David is standing at the stone kitchen island, paging through my sketchbook, when I return from getting cleaned up. He is no longer wet and dishevelled and looks exactly like he did yesterday when I met him for the first time.
Was it really only yesterday?
It feels as if he'd been in my life since the beginning of time, and looking at the way his hair flops over his forehead and the strong, slightly stubborn lines of his beautiful profile, I realise that I want him in it until the end of time.
He starts when I sit down on a stool near where he's standing and gives me a guilty look, closing the book. He'd been so engrossed in what he was seeing he didn't even hear me join him in the kitchen.
"I'm sorry... I was curious," he says, giving me a shy smile and shoving a hand awkwardly through his hair.
"I don't mind," I smile and thank him for the mug of steaming coffee waiting for me at what has become my favourite seat. "You can look all you want."
"Thanks," he grins, opening the book again. "You are really talented, Belle. I love these sketches. You also have some awesome ideas for what I could do with the front areas of the house and that dodgy driveway. I love it."
I am incredibly pleased to hear him say that. "Thank you. I was having so much fun."
"I mean it; these drawings reflect my vision in a big way. It's actually really helpful. If... if you want... if you have time... if..."
"What do you need, David," I chuckle at his sudden insecurity. We've braved storms together, shared some mind-blowing kisses and had long, rather personal chats about virtually any topic one can think of, and here he is now, too tongue-tied to voice a simple request.
"I don't want to interfere with your work," he shrugs, smiling at me in that brain-destroying sweet way he often uses on me without any mercy at all. "There are a couple of areas around the house that I'm struggling to really see. You know? I have a vague idea of what I want it to become, but it's too foggy. This one was very vague too," he says, lifting the pad to show me the cheerful drawing I made of the decaying gazebo in a dying section of the front yard further to the east of where the steps lead down to the utility room. "This sketch is just perfect; it clarified my vision. This is exactly what I was trying to picture but couldn't."
"Sure," I grin, glowing in his praise. "I'll do some drawings of the areas you're struggling with. If you try to describe your vision to me, I could-."
"No," he says, closing the book, placing it out of the way of possible coffee accidents and sitting down at the other side of the 90-degree corner to see me clearly. "I didn't describe my vision for these others to you, and your drawings are awesome. I don't want to influence you. I want to see what you come up with to knock my socks off as you did with these."
"Oh, so, no pressure," I grumble, and he laughs, shaking his head and taking my hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze.
"Just do what you do, Belle. It's worked great so far. If you're far off, I'll try to describe what I'm trying to picture." My hand is lonely when he lets it go to pick up his coffee mug. "The kids are a nice touch," he adds with a grin, taking a long, leisurely sip of his coffee.
"Kids?"
Frowning, I rise to retrieve the book and page through it. He is right; I have a child or two in virtually all my drawings. I remember thinking about children playing in the yard, but I do not remember actually drawing them. I give a nervous little laugh and start to close the book when my eye is drawn to a shadow in the drawing I did of the front patio just before the rain hit.
I drew this specific part based on what I saw rather than what I imagined. In fact, all the sketches are mixtures of what is and what could be, some sections filled in with touches of colour, while others are left in darkness and mystery.
A nasty chill runs up my spine and spreads into my hair, puckering my scalp in an uncomfortable crawling manner. Someone is standing just inside the house's open door, watching me while I'm drawing flowers and playful children at the bottom of the patio. One of the children has his head turned to look at the door, his body posture tense as if he is seeing something.
Why on Earth would I draw that?
Besides, when I was drawing the section with the door, I was very much in realism mode, drawing exactly what I was seeing, nothing more and nothing less. The bottom section of the patio and the expanse of the house where the library is located are the only areas of the drawing where I gave free rein to my imagination and whimsical desires.
Surely, I would've seen it if someone had been watching me from the door! Someone not so friendly, if the discomfort I'm feeling is anything to go by... and the startled posture of the imaginary child I drew.
"David," I say casually, placing the book on the counter between us. "What do you think of this drawing?" I want to know if he sees what I'm seeing.
