Chapter Three

External heat and cold had little influence… No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him.

~Charles Dickens

Ben Granger needed a moment to remember exactly where he was. His muscles aching, he sat up carefully, still clutching the angel. The dent in the center of his palm, where the wing had pressed into it all night, was painful. He clicked on the table lamp to see his surroundings more clearly. The cream-colored walls, the stone floors, the rocking chair in the corner with a sewing table nearby, and a tall bookcase were all neatly kept.

The day before, Mr. Cartwright had insisted Ben take “our Sheldon’s room” instead of remaining on the sofa. Blinking his eyes into focus and leaning on one elbow, Ben studied the picture on the nightstand beside Sheldon’s bed. A towering young man with a beaming smile was handing Mrs. Cartwright something, a gift maybe. The young man stood at least a foot and a half above his mother. They seemed happy, in sync. Ben wondered where the young man was. Grown and living in another town, with a family of his own? Children, perhaps?

When Ben rolled over again to rest his weary body, he discovered that something else was suddenly much more important than sleep. He needed a bath. Desperately.

As much as soap and water had powers to transform, to clear away grime and grit and soil, they still couldn’t change the inside of a man. Ben stepped out of the too-small tub and reached for the fluffy green towel. He clutched it to his dripping face and closed his eyes tightly, wishing he could disappear inside the towel’s softness. The firm pressure, the extreme darkness of pressing something hard against his eyelids had a way of shutting everything else out. But the sensation didn’t last.

He exhaled deeply then dried himself off. Squeezing out the excess drops from his hair, he realized how long it had grown. He wrapped the towel around his waist and rubbed the mirror with the palm of his hand. Ben couldn’t remember the last time he’d faced a mirror. The thick beard caught him off guard more than the length of his hair did. He was unrecognizable, even to himself—especially to himself.

He recalled that Mrs. Cartwright had given him an electric razor, along with a basket of toiletries she’d put beside the basin. Staying with the Cartwrights was like staying in the best of hotels—he had anything he needed, whenever he needed it. He shouldn’t get used to that, though, depending on other people. It nearly always ended with someone getting disappointed. Or devastated.

Razor in hand, Ben paused. Maybe it was best to leave the beard alone. It mirrored how he felt inside—scraggly and unkempt. Perhaps a compromise was in order. He could keep it but trim it. Removing at least a few of the wiry bits would make the beard manageable again. Noticing a pair of trimming scissors, he set down the razor. After a few minutes of trimming, he dusted the tiny hairs from the basin into the palm of his hand, trying to make the surface as clean as he’d first found it. The least he could do was be a decent guest.

Ben stepped into his jeans—he’d lost ten pounds, at least—then he slipped on the navy sweater, which Mrs. Cartwright had laundered. His first thought when he’d seen the neat stack of folded clothes had been: What else did she see? He thought of the zippered pockets in his bag and hoped they hadn’t been unzipped. But her demeanor told him she probably hadn’t peeked. It didn’t matter anyway. The pockets’ contents didn’t give any secrets away or contain any revelations about the life he was running from. Just the thought of that other life caused the pain to return, like a sharp knife in the dead center of his abdomen. He placed his hand on the counter and bore down, waiting for the pain to subside. He recognized exactly what it was—the start of an ulcer. All the symptoms were there. For the moment, though, he would have to endure the pain. It was the least he deserved.

Feeling claustrophobic in the miniature loo built for miniature people, Ben opened the door to a snap of cold air, a stark contrast from the virtual steam room he’d been inside for the past forty-five minutes. He could hear one of the Cartwrights snoring from another room.

Antsy, Ben tiptoed into the sitting room, where a soft meow greeted him. A white cat with black paws lay atop the sofa like a statue, staring at him with green marble eyes. Ben scanned the room and saw Christmas tree lights blinking in the corner. He hadn’t noticed a tree before—or the piano nearby it. No wonder, since Christmas decorations, primarily a snowy cotton landscape with miniature ice skaters and a pond, covered every part of it.

