Darkening Around Me

It was late and I was hungry. The lunch I’d eaten on the flight from Denver was a vague cardboard memory. This I told myself as I bathed and changed for dinner though my empty stomach had little to do with the vanilla chai lotion I rubbed on my legs or the soft touch of coordinating perfume I dabbed on my wrists. Considering the curiosity that Miles O’Keefe had piqued, I probably should have nibbled on stale mints from the bottom of my purse and stayed in my room. The furnishings were dated, but, all the heavy, dark furniture aside, it was clean and the bathroom well equipped.

O’Keefe had made me curious and I wanted to see him again. My interest had begun with the statue at La Roux. It had grown with the gift of the charcoal sketch. And, yes, even the mystery surrounding his “ghost.” Meeting him earlier and discovering the macabre statues in the garden hadn’t caused my curiosity to lessen.

The storm outside had strengthened rather than abated. The lamplight flickered as I dressed. There was no harm in seeking companionship on a stormy night, but I try not to lie to myself if I can help it. I was compelled to seek out O’Keefe and it had nothing to do with hunger or the storm. Slightly to do with electricity, but not the kind lighting up the sky outside my window. He was the first mystery I’d allowed in my life in a very long time. Challenges, yes, left and right. But never the unknown. I’d made sure my life was carefully organized and mapped for so long. Miles was a sudden, unexpected gasp in my steady respiration.

At least I could blame my aunt for the dress I wore to dinner. She had given it to me in the hope that I would wear it to a show of my work that had never been. I hadn’t been to my workshop since the attack and was living off the income of pieces I’d previously sold. I had only packed the dress because the tags still attached to its bohemian skirt had fluttered at me from my closet. It was longer, softer and more artfully flowing than I would have chosen for myself. But the modest neckline covered my scars and the sleeveless bodice showed off my toned shoulders. Besides, the thin sweep of skirt seemed somehow appropriate for Thornleigh. It was a casual dress but a pretty one, and I wouldn’t allow it to be a weakness for wanting to look attractive in front of the handsome artist who unsettled me so thoroughly.

I walked downstairs on ballet flats that made nothing but quiet swishes on the carpeting while thunder shook the house around me.

There’s nothing like walking through an old, empty house in the dark with only an occasional flickering lamp and flashes of lightning to illuminate your way. Everything was odd, jagged shadows from unfamiliar objects. I was constantly startled by misshapen furniture revelations down every hall and around every corner.

As far as I knew, there were no other guests in the house, so any movement I saw at the edges of my perception were tricks of light and dark and all the gray spaces in between.

I came upon a portrait that dominated one nook down a narrow hallway. It was a painting of a handsome middle-aged man whose attractiveness was marred only by a hard, piercing gaze and a mouth that was pressed into a thin line. The tiny gold plaque on the elaborate frame read “Dominick O’Keefe”. I paused because the look in his eyes bothered me even though the breadth of his shoulders and the sweep of his hair reminded me of his nephew.

Dominick’s eyes burned with an intensity I was surprised the painter had been able to capture with oil on canvas.

The painting solidified my impression of the original O’Keefe’s desire to be seen as important and powerful. The whole of Thornleigh was new money masquerading as old. Never mind that when this giant, imposing portrait was painted he could have been photographed. That he’d commissioned such a large oil was telling.

The painting, the carpeting, the paneling, the lighting—all of it was “Victorian” by way of 1963. The effect was creepily off-kilter. Thornleigh had a dollhouse quality to it, as if everything was a not-quite-right copy of what it should have been.

As I stood there in the on-again, off-again flash of lightning and electric wiring that had seen better days, I had the fierce desire to fix and to freshen. To repair. Hadn’t I been doing the same for myself for months? I wasn’t the only soul in the world that needed healing. But the same desire to heal rising here made my heartbeat quicken and my breath catch.

With that thought came the sudden slam of a door down a hallway that intersected the one where I stood. The loud impact of heavy wood against wood made me jump. I turned to the black opening of the other corridor and waited. Long seconds stretched by, but no one revealed themselves. Who else was in the house? I assumed my host waited for me downstairs. It probably shouldn’t have bothered me that I wasn’t alone, but it did. Especially when the door slamming was only followed by the distant rumble of thunder from outside. Part of me hated to turn away from the direction of the slam to continue toward the stairs, but, of course, I did it anyway. I couldn’t stand there nervous for no good reason all night. Still, as I did turn and continue on my way, my neck prickled and my pace quickened.

