I didn't resist when David guided me down the stairs and into the kitchen; I just walked mindlessly, stumbling on occasion until my foot woke up completely and decided to behave like a proper foot attached to my body again.
David has yet to call me crazy or even remark on the strangeness of what just happened. I told him I'd be right back and then stayed away for as long as it took him to create the feast waiting on the serving island, and it is a feast. Thick, brothy stew (I didn't even know one could make something like that with the stuff I brought), rice and a salad. A real one!
I brought tomatoes and cucumbers and a bag of leaves; no idea what they are. Figured I needed to pretend to eat healthy on occasion. I was going to force myself to cook some of the frozen vegetables I brought because my mom insisted I buy some, and here a portion of those vegetables is now transformed into a dish that's causing my stomach to applaud even though I thought I'd lost my appetite.
My mom! She must be going out of her mind!
I sent her a quick message just before I went to bed on my first night here to let her know I'd arrived. She tends to fuss and worry too much; therefore, it's best not to give her too much information. Craig said he told her that I'm fine and that the farm I'm on is not anywhere near the floods, but the internet connection and cell phone signals are sketchy.
I hope she believes him. I hate stressing her.
The salad is rather good. David made some sort of dressing which really hides the fact that it's supposed to be healthy. My kind of salad! I scoop a forkful of stew - meat, potatoes, and vegetables in a thick sauce - and pop it into my mouth. When I taste it, I let out a completely involuntary groan, and David glances at me, looking both pleased and amused.
"This is so good," I tell him. "You're hired."
"I was auditioning for something?"
"Yup, my personal slave," I grin, winking at him.
"Slaves don't get hired," he chuckles, and I roll my eyes.
It is all so friggin' normal!
I suppose we've developed a very warped concept of what passes as normal. Me drawing in the dark for at least an hour, if not more, without being aware of it is not all that unexpected anymore. The fact that I drew someone who actually existed at some point but I have never met is not weird at all!
Well, I'm rattled!
One minute I was on the steps heading up to the solarium, and the next, I was sitting on the floor in a pool of drawings, completely blinded by the light David turned on.
Apparently, one doesn't need light to draw by when you don't know that you're drawing. Did the same thing happen to me when I drew the children into my drawings and the man in the door? I was aware of drawing at the time... at least, I knew I was sketching the house and garden.
My artwork has never featured people before. I like drawing and painting scenes containing buildings, often in combination with nature. I sometimes think that I should've enrolled for a degree in architecture instead, but I got hi-jacked by fine arts. It's my passion. I'm not sure how useful my qualification is going to be, but I love it, and it has improved my technique a lot and helped me discover new media and methods.
I've been freelancing as an illustrator for a couple of years with some success, and I've sold quite a few of my drawings and paintings at pop-up markets. I get by. David might actually be steering me in a direction I haven't thought of before. I could potentially do for other renovators what I'm now doing for him, helping him visualise the end results.
To be honest - and I know this will cause most of the career-driven people out there to toss their cocktails and choke on their cheese - I would love nothing more than to live in this house with David and help him turn La Belle Pêche into a warm home filled with the laughter of children.
I know I've just met the guy, and it makes no sense to me either; usually, I'm a slow-burn kind of girl when it comes to relationships. I have, in fact, slow-burned Hank right out of my life and into the arms of the fast-burning flea-market girl.
Yet, today felt right somehow. David was working in the gardens, and I was drawing, and whenever we were in the same area, we'd gravitate to each other and spend a few minutes appreciating each other's lips. Believe me; I could survive on kisses from this man!
It was the perfect day. I want many, many more days like today. Just, you know, minus me unconsciously making creepy sketches of his great-grandfather...
"Are you sure it's your great-grandfather?" I finally break the silence that's been building for a few minutes now and tackle the elephant in the room by the tusks. Eating the fragrant stew, David prepared is starting to warm me up inside, lulling me into a sense of contentment again. Just having him near me, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin, and seeing his face chase away all the dreadful feelings that had been pooling in my stomach.
My feelings do scare me, though. I've known the guy for less than two days, and I'm already this attached to him. What kind of state am I going to be in after being trapped here with him for days, weeks, or probably, a month or two? Perhaps it's just infatuation caused by his presence during stress, and my feelings will settle down, and I'll be over it in a day or two. Then we'll just be two virtual strangers trapped in a creepy old house... who did a lot of kissing during the first couple of days and ended up feeling really awkward about it...
Oh! I hope not! I like these feelings I'm experiencing.
"Yes, there are pictures of him at my grandfather's place," David confirms with a shrug, and then he lowers the fork that was on its way to his mouth. "Oh! There are a few family pictures on the fireplace mantel in the living room and the sideboard in the dining room too. I think he's in some of those too."