Christmas everywhere. He couldn’t escape it.

He went through to the kitchen and noticed the new bottle of antacid tablets sitting conspicuously by itself in the dead center of the table. Mrs. Cartwright had probably seen the nearly empty one in his bag and found him a replacement.

After popping two tablets, he thought about what to do next. Rather than raid the kitchen for something to eat—which, he suspected, Mrs. Cartwright wouldn’t have minded and would, in fact, have insisted upon—he preferred to go out and see where his stomach led him. Plus, feeling significantly more clearer-headed since his shower, he’d developed a sudden case of cabin fever. His lungs craved fresh air, snowstorm or no snowstorm.

He found a notepad beside the kitchen landline and scrawled a quick message to Mrs. Cartwright. Then he retrieved his jacket, which still contained his wallet in one pocket and his gloves and cap in the other, though he didn’t recall tucking them there. He had no memory of the night he’d collapsed, except for trudging toward the cottage. Ben realized his good fortune—taken in by kind people who’d fed him hot soup by a roaring fire. He was safe, for the first time in a long time.

He put on his cap and gloves then quietly opened the door as the cat meowed at him again. The sky was a muted gray, and the packed snow that crunched under Ben’s work boots told him no snow had fallen recently. He hunched into the stabbing wind, grateful for a change of scenery. The itch he’d felt to leave was so strong, he’d even thought of sneaking out that morning—of packing his bag, leaving behind a thank-you note, and going on to the next village, wherever that might have been. But he’d given his word. He couldn’t bear the expression Mrs. Cartwright’s face would hold as she read his good-bye note. So, a brief outing would have to tide him over.

The first shop he saw was an art gallery, which reminded him exactly of one he and Amanda had visited in Cornwall about three years back, on holiday. With the same limestone front and crisscross windows, it had the same quaint feel. Before he could make the decision to go inside, his hand had already reached for the knob. He didn’t even know if the gallery was open, but he let the knob turn in his hand then walked inside.

The dimmed lights and quiet atmosphere soothed his senses. He saw paintings hung along the wall, each one lit by a circle of soft light, as if to beckon the visitor with a crooking finger. “Come inside. Come and see…”

He stepped to the first painting—a tranquil, colorful country scene of the Cotswolds in spring, with lush green hills, fluffy sheep, and the hint of a church steeple in the distance.

“A personal favorite of mine,” a female said from behind. She was American; he could tell by her accent. Ben swiveled his neck and saw a petite, beautiful—and very pregnant—blonde standing with her arms crossed over her belly.

Ben reached for his cap and removed it.

“I’m sorry to startle you,” she said with a friendly smile.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I love the perspective of it. This one.” She pointed back to the canvas. “The hills look so close, you can almost touch them—but the steeple seems far away.”

“Yes.” Ben pointed, too, at the painting’s corner. “And there’s a hint of a sunset beyond that tree. An orange glow.”

“Exactly. Such nice detail, if you know how to look for it. Well, I’ll leave you to browse. I’m the gallery owner, Noelle Spencer. Please let me know if you have any questions.” She disappeared, leaving Ben to himself.

Despite the woman’s pleasant demeanor, Ben was thankful not to have to enter into any further conversation. The less he had to explain about his situation, the better. Personal questions were his enemy. People usually meant well, but he never knew how to answer without sounding dismissive or rude. He clutched at his privacy like a dog with a juicy bone he dared not share.

He decided to stay a while, in the quiet. He moved from painting to painting, noticing the techniques and the transitions of color. He hadn’t been very observant of art before he’d met Amanda. She’d shown him the value in it, the intricate creativity of separate strokes blending together, and particularly, of art’s connection to history and emotion.

He moved along, focused on the final canvas. Aside from a couple of darker-themed works, most of these paintings were innocent, idealistic views of the world—perfect summer days, smiling faces, and bright sanguine colors. His world used to be colored, too.

