“Your brother and I are kinda friends. Okay, really, we’re more of acquaintances. I met him one day when he came into the library while I looked around. You can always tell a lot about a town by the books they have. Anyway, he welcomed me to town, told me a little about the history. Asked if my vacation was going well. At first I thought he was being nosey, but then I realized he genuinely wanted to help me find things that might interest me.
“If I had to point to one thing that convinced me to stay here, it would be the feeling of kinship in the town. Like the people in the town all look out for one another. After I returned home, I found that Mitch had moved out. So I sold my place in New York and bought one here. I made the move and haven’t regretted it since. I started working at the library, and one day Clay came in. We started talking, and I mentioned that I like to run. His eyes went wide, and he asked me where. I told him. He didn’t know you were on my jogging route, and when he found out, it surprised him. We don’t really hang out, but I like to think we’re somewhat close. When he called and said you were in trouble and needed a hand, I came to help.”
It made sense in a weird way. But….
“If you have a truck, why do you jog down my road?”
Charlie sat back and gave me an amused expression. “Your road? I’m sorry, I didn’t see the sign that said it led to Matt’s Manor.”
I dropped my head against the chair and groaned. “Sorry. I might be a little territorial.”
“S’okay,” he answered. “I come this way because I won’t see anyone else from town. I park down the road about three miles, then make my way up here, around the bend, and back. Round-trip it’s about seven miles or so.”
I sat up and glared at him. “But this area really isn’t meant for running.”
“That’s what makes it so perfect,” he countered. “No one else runs here, so I can be lost in my own thoughts. Hell, I was surprised to find someone lived out here.”
He had a point. Most folks didn’t live this far from town, and those who did owned large tracts of land that they farmed. My house sat on about twenty acres, mostly wooded. It had a pond that was fed by a nearby lake, which provided me with ample opportunity to fish. So with the exception of the area my house and greenhouse took up, I had plenty of room to be by myself. In fact, my nearest “neighbor” was a few miles away.
“I thought you were at the library today,” I said, wanting to get back to a safe topic.
He grinned at me, and my stomach fluttered. “I switched with Mrs. Tennyson. I told her I had something I really had to do.”
“Oh? What are you going to be doing?”
He laughed. It was a nice laugh, full of life and happiness. “I came to see you, doofus. I wanted to make sure you were okay after last night. Or this morning.” He shrugged. “Whatever. And I realized I told you to call me, but I never gave you my number. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh, it’s okay—”
He held up a hand. “It’s not, Matt. I know about panic. Sometimes all you need to get through it is a friendly voice. Other times a hug might be the ticket. I’m not saying it will make all the panic go away. I don’t know what causes it for you, but that’s not the important thing. What is, at least to me and Clay, is that you have someone you can reach out to when you need to. You live out here, in the quiet and solitude, but you’re never alone. Remember that.”
The thought of being in Charlie’s embrace filled my mind and gave me a strange feeling in my chest. I likened it to what it felt like when Clay held me last night. Safety. I couldn’t process it logically. I never needed or wanted anyone to touch me. Last night, though? I sought it out, shocked by how good it felt to be held again. The warmth and comfort I got from Clay kept the fear—all the fears—at bay for a short time.
“Thank you,” I replied softly. Charlie really seemed too good to be true. He gazed at me with kindness and what I thought might be affection. Warmth flooded through me when I realized at some point I had mostly stopped being afraid of Charlie and accepted him as part of my world. One of the biggest problems I had hinged on new situations. When whatever I couldn’t grow on my own had to be delivered, I needed to touch each item several times, then put it aside where I could become used to it before I could actually put it into storage.
Charlie stood and wiped his hand off on his shorts. “Okay, well, I’d better get back to the library. I promised I’d be there before noon to take over. Remember what I said, Matt. If you ever need help, call someone, okay?”
I got up, but before I could answer, he turned and went to the gate, opened it, looked back and gave a quick wave, then started off down the road. I watched until he was out of sight. I looked down at the table where he had left the books. I admit, I really wanted to read them. I should have been put off by the fact that they were new in the house, but they’d been a gift from Charlie. I had reservations, but I didn’t think he would hurt me. I sat on the swing, reached over, and picked up the first one. Opening the cover, I saw what Charlie had written there, and smiled.
It takes courage to ask for help. Thank you for trusting me last night.He’d also written his phone number.
The warmth of tears on my cheeks didn’t surprise me. I’d always known my emotions were close to the surface, which probably accounted for a lot of the overwhelming sensations I dealt with. Today I tamped them down, determined to trust Charlie. After all, it was just a book.
THREE HOURSlater, I closed the cover and sagged onto the seat. I’d never known someone could write like Charlie had. The level of violence stunned me, but it didn’t come across as gratuitous. Every act fit into the story, drove it on. In two hundred pages, he made me laugh, cry, cringe, and worry about the protagonist in a way that almost made him seem real. Even though I had an inkling about the ending, thanks to Charlie’s telling me about the book, it still came as a total shock when the detective watched the man die and did nothing to save him.
Donald Tremaine could be a coldhearted bastard, except when it came to Lucien James, his lover. He protected him with a ferocity that overwhelmed me, even though Lucien proved perfectly capable of protecting himself. But when they went to bed together, Lucien gave himself over, and Donald took what he wanted—what he needed—though he did it with love. And it wasn’t just said. I could feel it in everything they did for each other.
I picked up the stack of books and took them in the house, placed them on the shelf with my very favorite stories, then glanced over at the clock and groaned.
My chores needed to be done or I would have dived into the second book immediately.Murder in Times Squaredlooked to be even better thanDeath Comes to Allerton. The cover had two crossed knives, dripping with blood. I could make out a shadowy figure in the background, but any details were kept temptingly out of reach. I really wanted to read this book, because Donald had two murders to deal with. They both had similarities, but his main suspect had been miles away from the site where the body had been found, so there was no way he could have done it. I kept looking from the book to the clock. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t rake leaves and mulch them today. They’d still be there tomorrow, I told myself.
But it would seriously disrupt my schedule. The same one I’d adhered to for years. Nothing bad would happen, I tried to convince myself. When the fear welled up, for the first time I pushed against it. It had controlled my life for so long, cost me too much, and I had grown tired of it. I wanted to be me again. The kid who, at thirteen, ran naked through gym class on a dare. The one who wanted to take Marty Hendricks for a drive and park with him, just to see where it would lead. The one who could look at a man and feel something that wasn’t fear. I just wanted to be normal again.
Today I would prove to myself that I wasn’t a slave to my schedule. I could do this. I took the book back down from the shelf, poured a glass of ice water, and went to sit down so I could once again immerse myself in Donald’s world. At first I had problems focusing. My gaze would stray to the leaves that waited to be raked, think about the plants in the greenhouse that needed water and the compost that had to be added today. But I kept at it. I forced myself to read and did indeed start getting into the story. When I snuck a peek at my watch, it had just passed three, and I jumped up. I put the book down and raced to do the chores I’d neglected for an hour. Mentally I berated myself, but inside I felt a glow of pride, because even though it had only been sixty minutes, it was still more than I’d ever done in the past. And maybe that was the key. Doing a little bit at a time, not trying to get everything in my life right at once.
As I spread the fertilizer on the plants, I made a vow to myself that I would try harder. I would do my best to work past one thing each day that caused my anxiety to flare. Not forever, because I didn’t think that possibility would ever happen, but like I had done today, I would do it again tomorrow. Maybe one day I would work my way up to two hours. Then maybe a full day.
And tomorrow it would start with Charlie.