O’Keefe had told me how to find the small morning room where we would eat dinner. It was off the grand dining room, which stood empty and cold save for dozens of ghostly draped chairs and a massive cherry table that could have accommodated fifty. I couldn’t walk quickly and quietly enough past chair after empty chair as their sheets gleamed in the dark.

The smaller and brighter morning room beckoned, but even so I paused again as Miles O’Keefe came into view. He stood by a fireplace, looking down at the flickering flames, his skin alight with its glow but also shadowed where the glow failed to touch. He startled me again with his height and the lean quality of his form. How anyone so tall and obviously strong could also give off an air of vulnerability I don’t know, but it was there in his dark, dark eyes and the flash of his hair against his pale forehead.

“I wondered if I should send out a search party,” Miles said as I entered, but when he turned the slight tilt of his lips fell and he was serious again.

My cheeks warmed when those almost-black eyes swept me from head to toe. I suddenly wished for jeans and sneakers and possibly a ponytail holder because it seemed to be the unbound waves of my hair that held his attention the longest. My natural desire to feel attractive warred with my need to feel safe and unnoticed by this man with flashing eyes.

“A bread-crumb trail wouldn’t be a bad idea,” I said. Pretending we were still being light and funny.

“We’ll ask Mary if she has some you can borrow,” Miles said. He smiled. Just the slightest return of a tilt to his lips and I looked away. The softening, the curve to his mouth, was too potent. It had been a very long time since I’d allowed myself this kind of attraction. Better to focus on the woman who entered the room carrying a tray full of covered dishes.

“Poached salmon and salad,” the woman offered. She sat the tray down and looked at it as if she might have forgotten what it was for in the first place.

She was thin and gray from head to foot. Her hair, her skin, her serviceable dress and shoes—all gray. But her face was smooth and her hands were young. I noticed the quick movements of her fingers when she gripped them together to still them in front of her skirt.

“Mary, this is Samantha Knox. Samantha, this is Mary. She’s my housekeeper’s niece and she cooks for me from time to time,” Miles said. He moved forward to hold a chair for me as he spoke, as naturally as if he’d been born a century earlier.

“That smells delicious,” I said, claiming the seat and looking up at Mary with a smile.

She didn’t return the smile. Not in an unfriendly way, but in a distracted way as if her mind was on other things.

“If that’s all, I’ll just…” she began, but she didn’t even finish her sentence before she turned away.

“Are you staying with your aunt tonight? Or would you like to stay here? The storm seems to be getting worse,” Miles said to her back.

“No. Not here. No. I’ll be fine,” Mary assured him over her shoulder as she left the room with hurried steps.

While O’Keefe spoke to his cook, I had taken the clandestine opportunity to notice that he’d changed for dinner. The cut of his suit was sharp as a razor, modern and nicely formed to his long, lean legs and tapered waist. His broad shoulders filled the jacket and, sans tie, the tailored white shirt showed not an ounce of spare flesh. I thought of the marble in the garden and how physically demanding it would be to work in that medium. Then I thought of clay and the working of it and I looked to his hands. He had sat down and was lifting the covers from the food, each digit curled and extended in the regular way, but I was struck by those hands and what I knew they could do.

I tried to focus on the arugula. Really. I did. Mostly because, once Mary left the room, O’Keefe’s dark eyes never left me. My face. My hands. The movements of my eyelashes against my cheeks. I don’t think that’s an exaggeration. If he intrigued me, if I found him an interesting pleasure to behold, then I, or his art at least, consumed him. And that’s what I was, surely. A subject. A study. I’m reasonably attractive, but I’ve never stopped traffic. O’Keefe seemed stopped as if nothing existed in the world beyond my face and form.

He had been telling me about Mary leaving food for him that he occasionally remembered to heat up and eat. Very occasionally, judging from his physique. But then he seemed to give up all pretense of normal conversation.

“I wanted to give you time to recover from your trip, but in this light…your face…” He was already up. He strode over to a table by the fire to retrieve a large sketch pad and pencil.

He didn’t ask for permission. My presence at Thornleigh was by permission. I’d come here for this, after all. If I hadn’t realized how intense it would be to have his every sensibility trained like crosshairs on me, that was my problem, not his.

