Page 9 of Sterling Clay

After a few more minutes of interrogation about flu symptoms and a suggestion to rest, Stone leaves. A light, fitful sleep allows me to sense movement within my normally empty home. Hearing the murmur of voices and the lilting laughter of a woman and a child when my place is typically silent.

Ceramic bowls clatter. Water runs. The hum of the television trickles to my room.

Then Mavis appears at my bedroom door, my body sensing her presence before I open my eyes. She comes closer, a strong floral scent giving her away but not overpowering me. Through my congested nose, it’s a wonder I can smell her at all.

“Clay? Honey?” Her voice is quiet, as if she doesn’t wish to disturb me even though her intention is to wake me.

My eyes shoot open at hearing the endearment and the tenderness in her voice. She offers me a strained smile. One that doesn’t light up those dark eyes but keeps them shuttered. Did Stone say something to her?

She sets a dinner plate with a bowl on it on the nightstand. “I was hoping you could maybe eat something. I made some chicken soup and brought some crackers. You’re taking a lot of medications and need something in your stomach to soak it up.”

What I really want is a shower and to change my underwear, but I don’t mention it.

She swallows and drops her gaze. “Once you eat, I’ll feel better leaving.”

Leaving? Where is she going?

My gaze drops to her left hand, the one once graced by a giant diamond. Is she really divorced? Or is she simply not wearing her ring?

She isn’t wearing my T-shirt anymore either but her own clothes. Dark jeans. A flannel shirt, open in the front and exposing a fitted tee underneath. A pair of cabin socks cover her feet. She looks comfortable, casual, and right, standing in my room beside my bed.

“Where are you going?” My voice is still crackling, and scratchy like sandpaper. My chest constricts at the thought of her leaving my house.

She shrugs, stepping back and wringing her hands together. “I have a motel room rented outside of town. We were headed there when I found you.”

“At midnight?” My brows lift. I recall the time being late, the mountain highway dark as black silk, and recklessly dangerous in the storm.

“We got a late start from Florida.”

“Is that where you’ve been?”

She nods, then points at the soup. “You should eat.”

Avoidance, I recognize thee.

Slowly, I shift, lifting myself to sit. Mavis rushes forward, tugging my pillows to an upright position behind me and gently pressing at my shoulder so I lean into them. She pulls the covers up to my lap, folding them over and smoothing them over my thighs before she stalls, realizing what she’s doing. She stands tall again and takes a giant step away from the bed but her gaze lands on my bare chest. Her eyes widening, the dark color of her cheeks deepening. She likes what she sees, and damn, it feels good to be looked at like that, even if I am sick. I rub a hand down my sternum and over my exposed belly. Mavis follows the trail before pulling up her eyes.

She points toward the bowl. “Do you need any help?”

“I got it.” Only, as I reach for the plate, my arm feels limp, and I can hardly lift the stoneware without the bowl on it rattling. The spoon falls off the edge. “Dammit.”

Mavis quickly bends to pick it up. “I’ll get you another one.” Her voice squeaks. Her movements are rigid. Heck, her back is ramrod straight and the desire in her eyes moments ago is wiped clean. Something else replaces that pleasant appraisal. Fear.

“Mavis,” I whisper, as if speaking to a cornered cat. “It’s okay.”

She nods, like she hears me. She knows what I’m saying. But she can’t apply what I’ve said.

She’s okay. It’s only a fallen spoon.

“I’ll be right back.” Spinning on her sock-clad feet, she rushes out the door while I hold the plate awkwardly on my lap and eye the soup.

The liquid meal looks homemade with carrots and celery, large egg noodles and chunks of chicken, and I’m certain I didn’t have any of these ingredients in my cabinets or fridge. Did she leave while I was sleeping? I hadn’t heard her exit.

A coughing attack hits me, and suddenly, the plate on my lap is jostling. The soup sloshes over the edge of the bowl when I lean forward, hacking into my fist.

Mavis rushes back into the room, spoon in hand, raised like a treasured utensil, until she sees my position.

“Shit,” she whispers, taking the plate off my lap and running her hand over my bare back. Her warm palm feels amazing on my clammy skin. She doesn’t speak while my lungs constrict and my throat barks until the spasm passes and I lean into the pillows behind me, tipping my head backward.