“Thank you.” I flash a genuine smile.
Niven responds, “This is where I bid you farewell till morning, dear.” Niven lowers her head in a bow, then closes the door. Her footsteps vanish into the night. I sprint like a child and jump, landing face down on the California king-size bed, the old wood frame creaking with the long-forgotten attention I was giving it.
After I was done making snow angels in the middle of the champagne-colored sheets, I investigate the rest of the room. The espresso wood furniture, complete with a wardrobe, vanity, footlocker, and chaise, are enhanced with rose gold embellishments. A second glance, and the windows aren't windows at all, but French doors that lead out to a balcony.
On the other side of the room, alongside the vintage wardrobe, is a lavish bathroom. The walls are lined with mirrors, and the cabinets have the same traits as the furniture. The most astonishing feature rests smack dab in the middle of the room. Sitting there, isolated, and beautiful is a pearlescent-claw-foot tub with rose gold feet.
As my exploration ends, I settle back on the bed, closing my eyes. It isn’t a second later that a small knock echoes off the walls.
“Come in,” I call out.
The door pushes open as I get to my feet to greet whoever enters, and Niven walks in with a plate of food. “Oh, thank you, I'm not hungry though.”
“I understand, all this excitement can make one feel like that. I wanted to bring it up anyway.” She smiles, but I can see it is masking her sadness. “No matter, maybe tomorrow. Goodnight, Madam Selby.”
“No, please, it’s just-” The door shuts before I can finish my statement. I look back at the bed, the sheets tousled from my earlier escapades, and it appears so inviting. I allow my shoulders to slump as I stumble to the bed and cocoon beneath the blankets, drifting off to sleep.
Sweating, panting, struggling, drowning, freezing… saved.
I wake up in a cold sweat, the comforters damp and knotted from my late-night tiff in my dreams. Sluggishly, I melt out of the bed as the sunlight reflects off the grooves in the wood on the floor. Walking over to the vanity, I grab the antique brush and run it through my hair a couple of times.
Checking to see if the wardrobe harbors any clothes that would fit my physique, I find a collection of 1930s dresses, ranging from exotic prints to floral patterns, occupying the inside. I find an emerald day dress with a modest top, and as I slip it over my body, the soft fabric feels as though I was being touched by clouds. It stops just past my knees with a slight flare and a high-waist belt.
The stunning image I see of myself in the floor mirror, makes me want to accessorize, starting by adding some perfumein places it matters.
As I walk back over to the vanity, I fix my hair into a thirties up-do, apply minimal makeup, and adorn myself in costume jewelry I find in one of the drawers. I am leaving the room when I hear voices coming from the first floor. The woman's voice I can tell is Niven’s, and the other is a softer male tone. The damp air muffles their sounds, making it challenging to decipher any intelligible words. I try to be quiet, but my heels keep clicking, releasing a soft remnant on the solid wood floor.
When I finally make it to the top of the staircase, Niven spots me. She looks at me, and with a smile that stretches across her face, she introduces me, “Madam Sel—Sorry, Emory.” She announces, reaching her hand in my direction. I flash an agreeing grin back to her, as my eyes lock on the back of the man she was speaking to.
Could it be him?
Could it be I wasn't imagining things in the first place?
“Please join us.” Her words reach my ears in slow motion as the gentleman next to her swivels on the spot.
My eyes take in his features, from his black dress shoes to his charcoal trousers. A Pearl River button-up shirt is superlatively tucked in and strapped down with suspenders. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing strong but not muscular forearms, while his tie is securing his collar taut and taking on a bone-colored hue.
Scars sit like tattoos on his skin, like he had been attacked and needed to hold his arms up in defense.
My heart skips a beat when I notice the cloth that conceals his face. "Madam. Emory. I’ll get it right, I promise," she corrected herselfbefore continuing with her introduction. "This is Mr. Gaston, the groundskeeper.” She places a hand on his shoulder, “He is also highly knowledgeable in technology and, as mentioned, he would be more than happy to assist you with whatever questions you have."
His eyes finally meet mine, and the crow's feet in the corner of them, caused by smiling, fade and are replaced with a look of desire. He looks at me like Jack did Rose when she stood in the same spot on the Titanic. Like butterfly wings, my heart flutters, and if our ribs weren't made to be in cages, then my heart would have been on the floor, clawing its way to him—begging to be shackled to him for eternity. I catch my mouth before it falls to the floor, as I straighten my stance. Taking on a fallacious sense of self-confidence, I float to the foot of the stairs, doing my best not to stumble.
He clears his throat, his right eye shadowed by his Scally cap, “Pleased to finally make your acquaintance.” His voice is like a hot knife through butter—smooth yet raspy when he hits those lower octaves. A voice that is flawless with every note that floats past the material shielding, what I was sure were perfect lips, from my voracious gaze.
Regardless of the rest of his beauty, it’s the feature nestled between his cap and the hem of his mask that beguiles me—his eyes. Those eyes that I have come to thirst for, that make me more dehydrated than a lost slave trudging the far-reaching desiccated Egyptian deserts.
As I take my place between the two of them, I reach out my hand. “The pleasure is all mine...Mr. Gaston.” I put an accent on the name, raising an eyebrow in tandem.
“Oh, please,” he chuckles. I imagine an animalistic grin sliding across his face like a zipper opening to releasea demonic creature. “Call me Oliver,” he says, with a bow, taking my hand in his, and I can't help but let my mind wander as he plants a gentle kiss atop my knuckles.
This man will be the death of me.
Chapter 9
Evelyn
"Forgiveness begins with understandingthe wounds we cannot see."