He pulls the book towards him for a closer look, and a frown draws his brows together. "I like what you did with the imagined parts of the house, the patio steps and the bannisters, but creepy drawings of sinister men glaring at playing kids are not really my vision," he shrugs, grinning at me. His smile fades when he sees the look on my face. "Belle?"
"You're right," I breathe nervously, pulling my pencil bag towards me. I extract a soft pencil and eraser from it and, moving the book into a comfortable position, I cover the figure in the door with angry pencil scratches and blend him into non-existence using the tip of my finger. Satisfied that there is no longer a figure in the door, I erase and redraw some of the contours of the sketched child, relaxing his pose and making him a happy participant in the children's game.
"Belle?" David says again. "You didn't have to change it just because I said-."
"No, David," I admit, closing the book, putting away my pencil and eraser, and pushing it all to the island's centre. "I didn't mean to draw that. When I drew the door, I drew exactly what I saw. I don't get it at all; I didn't know that I was seeing a figure... at least, I didn't know that I knew... The poor startled kid is just confusing..." I trail off, realising that I sound insane again. I wasn't going to tell David; I was going to pretend I was finally just a completely normal woman falling in love with an amazing man.
No such luck. I'm once again spewing words that could get me placed on strong meds and drive David and any chance at a relationship right out the door.
Instead of laughing at me, rolling his eyes or sighing in exasperation (all expected reactions), David gets to his feet and steps to the entrance of the hallway leading to the foyer. With his hands on his hips, he peers down its length towards the front door, the look on his face one of concentration.
"What are you doing?" I ask, joining him, and he casually drapes an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. I like how comfortable and natural this kind of behaviour has become. Since our return from the river, David has been taking my hand, giving me hugs, and affectionately kissing the top of my head whenever I'm within his reach. I try to be within reach as often as possible.
I know it's weird, but neither of us is questioning our fast-growing attachment or trying to resist it. I've never been this happy before. Well, I'm not all that happy when I see strange lurkers in my drawings, but I am happy standing in the shelter of David's arm, whatever the circumstances might be.
"I'm trying to see what's in that area that might've caused you to draw that. You didn't draw an actual man; you drew shadows, right?"
"That's right."
"Most logical explanation would be that something in that area created those specific shadows."
"True."
This probably means that I'm just a freak show because I drew a kid reacting to those shadows. I don't remember drawing that child... or any of the children; I just remember imagining them and being really happy. Sometimes when I'm in the zone, I draw and paint things that later surprise me. It's not that strange. It's never quite this elaborately surprising, but the potential is there.
The curtains are closed, and the lights at the front of the house are off. The storm trying to tear the house down prevents natural light from penetrating from outside.
"We're going to have to wait until the sun is out again, but I'm pretty sure it was the coat rack."
There is a tall coat rack with scattered hooked appendages near the door, but I don't think it's visible from outside, and its shadows wouldn't fit the contours of the figure I drew, but I'll take it. Let's call it that.
"Yes, mystery solved," I say, sounding about as convincing as most political advertisements.
"It's weird. When the storm is raging, it feels like it will never end. When the sun comes out, it's easy to imagine that the storm was never there... unless you see the puddles and the damage, of course," I remark when we're back in the kitchen, and I take my seat while David rummages through our food stores neatly sorted in the pantry.
He did the highly professional organisation sometime during my nap yesterday when he was deciding what to make for dinner and informed me earlier that even if we pigged out, we'd have enough food to last us at least three months.
I was a little embarrassed, but he seemed to be pleased. He doesn't think we'll be here for three months, but the river can take quite some time to calm down enough to cross if the weather doesn't let up for long enough. The updates he got during our short window of having a signal didn't sound very promising at all. The roads on the other side of the river are badly damaged due to landslides; it would be hard to get a boat launched from a safe area to get to us, even if the river does calm down enough to boat across.
Hearing the wind and seeing the rain pouring down in thick sheets, I despair for the fruit trees. David told me that some of the orchards, such as the pear and apple ones, are quite old, while he'd replanted a section of the peach trees when he lived here with Iris. They were coming along nicely, but when he suddenly left and couldn't bring himself to return, they were neglected and got sick.
