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“I must have left the hammer after I fixed some loose floorboards last week. I should have known I’d frighten the living daylights out of you, coming into a dark room to wake you up that way. I’m sorry.”
“No, please. No need to apologize.”
I set the hammer down on the table in front of her in case she wanted to put it back under her pillow after I left. If that’s what made her feel secure, then it was fine by me, as long as she didn’t use it on my head.
* * *
The next daywent a bit smoother since I didn’t need to wake Lena up every couple of hours. I didn’t have many excuses to visit her up there other than bringing her food, though. I decided not to go back up during that first night when she almost bashed my head in. I knew she didn’t have a concussion, and I’d only been using it as an excuse to spend time with her.
I brought her breakfast again, the same as I had the past couple of days. I knocked on the door, and a couple of seconds later, the latch clicked. She inched the door open, holding the robe I gave her closed tightly in her fist.
“Breakfast is served.” I smiled the best classy grin I could muster, and she smiled back, taking a step to the side as she opened the door wide enough for me to enter.
“You didn’t mention that the room included room service every day. I might have to start figuring out some way to give you a tip.”
I paused and shot her a glance, trying not to look so shocked at her statement, figuring she didn’t realize the implications of what she’d said. I cleared my throat. “No tipping is necessary,” I said but secretly wished I could take her up on her offer. Maybe someday, if she ever recovered from the horrible experience she’d been through.
I sat with her as she ate, and she insisted on sharing it with me again. “I should have brought up two plates. Maybe if we can get you some better clothes, you could come down to the house and have a proper meal with us.”
“That would be nice.” She smiled and popped the last of the toast into her mouth.
“I’ll work on that today. I’m sure Brodie can come up with some clothes.”
I wanted her to tell me what had happened, who had hurt her. I couldn’t help her if she didn’t confide in me, so I took a chance and brought up the subject.
“The other day, after your nightmare, you mentioned the guy who hurt you. You made a statement about him not being a real man. Let’s get back to this not-a-real-man that made mincemeat of your face—not to mention your body. Who is he?”
Lena sighed and pulled her legs up on the sofa beside her. “I’m afraid to tell you.”
“Please tell me. I promise you can trust me.” I leaned back against the sofa at the other end. Her legs were curled up so that the balls of her feet rested slightly against my thigh. I wanted to pick her feet up and massage them, but it was probably too soon for something as intimate as rubbing her feet.
She reached for the cup of coffee from the table and took a sip, then stared into the black liquid as if the words she needed would somehow pop up to the surface like in some alphabet soup. Then she finally said, “This is hard, but you’ve been so nice. I feel I owe you some explanation. I just need a minute.”
“Okay,” I said. “Take your time.”
Silence hummed in the air for several seconds, then the words I’d most feared flowed from her lips in almost a whisper.
“My husband.”