I watched him, salad forgotten. His concentration. His tension. Every muscle in his body flexed to capture the perfect angle of my chin on paper. Seductive? Yes. I had to remind myself to chew and swallow the last bite I was to take of my fish. Because he came to me then and took my hand to pull me up and over to the fire. He urged me into a chair and then knelt at my side so very close, so very focused on his paper and not really on me at all. Oh, certainly on my appearance. The curve of my cheek or the shape of my brow, but I don’t think he saw what his nearness was doing to me. Not at first. Not the flush. Not the shallow breathing to limit the impact of his fresh-scented hair. Earlier he’d reeked of ozone from the rain. Now he smelled spicy, tempting.

His art consumed him and the flash in his eye looked very like the intensity I’d seen in the eyes of Dominick in the portrait upstairs. The resemblance made my heart kick faster. How easily intensity could go from being positive to negative. Should I be attracted to Miles O’Keefe or maybe, just maybe, should I fear him?

All this time, the storm had raged outside. The fire and the food and O’Keefe’s interest had distracted me from it, but suddenly the old wiring in the house lost its battle against the frequent lightning. One of the flickers I’d grown accustomed to became an outage.

Only the small fire illuminated and that was barely a foot or two semicircle of warmth in front of the hearth. We were in shadow, O’Keefe and I. Alone in the dark with a man who made me…what? Uncertain. Nervous. Flustered.

It was in those first moments of darkness that I couldn’t deny being attracted to O’Keefe. I was fascinated by his artistry and struck by a physical attraction to him that seemed beyond a pretty face and sexy eyes to a marrow-deep pull of his male magnetism.

Deep down I knew there was no possibility of shallow interaction with his intense personality. He would shatter and shake and possibly consume, but never bore. Never that. He would never be a casual acquaintance or a cool business arrangement.

And what of those piteous crying statues in the garden? He had created them, but, in life, had he inspired those tears?

I might have set myself on a mission to reclaim my strength and courage, but fascination with a tortured artist was surely out of the question.

I was going to stand and distance myself from the man who knelt too close in front of me. In the dark, I couldn’t see his expression or anticipate his movements, but I could still feel his powerful presence.

“Wait,” he demanded. He must have felt my leg tense where it brushed his arm. Or maybe he sensed my desire to run away from the darkness.

I breathed in quickly, startled by his touch, but I didn’t jerk away. The pull was in effect and his warm fingers felt right against my skin.

“I almost had you…the shape of your face… Let me…” O’Keefe murmured.

My God, his voice was meant for the darkness. It was deep and masculine with a husky edge of urgency. I had the crazy idea that only the crackling fire could understand the whole of it, that I was somehow missing the burn of deeper inflections and hidden meanings.

Softly, gently, his fingers traced my face and I didn’t pull away. I didn’t stand. I held myself perfectly still. I didn’t dare to even breathe. All this time, I’d been challenging myself with the wrong sort of tests. Obviously. Climb a mountain. Run. Whatever. Sitting in the dark with this all-too-observant stranger caused my adrenaline to spike like no climb I’d ever taken on. And that was before his hands dipped from my face to my neck and we both paused. Me, because an arch of desire sizzled through me with a sudden thrill. Only my neck, but the pad of his thumb was directly over the rapid pulse beat that revealed too much of my fear and my wants.

How to tell him that I was afraid of him and my reaction to him? That his hands on my skin scared me because my skin was off-limits and the last thing I sensed in him was control or discipline.

“The dark of Thornleigh is something to fear. Don’t be too brave for your own good. Not here and not with me,” Miles warned.

He must have felt my pulse leap beneath his thumb, but I didn’t care. I had been much more vulnerable than this before and I’d survived.

“It isn’t dark. Not really. I can see the shape of things. I can see the gleam of your eyes,” I said.

It was true. The firelight hadn’t left us in inky nothingness. Everything was indistinct but recognizable. I saw when he closed his eyes and moistened his lips and when he leaned slightly toward me as if he would…before he spoke again.

“Don’t explore the shadows. Don’t leave your room at night and don’t…don’t… One week. We have only one week,” he said and this time his words were rushed, as if he was afraid to be interrupted. I couldn’t see his expression, but his fingers had tightened on my skin, urgent and tense.

