Betrayed

“Do you feel up to reading?” he asked her. “As you can see, I have quite a few books. And some of them are even interesting.”

She followed his gesture with her eyes to the bookshelves lining the wall.

“Sure, yes,” she replied. “That would be nice.”

“A lot of them are how-to manuals, which would probably bore you to tears. But, I do have some sci-fi, some classics, and even a novel or two.”

“Anything is fine. You pick,” she said, watching him peruse the shelves. She let her eyes rest on his broad back, dark blue flannel shirt tucked into his waistband, the tight fit of his jeans over muscular legs and buttocks. His thick black hair had an untamable look about it. She couldn’t help but notice that this man was in excellent physical condition. Her mind drifted and she found herself mentally cataloging the contrasts between Lance’s appearance and Clark’s.

Clark had slick good looks, groomed hair with touches of gray just starting at the temples. Though shorter and slighter built than Lance, Clark was no slouch. He swam, played tennis and racket ball, and jogged every morning. But his looks were calculated and deliberate, carefully crafted, from his manicured fingernails and gold watch, to his custom-tailored suits and glossy leather loafers. While she would never call him vain, he was definitely meticulous about his appearance. His body was flirting with a middle-aged paunch, even with the workouts, and while undetectable in his suits, it was obvious in his swim trunks. In silent defense of her husband, she reminded herself with an almost guilty nudge that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. Neither was she, for that matter.

But, unlike Clark, Lance radiated a quiet, natural vitality. This was a man with self-confidence. His ability to shake a fist at life and come out on the top showed in the workmanship of his cabin and its accoutrements. She believed this man would know what to do in a crisis, that a person could rely completely on his strength.

 Brook shook herself. What was she thinking? Clark would be able to handle an emergency just as well. She shouldn’t be thinking that this virtual stranger was better in any way than her own husband. It was disloyal. But even as she chastised herself, she conceded that Clark might not react in the best way during a crisis. Clark exuded power, power over finances and people and social situations. But she knew he was inclined to call for help when something unforeseen happened. When the water heater dumped its contents all over the basement, he called a plumber, never even got his feet wet; when a tree fell on the house during a storm he called the tree service and roofer, leaving the tree hanging partially in the living room until the repairs were made. Clark was a get-it-fixed-man while Lance seemed to be a fix-it-man. It appeared quite obvious that each of these men displayed different strengths, but she somehow perceived Lance’s internal fortitude was deeper than Clark’s. Again, she wondered why she was comparing Clark to this stranger. She threw off these thoughts as Lance walked toward her with a couple of books in his hands.

“Here are an Asimov and a Mark Twain,” he held out the books to her. “I’ve got some westerns, too, if you’d rather have one of those.” He had decided against horror novels and bypassed that particular shelf.

As he handed her the books and a tiny book light, she noticed the backs of his hands, so tanned, so strong. They looked rough but she knew from experience they could be gentle. What had gotten into her? It must be a combination of factors; the odd situation they were in, him caring for her, and the horrors she had survived that had left her drained and confused. No small part of it, she was sure, was simple gratitude. The man had saved her life.

“These are fine. Thank you,” she said, looking away from him.

“No problem,” he answered, and then went around the room lighting lanterns, closing shutters against the deepening chill. He stoked the huge stone fireplace and the room grew cozy. Lance glanced at Brook and found her turning one of the books over and over in her hands, a troubled look shadowing her face. “Is something wrong? I can get different books if you don’t like those.”

“What?” Brook looked up, eyes slightly glazed. “Oh, no, these are fine. It just reminded me of something.”

 “Something you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. It’s just…It’s just that Clark, my husband, sent me to pick up a book for him from a bookstore that day.” Brook stopped cold.

“That day?”

“The day all my troubles started,” Brook said in a small voice. “I just remembered when you handed me this book. I never even bought the book. Never even entered the bookstore. But, it all started with a book.” Her voice trailed off as she stared unseeing at the book in her hand.

“Brooklyn?”

She shook her head. “Just never mind.”

“You’re sure?”

Brook didn’t answer; she opened the book, turned to the first page, and pretended to read. Lance noticed, however, that she didn’t turn any pages for quite some time. He waited a few minutes and then brought her a jug of cold water and a cup, placed them on the bedside table, and turned to her.

“I think you can regulate your own water intake now,” he explained. “At first, I worried about you getting sick. Your stomach feels better now, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, much.” Brook kept her eyes on the book.

 “Well, I’m going to go get cleaned up. Do you need anything else?”

She shook her head, felt tears behind her eyelids but couldn’t explain why. Have I been so beaten down that I’m going to cry every time someone shows me a kindness now? She ducked her head, hiding her weakness.

Lance went through a heavy curtain into a side room, reemerged with a neatly folded stack of clothes, and then disappeared into the bathroom. Taking stock of himself in the mirror, he grimaced. Long straggly black hair, streaked lighter in areas by his hours in the sun, framed a face nearly covered by a wild dark beard. It was no wonder she had been afraid of him when she first saw him.

I’ve got company, now, he told himself. It’s time for some major repairs. He pulled a pair of scissors from the built-in shelves on the opposite wall and turned back to the mirror. Grabbing generous hanks of his hair, he delivered a rough cut to begin with, dropping the long tresses into the waste can. When the bulk of it was tamed, he finessed it into a shorter cut that reached just below his collar. Free of the extra weight, his hair reverted to its former ways and lay in loose waves, curling softly over his shirt. Holding a hand mirror in front of him, he viewed the back of his head in the mirrored cabinet. Not a bad job of it, if I do say so myself. While far from professional quality, it would do just fine.

As he worked on his beard, it seemed as if he were cutting away the years, going back to an earlier version of himself. He could see traces of Sully Proctor emerging, at least physically. Deciding against shaving the beard, knowing the skin beneath it would be a pale patch compared to the sun-darkened skin of his forehead and cheeks, he settled instead for an aggressive trim. He noticed that the years of hard labor had taken the plumpness from his jaw, firming his face and lending more definition. He remembered the face he used to see in the mirror back when he was a soft city-dwelling office worker, a flatlander. He smiled and his reflection smiled back. It had been a long time since he gave any thought to his appearance.

He would have to do something about a shower for the lady. Brief cold showers were fine for him; he had gotten used to them over the years. In fact, he found them exhilarating. But, he was pretty sure his guest wouldn’t feel the same about them. She had probably had more than enough of being cold. He should have done something about a water heater long ago, instead of just thinking about it. No, a shower was out. But, she could have a bath.

He was now glad he had hauled that heavy tub up here and installed it. At the time, he had thought he would enjoy having it. But the reality was he had rarely used it, finding the chore of heating the water to fill it more of a hassle than he was usually willing to deal with. Eventually, the tub barely registered as he stepped in to shower. It just became part of the furniture, so to speak.

These things went through his mind as he hurried through his usual icy shower with military precision, lathering his body and hair before dowsing himself in water to rinse. Yes, his guest would appreciate a nice hot bath, he decided.

He toweled off quickly, applied deodorant, and dug around in back recesses of his shelves for a long-