Feeling edgy, Ben turned his back on the paintings and replaced his cap as he walked to the front door, bracing for the unforgiving blast of cold. He had no idea where he was going or what his plan was. Outside, he noticed more shops were starting to open. Shopkeepers unlocked doors, flicked on lights, and waved at each other across the street.

Beyond a stone gazebo in the center of the road, Ben spotted a pub called Joe’s. Pubs weren’t usually open until noon, but some of the best breakfasts he’d ever had were in those few pubs that did open early. So, he crossed the street, dodging a teenager on a bicycle, and approached the pub door at the exact time as a silver-haired man. They did an awkward step-forward-and-hesitate dance, wondering who would enter first. Finally, the silver-haired man opened the door with a grin and held it for Ben.

“Cheers,” he said, walking through.

“No trouble,” the man replied in a distinctly Scottish accent.

At the center of the pub stood a great beast of a bar. The U-shaped glossy mahogany behemoth was decorated in tinsel and lights. Christmas had been invited into every corner of the pub—from miniature stockings hanging above the bar, to mischievous cardboard elves decorating each table.

A stocky man stood behind the bar, setting shot glasses in a neat row, steaming hot from a dishwasher. Seeing his customers walk in, he stopped to greet them, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Morning.” He greeted Ben with a nod. “And a frigid one, at that, eh?”

He seemed a cheerful sort, probably well liked by people. The local pub often became the barometer by which an entire village could be measured. If the barman was any indication, Chilton Crosse was a particularly gregarious one.

The silver-haired man took a left at the bar, walking toward a back staircase. “Room two, aye?” he asked the barman.

“That’s the one. Can’t get the bugger to drain. Thanks, Mac!” he yelled as the Scotsman disappeared up the stairs. The barman turned back to Ben. “Now. How can I help you?”

Faced with such a jovial personality, Ben felt obligated to find a smile. Why burden someone else with his dour mood? His attempt was forced, but he tried anyway. “Are you open for breakfast?”

“Right, we are!” He pointed to a chalkboard behind him, which listed the specials.

Ben pulled up a leather-covered stool and sat as he studied the menu. Though his appetite urged him toward the greasy and filling bubble and squeak, his pending ulcer helped him decide on something safer—an omelet. “I’ll have the Number Four.”

“Mushrooms?”

“Please.”

“It’ll be right out.”

The man disappeared, and Ben was once again grateful for an empty bar. Except for that Mac person, Ben was the only one there. To his right, a blazing fire caught his attention. It spat and popped, beckoning him. Obeying, he got up from the stool and took a seat at the table near the fire.

Not even five minutes after Ben stared into the flames, hypnotized by their dance, the barman appeared at his side and set down a plate and a glass. “Something besides water?” he asked.

“No. Water’s fine,” Ben said.

“Here’s your bill. Pay whenever you’re ready. I’ll be at the bar.”

Ben tried once again to produce the smile, but he couldn’t summon it. He picked up his fork and tucked in. The omelet melted in his mouth. He didn’t remember ever eating anything so delicious. Well, not in the past several weeks, at least.

In a matter of moments, he had polished his plate and fished out his money. As he took his last swallow of water, Ben saw Mac round the corner and talk to the barman. He couldn’t hear the exact words, but the mannerisms and the facial expressions told Ben they were mates, probably good ones. Ben used to have mates like that—ones who knew what university he attended, what kind of car he drove, or even sat with him in the hospital while the beeping of his wife’s monitors drove him slowly insane.

Pushing down his envy, knowing he might never be brave enough to let anyone close enough to be a mate again, Ben stood up, feeling both full and empty. He put on his gloves then left his money at the bar and walked away, hoping the men wouldn’t make eye contact or try to speak to him. He kept his eyes on the door until he was back outside, where snow had begun to fall.