I would never know what the third warning would have been. The lights hummed back to life and O’Keefe let his hands trail down and away from me as he stood up and moved back. I looked up at his face, but even with the added light I couldn’t read the expression that claimed it. His dark eyes were shuttered and his mouth was tight.

There was no internet connection at Thornleigh. No way to check email or use a search engine. Even my phone was glitchy. I couldn’t get online and I hadn’t received any replies to my texts since I arrived.

It should have been annoying or even humorous. There were Robinson Crusoe jokes to be made. But then I recognized the slight flutter in my chest for what it really was.

There was a phone on the table in the hall directly down from my room. I remembered passing it and marveling at its archaeological quality. Big, black with a rotary dial, it was at least a chance for contact with the outside world.

I had already called my aunt and my parents from the airport, but I wanted to hear light, familiar voices. The door to my room opened with hardly a creak and I stepped into the hallway. It was several degrees cooler and infinitely darker in the passage, but I could make out the table and the phone. I padded toward it feeling as if I was reaching for a crutch in the need to hear my aunt’s voice, but hurrying the last steps nevertheless.

I was startled by the size and weight of the telephone receiver in my hand when I picked it up. I held the cool earpiece to my cheek and reached for the dial. Then, disappointment hit. Nothing. No dial tone. No sound whatsoever. Just dead emptiness. I jiggled the receiver rest. I tried several numbers on the rotary dial, surprised at how hard it was to actually get it to turn.

The lines might have been down because of the storm. Or the old phone might have outlived its usefulness sometime before I was born.

I was alone with O’Keefe in a haunted house. I didn’t for one minute believe that it was haunted by a ghost, but I had definitely seen some expectation of darkness in my host’s eyes. I might not believe in poltergeists, but I definitely believed in being haunted. I had personal experience with it myself. I climbed and ran to get away from it. I avoided my workshop because I was afraid of what my craft might reveal about how deep my cuts actually bled.

With all those thoughts haunting me, I needed a hint of normalcy. I needed distraction. A few cat memes would not be remiss.

There was one room in the house that might help me. I’d seen it on my way to my bedroom. The library. It had been huge and dark and gloomy, but huge meant shelves upon shelves of something that might make up for the fact that I couldn’t connect to the web to download a book to occupy me until the rain had passed.

The need to run burned in my knees, but I wasn’t familiar enough with my surroundings. Right now, the only place I knew of to stretch my legs was the garden pathways. The thought of going back into the garden at night was not a cheerful one. My mind jeered at me with images of me running all right. But in those imaginings I was running from something or someone, my feet pounding and my heart pumping and always the idea that I would never be able to run fast enough.

I met Mary’s aunt in the library. I wouldn’t have known she was blind by the way she cleaned. I attributed her slow, methodical movements to age and habit. Her hair was gray and piled high on her head, held with unseen pins in an elaborate style from a time before wash and wear. She had a careful familiarity with the books she dusted. Her fingers weren’t nimble and quick, but they were sure, never hesitating from one volume to another.

“It’s quite a collection,” I offered, sure she’d seen me walk into the room in the wavy glass of the antique mirror behind the mantle. I tried not to look at it much myself because of the odd way reflections seemed to play in old glass.

Thankfully, she didn’t frown or faint. She merely nodded and turned back to her work.

“If I was easily frightened, I wouldn’t have worked here for thirty years,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“I thought one week was the limit?” I replied, jokingly but not. Not really joking at all.

“Well, I come and go, don’t I?” she said, continuing to dust each book in turn. “I’ve tried to keep the place habitable even when no one lived here.”

I looked around the room at the floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with aging tomes. For some reason, her dusting seemed less OCD and more tragic, as if she’d set herself a Herculean task that no one would ever even appreciate should she accomplish it.

“The first O’Keefe didn’t read. But he definitely collected. Oh, yes, he definitely collected,” she said, still dusting, one book after another. Pulled it out, slid the grimy cloth over each cover, front then back, then the top of the pages, then the binding, then the bottom. And then she slid it back into place. Again and again. “I’m Mrs. Scott,” she offered.

“I don’t know how you do it,” I said. I had only been in the room long enough to see her dust several books and I already wanted to run screaming for fresh air and sunshine.

My heart thumped in my chest. And not just because of her endless patience for her never-ending task. I was imagining what it would be like to walk the halls of this giant, dark house blind to who or what might be around me.

