“I’m fine.” She moved away and adjusted her shirt.
Even in the dim light of the basement I could see her embarrassment. Tenley pointed to a pile of boxes stacked in the corner of the room. “When you’re done, bring up what you want.”
She went to sidestep around me, but I mirrored the movement, blocking the stairs. I raised my hands in contrition, aware that once again I had messed things up. “Don’t leave yet. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Her eyes ricocheted around the room, careful to avoid resting on me. “Cassie needs me.”
“You’ve used the excuse before. I’m starting to feel like this is personal.”
She made another move toward the stairs, gingerly holding the railing with her bandaged hand as she tried to squeeze past. Some dark emotion flashed across her face. It was there for only a second before it was gone, and in that moment I watched a storm brewing inside her, threatening pain. Whatever her deal was, I wanted insight.
She met my gaze with a conflicted one of her own. She wanted to stay, maybe just as much as I wanted her to. I covered her hand with mine, careful to avoid the injury, and innocently rubbed my thumb along the underside of her wrist for the sake of contact. Like the last time, her pulse was erratic.
“Please?”
Her fragile defiance, her fear, her longing all resonated with the hollow place inside me. I wanted to know why.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
4
TENLEY
Hayden’s answering smile dissolved any final reservations, like I’d done him some great service by agreeing to look through a bunch of relics with him. Spending time alone with him was probably a bad idea on my part, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. And I didn’t want to. Over the past several weeks I’d tried to avoid him, but it had become too difficult. After so many months of self-imposed exile, I craved a connection with someone. His hard exterior made him safe–he seemed just as guarded as me. He tugged on my wrist and I relented, taking him to the pile of boxes with his name scrawled on them in the corner of the basement.
“I don’t know how much you’ll want to keep, but this is the stuff that was set aside.”
“You organized all of this?” He took two chairs from a dining set and offered me one. For someone so menacing, he had manners, aside from having no concept of personal space. I dropped onto the velvet cushioned seat as he did the same.
The week after I moved into the apartment upstairs from Serendipity I asked Cassie if she knew of anyone in need of some part-time help. The issue wasn’t money but too much free time. I’d relocated to Chicago in mid-August, more than a month before the fall semester began. While I was content to research my thesis and pre-read for my coming courses, it didn’t keep me as occupied as I wanted. I could only do so much until I met with my professor and that wouldn’t happen for another week or two. Cassie showed me the basement and gave me a job, solving her problem and mine.
“You should have seen this place before I started,” I told him as he opened the closest box. “I almost couldn’t get down the stairs, there was so much stuff.”
“I’ve been down here before; it’s like an anxiety attack of clutter. It looks a lot better now, though.” He rolled his shoulders, dusting off a Victorian-era candelabra. He made a face and looked for a place to wipe his hand. “You got a cloth or something around here?”
“Why? Afraid of a little dirt?” I joked.
“I don’t have a problem getting dirty,” he said with a sly grin. “I just can’t afford to go back to work looking like I rolled around on a basement floor.”
His velvet tone made it difficult not to read innuendo into the comment. Before the mental picture developed further, I stood up and crossed to the other side of the room. The dusting cloths were in the cabinet with the cleaning supplies. Tossing a couple to Hayden, I kept one for myself and sat back down beside him.
He was organized and methodical as he inspected each treasure, wiping them down with gentle hands. The care he took as he handled delicate pieces, even the things he didn’t want, gave me insight into the kind of artist he was. I imagined he worked on his clients with the same vigilant precision.
“You want to tell me what really happened to your hand?”
I peeked up at him, thankful my hair created a barrier through which to view him and still shield my face. I didn’t know why the question surprised me. It shouldn’t have. “Nope.”
He chuckled and remained quiet for some time, sifting through the boxes. He handed me the things he didn’t want, and I put them into an empty box. Each time he did, I surreptitiously inspected the artwork on his arms.