Due to the name of the farm, I thought all the orchards were peach, but it turns out that there are quite a variety of fruit trees on this farm. He'd promised to take me on a tour soon. I do hope the trees survive the vicious wind shaking them around like that.
I feel awful for those people who have already suffered substantial property losses. They must be devastated. So far, one confirmed death has been reported, and I hope that number doesn't rise. Apparently, there were weather warnings, and many families made it out in time.
We didn't hear any such warnings, so here we are... on our honeymoon... I mean, stranded on our own little island.
I hope Craig is okay. He can go overboard at times. I hope he doesn't try to be a hero and ends up hurt again or dead. His knee injury wasn't caused by rugby. He dove a kid out of the way of an oncoming car and managed to get them both to safety in time but landed awkwardly on the hard sidewalk. When his coach told him he should not have taken such a huge risk, he just shrugged and asked what the alternative was. He doesn't regret going all out to save the child, but he does regret not landing better.
"Yeah," David agrees. "The storms do seem endless while they're raging. I'm afraid that according to the forecasts, we will have many days like this before it gets better." I am not sure how I feel about that. I'll miss my evaluation if we're stuck here for longer than two months. I wonder if the college would make a special arrangement for me.
"Is there anything specific you want for dinner?"
Dinner.
That's right, we missed most of the morning due to hanging out in fantasy land and ended up having a late brunch. According to my phone, it is almost 6pm already.
"Surprise me," I say, being incredibly helpful, and sip the remainder of my coffee. Well, it's not an easy question to answer. I don't know what David can and cannot make, and I'd rather have him cook something that he'll enjoy. "Need help?" I ask when he unloads a small load of ingredients on the island. "If you ask me to peel or chop things, I promise to use a very blunt knife that could in no way ever hurt you."
"Well, when you put it like that..." David chuckles, giving me a sceptical look, and rising from my seat, I scoop my art paraphernalia into my arms and stick my tongue out at him.
"I'll be right back," I grin and head to the solarium to put my tools away safely.
"Belle? Isn't it too dark to see what you're doing?"
I look up, startled when I am suddenly drenched in glaring light, and hear David speak close to my ear. He is crouching beside me, and I'm sitting on the bare wooden boards of the solarium floor with my sketchbook in my lap. My hands have that tired, dirty feeling of being covered in graphite after hours of drawing. My shoulders are aching, and my butt has gone numb. I think my right foot has fallen asleep.
"What?" I gasp, dropping the piece of graphite.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," David says, stroking his hand down my hair. "You've been up here for ages; I just wanted to let you know that dinner is ready."
The light is blinding my eyes, and I turn my head to ask David what he means since I literally just left him in the kitchen and was on my way up to the solarium two seconds ago, but squinting against the glare, I'm struggling to see his face.
"What... why?" he mutters, taking the book from my hands and standing up. "Belle?"
I don't know what has him so confused now. I cannot get my eyes open properly, and I would like to stand too and see what he is looking at, but my foot is all sparks and needles, quite awful.
What on Earth is going on?
"David?"
He reaches down and pulls me up, allowing me to lean against him to stay upright while I try to wake my foot up. I can see now if I keep my eyes narrowed enough. David turned on the lights when he entered the room, and it is illuminating the floor in front of me, which is covered in rough sketches.
So much for the theory of me drawing shadows and the shadows being cast by the coat rack; the drawings are ever more zoomed, progressively more detailed images of the section of the patio drawing we'd found so disturbing earlier. The open front door with a man standing just inside it.
The drawing David has in his hands is no longer a sinister figure or an ambiguous shadow. It is a man wearing an old-fashioned dark suit, a button-down vest, and a pocket square, and he has lace-up Oxfords on his feet. Shoes with rubberless soles. Shoes that would make sliding, grinding noises if moved flatly along a dusty floor. In his hands is a fedora.
His fashion is straight from the 1920s, but the scowl on his face and displeased pull of his lips can be seen during any era on the faces of hardened, bitter people.
"How..." David tries again, his voice husky in my ear. "Why are you drawing my great-grandfather?"
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