I swallowed. My mouth had gone dry. I allowed a look at myself in the mirror and saw my face floating pale among the shadows. My green eyes were wide. They were also darker than they should have been. More shadows or faults in the old glass? I couldn’t be sure.

Behind me, the hall was even darker and beyond that the whole empty house. Or was it? Was it really empty after all? Since I’d stepped into the garden, the spot in the middle of my back between my shoulder blades had been tingling. Thornleigh definitely encouraged it. So many rooms. So many shadowy corners. And mingling in the size and the darkness, there was a heavy feeling of disuse, of dust and decay. Poor Mrs. Scott had her work cut out for her.

“I’ve been blind since I was a little girl. They said it was scarlet fever. These days even my hearing is fading.”

She turned to me suddenly. So suddenly, it was my turn to start. Her eyes were a pale, unfocused blue. Her face was wrinkled to the point that it was impossible to decide what she might have looked like years ago before her skin began to sag. She was pretty now. The kind of pretty a nice, neat elderly woman acquires when all her edges have softened and all her softness has sharpened.

“I’m no audience, that’s for sure,” she said. It sounded like a warning. “I can’t see at all and I can’t hear well and even when I could hear I refused to listen. You shouldn’t stay. Thornleigh is hard on people who can see.”

I thought of O’Keefe and how very deeply he seemed to see me when we’d met earlier. With his artist’s eyes, Thornleigh would be the hardest on him of all.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. The words came easily to my lips. They’d been my go-to platitude for a long, long time. I’ll be fine…even when the pain won’t fade and the nightmares keep me up at night.

Mrs. Scott closed her eyes and lifted her chin. She tilted her face to the side as if she was listening with her failing ears to something I couldn’t hear.

Her eyes popped open and I almost gasped because the hallway behind me was reflected in her widened black pupils, and it looked as if it stretched on forever in the curvature of her eyeball.

I didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever challenged my assurances before. It was easier to accept I was okay rather than try to prove to me otherwise.

My neck prickled and I had to glance back to prove to myself and to my instincts that some black hole to eternity hadn’t opened behind me while Mrs. Scott had distracted me with her dusting and her creepy proclamations.

Only dust motes and shadows and old faded carpet that was more alarming to my senses than it had any right to be. An alarm that said a good home makeover would go a long way toward setting things right. There was something about the abandoned and forgotten quality in the air here that went beyond poor maintenance and shoddy upkeep. The house was almost willfully aged. As if it refused Mrs. Scott’s efforts to clean it. Yes. I know. Dark fancy. But how else to explain the dust when she worked so hard to get rid of it?

“No, really,” I said firmly, to settle my nerves and break the prophetic mood of her words.

“Maybe,” she said, unconvinced, and then she turned to slide another book from the shelf.

Go. Get sculpted. All my friends had thought it was the best idea. And my therapist had called it “brilliant,” though there were times she worried that I forced myself into situations where bravery was necessary in order to prove the attack hadn’t turned me into a coward. If they all could see me now, reduced to being nervous of statues and shadows, their certainty might turn into dusty maybes, as well.

I chose a book at random, barely glancing at its cover, before murmuring a goodbye to Mrs. Scott. She didn’t pause again in her work, only dusting, dusting, dusting. There was a perpetual quality to her movements, as if she’d been at the task forever and would be at it forever still after I left.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I was able to walk away, but niggling unease prickled my subconscious because I knew she continued to dust even after.

I tucked the book I’d picked under my arm and made my way across the aged carpet. It noiselessly ate my footsteps all the way to the stairs.

I’d rushed down them earlier, twisting and turning with little thought as to what or who might be around the frequent bends. It wasn’t spiraled exactly, but it did curve, with landings at each floor.

Now that I’d come upon Mrs. Scott unexpectedly, I slowed my climb up the wooden treads, conscious that the thin runner beneath my feet wouldn’t mask my advance. “She’s coming,” each step seemed to announce.

For some reason, silence would have been better. I wanted to pass back to my room unnoticed. Why? I couldn’t be sure.

Intermittent wall sconces flickered. From the storm or faulty wiring, I couldn’t be sure. They didn’t illuminate the long, winding staircase as much as its dark corners demanded. Each landing I attained opened up onto a long, barely lit hallway lined with empty rooms.

I sneezed twice because the atmosphere was heavy with dust and age. Both times the explosive noise made me cringe and hold my breath.

