It's Dr. Potter! She's probably just wondering who you are. Come meet her."

After tying Hugo up to one of the fence posts, I start up the small brick trail leading to the door. Ben stands back, impassive. Rolling my eyes, I return to him. "She's lovely, entirely brilliant, and likely intelligent enough to satisfy you for a few moments, anyways. I swear, Ben, you can be so snobbish I truly wonder how you get through life without being continually punched."

The corners of his wide mouth twitch. "Then you'll be unsurprised to know I've not lived completely unscathed."

I take up his elbow. It automatically stiffens under my touch. "Come on."

We reach the door – a scrubbed green thing, entirely original, and I pull the bell. She answers, cautiously.

"Viola, dear, I thought that was you in my garden. You had me nervous," she chides as soon as the door opens. A stout woman, she has neat iron-coloured hair that is typically pulled back in a bun or braid. Today she wears a salmon dress and a white cardigan. She looks like a regular granny, but for the fierce twinkle in her eye. "You usually walk right up. Who is this gentleman?"

"Dr. Potter," I enthuse. "Hello. This is Ben Holly. He's renting the stone cottage on the hill. He's…."

Here I pause, realizing that I don't know what Ben is. What, precisely, he does. He's never mentioned a career. Potter is waiting, brows raised.

"…a good friend," I finish lamely.

Introductions made, we're invited in for lemonade and a chat. To my surprise, Ben acts perfectly normal. Charming, even. He converses with ease, pet's Potter's tabby, thanks her profusely for the biscuits and even compliments them. I've made the man an untold number of sandwiches in the last month alone and he's never even bothered to say "thanks" even once. I hang back, allowing them to have the bulk of the conversation.

During the visit, I mull over what I know about Ben. Or, rather, what I don't know. Like, his occupation. Or where he went to school. And anything about his family, or what he was doing before he took up residences in one of the Carter's cottages. He's never had visitors, or even phone calls when I've been in his house. He conducts a variety of experiments, yet there seems to be no consistency in subject or theme. There are no mentions of family, friends, or career on the rare occasion that we have a true conversation. It's disturbing that I've spent a month frequently in the company of this individual, yet there I so little I know about him.

A half hour passes, then I excuse us, saying that we've got to finish our walk and Hugo has been tied up for too long. Potter says goodbye to both of us warmly, and tells Ben to come by whenever he wishes.

We leave. Ben takes the lead, allowing me to get lost within my own thoughts. I think he doesn't mind the silence – if anything, he seems to prefer it. I am so preoccupied, I don't even realize we're on-route to my house until I see it, shadowed in the late afternoon.

Stopping, I look up at Ben. "That was weird."

His brows rise.

"You, being all…normal. Friendly, to Dr. Potter. It was odd."

"Just because I do not typically choose to conduct myself in a sociable manner doesn't mean I cannot mimic the behavior," he says.

"Hm." I step closer. "You're an enigma, Benjamin Holly."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"In what way?" He's the one moving closer now. We must look odd, or we would if anyone were passing to see us. Two people, stopped dead in the middle of the walking path, chests almost touching.

"In everyway." I crinkle my nose in amusement." Shall I see you tomorrow?"

"If you wish." This comes out as a rumble, his voice low and deep. "It is your property."

"You can always turn me away," I remind him. "It's not like you can't."

"Perhaps it's just easier to let you stay than to trouble myself with shooing you out." He's teasing. I think. It's almost impossible to tell.

I squint. "You don't like people, Ben, but that doesn't mean you don't need them or miss them. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that I start for my house.

-XXX-

Trollius laxus is a rare Sussex flower. It's yellow. Looks vaguely like a strawberry flower.

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