He was worried about Kate. Not in the “she’s a woman in my house and I need to make sure she’s safe because that’s what a good host does” way. Not in a detached gentlemanly way.
The longer she remained out of sight, the more wrong he realized he was when he said “I don’t care about you.” He hardly knew her, but he cared about her. There was no getting around it or denying it.
Only one thing remained unclear: what to do about it. Caring meant investment. Caring meant friendship. For all he knew…if he spent more time here…caring could mean even more than friendship. Caring meant giving her things he didn’t know he could give.
No. No. He couldn’t do it. He’d just have to…lock himself in here until she gave up and abandoned him. It was the only way to move on. Maybe he was getting ill. Being sick always made him think crazy things. Maybe she bewitched him or something. Small towns usually had a witch, if made-for-TV movies had any truth to them. In any case, he couldn’t be allowed to care for her. He’d just have to hide himself away until she shrunk and took up less and less room in his small, used-up heart.
After a day spent in this massive mansion, Kate assumed her hold on the geography of the place was pretty strong. Unfortunately, the house took on a life of its own after dark. Every gothic romance she read said as much, but she didn’t believe it until she wandered the halls of Woodward House without a clue how to get around. This house needed a “You Are Here” map…or a logical layout. Whenever Kate thought she’d figured out where she was, she turned into what she thought was the living room, only to find she’d stumbled upon an indoor squash court or a stadium-sized library. Like a real-life episode of Scooby-Doo, she would enter a door and seem to come out halfway across the house. She didn’t believe in curses or hauntings or anything so ridiculous, but if any house in the world was going to be under a spell, the old house on the hill of Miller’s Point was probably the most likely of candidates.
It seemed to go on like that for hours, until she finally stumbled upon the staircase leading down to the first floor. Tripping down the stairs in her excitement, Kate rushed for the living room, practically slipping in her socks as she slid towards the living room and tossed open the doors.
“Hey, Clark!”
…she said, to an entirely empty, darkened room. A flick of the light switch revealed this was no prank. He just wasn’t there.
Kate’s stomach grumbled. Going to the kitchen would kill two birds with one stone; she’d have her fill of whatever she could find in the fridge, and the resonant noise from her singing against the tile floors and backsplash would carry easily to wherever Clark hid in this massive manor.
She waltzed through the swinging door. The kitchen was not as she left it this morning, hustling and bustling with overflowing platters and saucepans. Its tidiness smacked of Clark’s presence. He’d been in here recently, and he’d cleaned the house of any trace of her guests and their feast. Kate’s stomach grumbled, more insistently this time.
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you,” she muttered, patting her own gut.
To her great relief, cobwebs and canned chickens were not the only thing lining the pantry. Leftover sundries and dishes from the luncheon—left behind by eager-to-leave guests—littered the cupboards and the refrigerator. Sating her hunger temporarily, Kate picked at a honey-roasted ham from the fridge as she explored the rest of her options. Sweet potato biscuits… Apple pie… Garlic mashed potatoes… Roasted cauliflower… Turkey legs… Stuffed artichokes.
When she opened the fridge, all debate ceased. Trays of frozen sugar cookie dough waited to be cut out and baked to golden, sugary perfection. A devious smile painted itself across Kate’s hungry lips.
“Come to Mama…”
Clark’s mental takedown of his errant flicker of emotion for Kate effectively ceased the worried voice in his head, finally giving him the clarity to properly order his files. First by department, then by date.
He continued on this way for too long before a distraction slithered under the door of the office, infiltrating his space and filling every corner. He couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t hide from it.
Cookies. Sugar cookies. His one weakness. The one redeeming quality of Christmas, as far as Clark was concerned, was the packets of frozen cookies with the Santa faces and trees pressed colorfully into the top. The smell of those cookies haunted him now, wafting through the walls of this old house like the ghost of a long-forgotten dream.
Leaping to his feet, Clark made it halfway to the door before realizing the dilemma he now found himself in: he could pursue his goal of falling out of like with Kate, or he could see her and have cookies. The voice speaking for his hidden emotions jumped at the first opportunity to speak again.
If you go downstairs, you can check to see if she’s okay and you can have cookies. Kill two birds with one stone.
You’ll regret it if you go down there. Wait until she leaves or falls asleep, then go down and get those sweet, sweet cookies.
If you wait, they’ll be cold.
Put them in the microwave for ten seconds. Bam! Good as new.
It’s not good as new, and you know it.
Is too.
Is-
“God rest ye Merry Gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…”
The voices silenced when one very particular voice reached Clark’s ears. The confident tune joined the cookie-scented air in tying a knot around his stomach and pulling him exactly where they wanted him to go. Trapped in the hypnotic pull of her voice and his love of sweets, he left behind his doubts and followed them down into the