True, I've seen those and made a mental note to examine them, but then I got distracted by noisy clocks, disappearing rooms and a man with beautiful dark green eyes and a smile that makes me feel happy to be alive.
"Actually, he's not my great-grandfather, he was my grandfather's grandfather, not his father, but he raised him."
Of course! His mother abandoned him. Thinking about the man I drew gives me chills. Who would want to leave a child in the care of a man with such a hard face and cold demeanour? He doesn't just seem strict; he seems dead inside. I feel bad for David's grandfather. From what I've heard of the man, he is rather gentle and kind, and David clearly adores him.
"Perhaps I saw the images in more detail than I thought, and he just popped onto the pages from my memory." I'm talking crap, and I know it. I did not look at those pictures with enough detail to know whose faces were on them, and there's still that whole thing where I was not aware of making those drawings in the first place.
David doesn't acknowledge my BS; he knows I'm just talking out of a place of fear. My anxiety meter is revved into the red. Reaching out with his right hand, he places it over my left hand, his fingers wrapping warmly and comfortingly around mine.
"We'll figure it out, Belle," he smiles, and now I have no legs.
Cleaning the kitchen when we're done with our dinner gives me a few moments alone to gather my thoughts. David wanted to help, but I booted him out. I need to be of some help too; besides, he has work to do. As usual, he'd washed utensils and bowls as he went along while cooking, leaving me virtually no dishes to wash and hardly any clean-up tasks. I remedied that problem by insisting on having some ice cream after the meal, and this time I used a bowl and didn't eat out of the tub the way I usually do. I, therefore, have exactly two extra bowls to wash and some spoons.
Yeah, I live for small victories these days... even stupid ones.
I can hear the vacuum running upstairs while I clean the kitchen. David is creating a bedroom for himself right across from mine. It's the room with the least amount of furniture ghosts in it. It also isn't as dusty as the others since he'd been moving furniture in and out of there a couple of days before my arrival.
"I'm all set," he tells me when I finally join him after navigating the obstacle course of furniture he'd created on the landing. This man can work really fast. There are still a couple of draped towers of stacked chairs and other furniture in the room, but he'd carved himself a snug nook consisting of a steel frame bed with a hard-looking mattress and a bedside table. The guy really doesn't need much to make himself comfortable.
"Would you mind helping me carry the stuff on the landing down to the foyer?" he asks, and I'm happy to hear that we're not going to have to play leap-the-chair every time we need to use the hallways and landing.
"Sure."
Most of the items he'd removed from the room are already in the foyer, neatly arranged in one of two groups depending on whether he plans to keep them or sell them. Unfortunately, no chairs form part of the hurdle course up here; the only furniture he didn't take down by himself are the ones that need two people to carry them down the stairs safely. So much for some leap-the-chair fun...
Once we've cleared the hallways and landing, I make David's bed for him while he stores the vacuum cleaner in the pantry and carefully organises the foyer to clear it of any tripping hazards and make it completely Belle-resistant. His room is dreary in comparison to mine. I've covered the ugly mattress in clean sheets and a soft blanket, and there are two plump pillows in fresh pillowcases. He could very effectively pretend to be in a hospital now, just minus the beeping machines and running nurses.
I don't like this. I'm not surprised to find myself regretting the fact that we shan't be sharing a room tonight. I don't like being away from David, and this room is just too sad. He is going to be lonely.
Alright, I'll admit it!
I'm afraid of being alone, especially after seeing those drawings I made of his great-great-grandfather, who died almost 75 years ago when his grandfather was in his twenties. Seeing the startlingly detailed drawing I made of his shoes truly freaked me out.
Was great-great-grandpappy in the foyer with me last night, shuffling around, scaring me? That's not very likely. I don't know whether I believe in ghosts or not. Haunting a place seems rather pointless to me. Why would he hang around in the foyer in the dark, not speaking or doing anything except moving his feet around?
Do ghosts even have feet? Do they wear shoes?
Oh, my word! I do hope it wasn't his great-great-grandfather I'd been kissing last night... or actually, this morning.
No, the man in my dreams looked very different. He was young, vibrant, and beautiful, and he radiated the same kind of gentle strength, filled with passion that I've come to associate with David. Perhaps I was just feeling David. I was kissing him, after all, not some ghost.
Done making his bed, I wander down to the living area to find David seated on the couch, gazing at the photographs he'd taken from the mantel and the dining room, his brow furrowed with concentration. A fire is cheerfully burning in the grate infusing everything within reach with a happy, warm glow.