Five treads before the final landing, there was a difference in the air. Respiration or the very atoms around me stirred by a second pulse? It was a deep and instinctive surety. I wished as I took each step that I didn’t recognize it as a prey-to-predator reaction. But I did recognize it. I knew it well. The attack hadn’t made me a coward. I’d traveled the world looking for challenges to prove it. But this time I might have gone too far because not being a coward and not being afraid were two different things. Thornleigh did unsettle me, but unreasonable fear wouldn’t chase me away. I wouldn’t let it. The flutter of it in my chest was only a constant reminder that I wasn’t as strong as I was determined to be.

Maybe I should have stopped, one foot above the other, with a superstitious shiver and a wishful sigh that the threat would stretch on forever rather than the sudden split second need to face it. Or maybe I should have gone back down in a stumbling fall all the way to poor Mrs. Scott and her dusty library.

It was O’Keefe. He had paused on the landing, waiting for me. I was intimidated and glad all at the same time. While the landing barely left room for us both when I reached it and stood beside him, the staircase would have been worse. In its close confines, we would have been touching. Here, we were nearly touching.

I didn’t doubt him. I was nervous and oddly affected by him. My instincts were drawn to him and put off by him at the same time. But he seemed detached from me. Observant but totally untouched by what he saw.

“I went down for a book,” I explained, pulling the pilfered volume from where I’d tucked it. Only then did I see it was old and leather-bound. Probably some first edition and I’d grabbed it like a paperback from a grocery store shelf.

O’Keefe reached for the book and my breath caught as his fingers brushed mine. His were calloused, but also long and well formed. Mine were shaking. Though brief, his touch was intimate. Warm and immediate and nothing to do with books and dark stairways.

“I don’t spend much time in the library. It’s Mrs. Scott’s domain,” he confessed.

“She was dusting,” I said. I watched his hand on the book. I had fisted the fingers he’d touched to stop the tingling.

He opened the cover of the book and flipped a few pages. A nervous laugh in response to what might have been a joke caught in my throat.

I had noticed, but I didn’t want to offend him or insult his housekeeper. And I certainly didn’t want to share my hypothesis about the old house preferring it that way.

“Victorian poetry? I guess we’re poorly stocked. No recent thrillers or erotic romances.” O’Keefe commented on the book I’d unknowingly chosen. He handed it back to me. It had fallen open to a page marked by a faded ribbon.

The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me,

And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow;

The storm is fast descending,

And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing drear can move me:

I will not, cannot go.

—Emily Brontë, “The Night Is Darkening Round Me”

He teased, but the mood of the poem seemed to more closely match the expression on his face. I couldn’t help looking at him. Even in the flickering light that painted shadows across his bold features, I saw more than I’d seen before.

He wasn’t detached. He was contained. Carefully, carefully contained. The poem and our proximity tested that control. I could see the war he waged to hold himself apart. Why? Why not laugh and talk and enjoy not being alone in this gloomy place?

I could only guess based on my own experiences. Any emotional connection might tap into darker emotions I couldn’t and wouldn’t face. I loved my friends and family. Possibly even more than before the attack. But I didn’t show it. Ever. One fissure and the dam would fail. For some reason, O’Keefe had the same sort of dam to hold himself back. What had caused him to be this way? What darkness did he hide within himself?

“I didn’t even know what I had picked up,” I said, lightly touching the once-red ribbon with my index finger. When it moved, it left a yellow line of age down the page.

“Be careful. Thornleigh has a way of making you do the unexpected,” O’Keefe murmured. He reached out and closed the book as if he found the poem threatening.

I probably should have scoffed. I wanted to reach out and brush the dark waves of hair from his forehead. Instead of either, I spoke.

“I’m always careful,” I confessed. Here, in the dark with O’Keefe it didn’t feel like a boast. More of a reassurance or a promise. I always looked for experiences to challenge myself, but those challenges were always carefully executed and controlled.

He stood so close we were almost touching. I had to tilt my neck to look at his face. He held it turned down to me…almost…leaning.

I stood in near-dark in an almost empty house on a stormy night with a man I’d never met before. One who smelled of rain…and roses.

No. Maybe I wasn’t always careful. And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, after all.

My heart was just beginning to pound in response to a certain gleam in his eye when he drew back and turned away.

I stayed on the landing and listened to his retreating steps until they faded away.