Chapter Thirteen

Because she couldn’t bear to throw it away, the single white rose Stroud had given Ever was still in the bud vase on her bedroom dresser. The petals were yellowed but the rose had been arrested about half way into the final bloom, leaving a classic formation that dried to elegant perfection. Only two petals had dropped and they still lay on the dresser top where they’d fallen. At that point, it looked as though the rose would maintain its frozen pose for as long as it remained on the dresser, undisturbed.

The rose was as beautiful to her like this as it was the moment Stroud gave it to her. And although Ever cherished it, somewhere along the way she’d forgotten about it. A day, or two... a week? She’d failed to notice that, at some point, the stem near the bloom lost its tension and collapsed. It struck her odd, since the necks of heavy budded flowers did not usually snap this late in the drying process when most of the weight had evaporated away.

Yet, there it was, and Ever stared in muted shock, failing to understand how she could have missed the tragic moment of this belated disaster. Perhaps it had been inevitable, but it was so unexpected. There was something almost ominous about it, like a warning that had sounded while her attention was diverted, and she had not turned back quickly enough to see the crisis coming.

***

The sense of separation between Ever’s two existences was jilted when Brooke discovered her on the street one day in early February. The wind was blowing and the sky threatened rain.

It was an odd encounter, both of them walking in their routine daily lives – their lives outside their unusual acquaintanceship. Brooke might not have noticed her at all under the large, nondescript canvas duster, had he not been so preoccupied with thoughts of her since their introduction.

“Is this where you hide out?” he asked, a peculiar question to which Ever couldn’t think of an answer.

Even on the open street his presence was intimidating. He looked good outdoors. Staunch. Braced. The weather appeared to be a stimulant rather than an inconvenience to him. In his dark grey London Fog coat and upturned collar he looked like the wind itself.

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” she asked, hearing the accusatory note in her voice.

Brooke shrugged. “I have property in the Knolls.”

“I see.”

Ever was only vaguely aware that beyond this bleak, well traveled boulevard north of her neighborhood there were houses that could be considered fairly ritzy.

“And family.”

“Is that so?”

Brooke’s head cocked to one side. Glancing across the street, he pointed at a parking lot wedged between two buildings where a lone oil derrick, encircled in chain link fence, was slowing pumping. Those derricks were dotted all over this community like relics from the age of dinosaurs.

“That little chunk of land?”

“Yes?”

“It’s mine,” he said, monitoring her as though to confirm that she finally got the picture.

“Oh.” She got it alright. Not many of the original oil barons still lived in the area, but Ever had heard that a couple of families still maintained considerable holdings here. Apparently Brooke belonged to one of them.

“Then you live around here,” she assumed.

“No. Just visiting.”

Ever nodded haltingly.

“You live here,” he guessed.

“No. Not here.”

“Work, then?”

“Yes,” Ever admitted.

“Where?”

“A block or so down the street,” she said.

“On your lunch break now, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Ever said, relieved it was lunchtime and not five o’clock when she passed this way to catch the bus home.

“How long do you have?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For lunch.”

“Oh, half an hour,” she told him, untruthfully.

“That’s short,” he said, hunching his shoulders against a sudden gust that tossed a lock of hair back off his forehead.

Ever was almost afraid he was about to invite her to go with him. There was an element of immediacy to his presence that temporarily robbed her of her sense of security in her private work-a-day surroundings. She was suddenly the girl in the white room and, although the feelings generated by this consciousness were not entirely unpleasant, she was torn and frightened by them.

She resented Brooke in that moment, and feared him, and desired him. She wondered if Stroud would permit or even prescribe a mid-day abduction by his young counterpart.

“I don’t have much time,” she said.

He was scrutinizing her closely. “You’re quite different, aren’t you?” he questioned.

“Different?”

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

I wish you hadn’t, Ever thought.

“Better go,” he said finally.

Ever glanced up, not quite sure of his meaning.

“Have your lunch.”

Ever gave a brief nod and slipped away.

Although she’d brought some personal papers with her to the restaurant, Ever’s concentration was shot – at lunch and for the rest of the day. As it was, there was little time to concern herself with the petty games of Brooke or Stroud. Other forces were influencing the course of her life - and not for the better. That evening, when she stopped at the main office to turn in her appointment schedule, the boss called her back.

“Ever, come in. Let’s talk.”

And that was the beginning of the end.