He jerks in fright when I join him on the couch; he'd been so engrossed in his studies that he didn't even notice me until I sat down. His fright turns into a welcoming smile, and his arm snakes around me, pulling me into his side. I once again marvel at how natural his actions are and how safe they make me feel.
He hands me the photograph he'd been staring at, and my breath catches in my throat. It's a lovely girl with gentle features, her hair neatly tied in the nape of her neck, the tail end draped over her shoulder and chest. Though much younger and less sad-looking, this is definitely the woman David painted.
"It's her," I whisper and heaving a sigh, David lies back against the pillows of the couch, closing his eyes. "She's beautiful. Do you know who she is?"
"I'm not sure," he mutters. "Family, apparently. There are so many pictures on that mantel and in the dining room; I'm not sure where all of them fit in. My grandfather is never keen to look at them or talk about them. I guess his family history hurts him too much. Perhaps he simply doesn't know either."
"She was quite the rebel."
"What makes you say that?"
"I don't know. The way she holds her head and that rather cheeky smile. She's very different from the painting. In this photograph, she seems to have a lot of fire and spunk."
"Yeah," David sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "I thought so too."
I flip the picture over to see if there is something on the back, disappointed when all I find is the smooth backing board. Determined to find at least one answer for David, I carefully move the small fasteners out of the way and lift the board off. To my relief, it comes away easily. There is something written on the back of the photograph in fancy cursive script. It's a little hard to decipher because the ink is faded, and though pretty, it's not the easiest handwriting to read.
"Maribelle Stirling, May 1914," I read when I'm finally able to make out the letters. "That's 105 years ago. Just before World War One broke out." I study the picture a little bit longer, wondering if Maribelle made it through the war. It never reached here, but David did mention that La Belle Pêche was used as some kind of port and halfway house for refugees during many wars. "Wait! Maribelle... Belle."
David takes the picture to study the back of it, his frown deepening, and then his eyes grow wide.
"Mari! Of course!" he gasps. "This was my grandfather's mother."
We both stare at the photograph with renewed interest now. David dreamed about her; he painted her, not knowing who she was. Of all his ancestors and people passing through here through the ages, why would it be his great-grandmother that haunts his dreams?
"Oh great," I finally grunt. "I was making out with your great-grandfather." I bite my tongue, realising the implications of what I'd just said, when David makes a pained face.
"Well, technically, it was me you were kissing," I hurry to remind him, and smiling, he leans over to stroke a strand of stray hair from my forehead. I feel robbed when he removes his arm from around me and bends over to find a photograph from among the framed portraits he'd placed on the coffee table pulled close to the couch. I replace Maribelle's portrait in its frame and exchange it for the photograph David is holding out to me.
There, inside the intricate pewter frame, is the man I'd drawn, Fedora and all, and he looks every bit as dissatisfied with life as I'd portrayed him. I see nothing of David on his face, and I suddenly wonder how they could be related at all.
It's a studio torso image of a cold-looking man with piercing eyes, a well-groomed moustache, neatly side-parted short hair, immaculate clothing, and his hat formally held in his hand. He was handsome, but not in a come-hither-you-yummy-dude kind of way, like his great-great-grandson. He doesn't look evil or like a bad person might be imagined looking; still, everything inside me recoils from the hardness in his eyes.
Why on Earth would I draw this man?
From what David told me, he moved out of this house in 1927, shortly after his grandson was born and abandoned by his mother.
"Did your great-great-grandfather ever move back here after they left?"
"No," David sighs, lying back into the cushions again, "but he did stay here on occasion, and he formed part of the refugee gateway during World War II. I think his cousin was living here at that time, running the gateway. The cousin didn't own the place but used it sometimes. There's no real proof of this refugee gateway, but there were plenty of rumours about it."
He falls quiet, weaving his fingers through my hair when I leave the photographs on the table and nestle into his chest.
"David, we should probably go to bed now," I suggest, realising how tired he must be. I really do not relish the idea of leaving the warmth of the fireplace and his arms. I love lounging here, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
"Let's wait for the fire to die down a bit," he mutters, pulling the soft throw I'd returned to the back of the couch over us. "This is nice."
"It really is," I agree, closing my eyes and relishing the moment.
I struggle to open them again when my body suddenly protests against the cold. Did the door blow open again, kill the fire and suck the heat from the room?
That was quick!
I feel sluggish and not in the languid way I did a minute ago. I'm cold, and every part of me is aching as though I've spent an hour or two in a gym. Groaning, I try to part my lashes again, and after the third attempt, I finally manage to open them wide enough to look into the glass-button eyes of a moth-eaten teddy bear wearing a sailor suit.
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