Gayle Wilson - Echoes in the Dark

The door opened suddenly, moving away from his fingers, and he could smell her. The same soap, the same shampoo, Kerri had always used. God, how could she know that? He closed his eyes behind the lenses of the dark glasses, but that didn’t stop the tightening of his groin, the painful engorging that even her smell, after all these years, could cause.

“I’m not afraid,” she said. “I like storms, but I would like to come downstairs. If you’ll wait while I get dressed.”

“Of course,” he said. He wondered if she could hear the tightness in his voice. “Do you need any help?” he asked seriously, and heard her laugh.

“I’ve been dressing myself a long time. I think I can manage.”

“So had I,” he said softly, a rebuke against her amusement. When he spoke again, he had lightened the darkness. “But if you get it wrong, I certainly won’t notice.”

This time he smiled when she laughed. She closed the door, and he smiled again in satisfaction and leaned against the wall to wait.

It wasn’t long before the door reopened. He could hear the movement of whatever she wore against her body, could smell her fragrance. For the first time, he was uncertain about what he had planned to do, so she was forced to stand in the open doorway waiting. He could hear her breathing, and finally he spoke.

“There’s a proverb for situations like this,” he said.

“But you’re not, surely, going to say it,” she answered, her voice calm and unembarrassed. He was surprised to feel her fingers close around his upper arm. He pressed them against his side and wondered if he could do this, if he still wanted to. He guided her, without speaking, to the stairs and loosened her fingers from around his arm to place her left hand on the railing. He was surprised when she touched him once more, gripping his sleeve.

“Don’t,” she said into the darkness. He could hear, for the first time, unease in her voice. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m right here. I just thought the railing might be easier. I have you.”

She moved down the stairs beside him, but he felt the deep breath she took when they reached the bottom.

“I don’t think I could do that,” she said softly. He didn’t respond, didn’t want to form an answer, because he understood. He hadn’t thought he could, either. He had—out of necessity and because he had had no choice.

“Are you hungry?” he asked instead.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others? Suzanne said they’d be back.”

“I don’t think that now, with the storm, they’ll try it. Maybe later if it clears, but not with that going on.”

They listened to the force pushing against the house, the movement of the long panes of glass between them and the wind.

“Then, yes,” she said, “I’m hungry.”

He led her to the kitchen. With each step she relaxed into his guidance, surer now with following his movements. He didn’t hesitate, and she felt again a kind of admiration for his cleverness in conquering the dark world he’d been forced into.

She was gently deposited on a tall stool near the island that she knew dominated the center of the modern kitchen.

“Let’s see what’s here.”

She heard him open the refrigerator and begin removing lids and placing containers on the counter.

“I just thought,” he said suddenly. She heard him open a drawer and the brush of his fingers over the contents. She couldn’t tell what he was doing, until the flare of the match allowed her to watch him light by touch the wick of the candle he’d found. The soft glow moved out against the darkness. She took a deep breath when he turned to bring the candle and its holder to the island.

“That’s better,” he said, as if the light were for him also. She smiled at the satisfaction in his voice.

“Much better,” she agreed. “Dinner by candlelight.”

When he moved back to the counter to fix whatever he’d found for their supper, she carried the candle and her stool across the narrow space that separated them. He stopped what he was doing when he became aware of her nearness.

“I want to watch,” she said, “or help, if you like.”

He carefully cut the long loaf he’d found in the pantry into two halves with a knife that moved easily against the bread.

“I think it’s safer if you watch. I like doing this, but I’d hate to miss and ruin our dinner. Your fingers are safer in your lap, Ms. Evans,” he said, and she could see the quick slant of his smile in the candlelight. His rejection of her offer didn’t slow the preparations his hands were making.

“Caroline,” she corrected and watched the sudden stillness of his fingers.

“Caroline,” he repeated before he went back to the sandwich. She lapsed into silence, enjoying the swift dexterity of his hands against the items he’d placed on the counter.

When it was finished, he used the knife to cut the sandwich into two equal parts, which he lifted onto the plates. She carried them to the island and sat on one of the stools.

His fingers found the neck of one of the bottles that rested in the wine rack above her head, and she watched as he carried it to the counter and poured two glasses. When he held hers out to her, she took it. He found the stool with one hand and pulled it to the island, and she moved one of the plates in front of him. She watched him sip the burgundy, but she sat hers down untouched beside her plate. Even the smell would nauseate her.

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