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They reached for each other at the same time. He was almost as tall as she was, and glad for it. She smelled good. She felt good. She tasted better than good, although their teeth kept bumping. He was afraid of hurting her, and she was afraid of being hurt. She looked a little like Christine, which helped him, and he was younger and smaller than she was, which helped her.
In the end, she stared up at him in amazement. “It doesn’t have to hurt,” she said.
He shifted on his elbows, careful not to let his whole weight lie on her, mindful of her bruises. “I guess not.”
She moved experimentally. “There’s something else, though.”
“Yeah,” he said, closing his eyes and adjusting his body to match with hers.
“Tim?”
He opened his eyes. “What?”
“Did you-?”
“Yeah,” he said, reddening.
“Was it-did it feel good?”
He tucked his hot face into the curve between her shoulder and her neck. “Yes. I think so. I don’t know.”
She was silent for a moment. “Tim?”
“What?”
“Could we do it again?”
FIFTEEN
Sunshine Valley, September 4
He rose with the sun and built up the fire in the stove. There was a pump handle on the edge of the sink. He saw her looking down from the loft as he filled the kettle. “The well’s right under the house,” he said. “Long as we’ve got a fire in the stove, the pipes won’t freeze in winter. Fresh water all year round, and you don’t have to go down to the creek to get it.”
She murmured something, something humble, acquiescent, admiring. It seemed to be enough; he nodded, satisfied, and put the kettle on the stove. He smiled up at her. “Elaine the fair,” he said softly.
She had already learned to be afraid of that tone of his voice, and her body went very still beneath the covers.
“You’ll make us some breakfast, won’t you, Elaine? You’re such a good cook, I can hardly wait to taste those pancakes of yours again.” He went to the door. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said, and went out the door, closing it behind him.
She rose, scrambling into her clothes, buttoning her shirt up to the last button beneath her chin, cinching her belt in to the last possible notch. She could barely stand to look at the bed they had shared, but she knew enough to make it.
She climbed down the ladder and went to the little kitchen, all hardwood cabinets and counter, the same wood from which the furniture and the cabin itself was made. There was a Coleman stove on the counter, very similar to the one she had cooked on for Mark, and the sight of it should have moved her to tears.
The door, the only door into the cabin, a meticulously finished slab of wood allowed to retain its natural color, remained shut and mute.
She located the ingredients and the frying pan, and mixed pancake dough. There was no syrup, but there was brown sugar and maple flavoring and water, so she made some. She found a cone filter and a carafe and filters and coffee. All she had to do was wait for the kettle to boil.
The minutes ticked by, one by one, and still he hadn’t come back. She looked at the door, looked away.
She found stoneware plates in a pretty Delft pattern and set the table. There was a full set of stainless steel flatware in a drawer, pristine and polished. She used paper towels for napkins, folded into perfect little triangles.
Something tapped at the window, and she looked up to see a spruce bough scrape at the glass. It was a tiny window, with four panes, barely big enough for a dog to climb through. Bears, she thought numbly.
The shadow of the bough shifted on the glass and she saw a faint smear of something. She found a bottle of Windex and washed it off. She washed the other window in the opposite wall, too.
The door had no window.
She swept the floor, depositing the dirt carefully in the plastic trash can. She dusted the shelf. It held three books, a collection of Shakespeare, the Bible, andIdylls of the King.
A small wooden box stood next to the Te
After a moment the racing of her heart slowed and she managed to kneel down and collect the items and put them back in the box. A cheap Claddagh ring, a wide silver bracelet that looked Southwestern, a plain gold wedding band. Five pairs of earrings. Two crosses on chains, one gold, one silver. A choker of crystals strung between tiny silver spacers.
Carefully she put them back into the box. Her hands were trembling. It took her three tries to get the lid back on, and she nearly dropped the box again when she tried to put it back on the shelf.
The shelf stood against the wall next to the door.
Taking up Windex and cloth again, she dusted the door handle, a handle shaped like a vine with leaves, with a latch beneath. She pressed down on it a little too hard. There was a click. The door opened.
A light breeze fa
She reached out a hand, touched the door. Like everything else in the cabin, it was very well crafted. It swung silently outward.
She took a step forward, another, and the next thing she knew she was outside. No one shouted at her. No one grabbed her. No one hit her. No one forced her down, tore at her jeans, spread her legs and pushed painfully inside her. No one smiled his crazy smile at her afterward, patted her cheek in a travesty of affection and concern and said, “There, there. You’ll learn. It’ll take time, but you’ll learn. You’ve been gone so long, I understand, it’s like a new place to you. You used to love it. You’ll love it again.”
Her heart beat rapidly high up in her throat. She took another step forward, another and then another.
A branch caught her cheek, the sore spot high up where he’d hit her the night before when she’d tried to pull away from him, and only then did she realize how quickly she was moving, walking, shifting into a kind of stumbling run. She had no idea where she was going, which direction was best, the trees and the cliffs behind them were so close, so overwhelming. There might be bears, but she kept going.
She stumbled out into a tiny, circular clearing. Late flowers were blooming, fireweed, wild roses, even a few poppies, orange and red and yellow. They grew up around the stumps of trees cut off at knee level.
Except they weren’t trees, or stumps. She took a step closer to the nearest one. One side had been planed smooth for an inscription.
“Elaine,” she read. “Elaine the Fair, Elaine the Lovable, Elaine, the Lily Maid of Astolat.” The letters were carved into the wood with the same care and craftsmanship demonstrated in the construction of the cabin and all its contents.
She didn’t want to, she didn’t think she could force herself to move, but her feet stepped forward on their own. The next stump was also planed smooth, also carved, also read “Elaine the Fair, Elaine the Lovable, Elaine, the Lily Maid of Astolat.”
One stump after another, all planed, all carved. “Elaine the Fair.” “Elaine the Lovable.” “Elaine, the Lily Maid of Astolat.” “Elaine.”
Elaine. Elaine. Elaine.
You’ll make us some breakfast, won’t you, Elaine?
But her name wasn’t Elaine.
She counted slowly, lips forming soundless numbers. One, two, three. Four. Five, six, seven, eight.
You’re such a good cook, I can hardly wait to taste those pancakes of yours again.
But she’d never cooked for him before.
There, at the edge of the clearing, so faded it was almost invisible, nine. Ten, eleven.
Twelve. A gleaming new piece of wood with the dirt tamped around it still fresh and free from moss and lichen.