Key of Knowledge
Page 38
She pushed up her sleeves and headed to the supplies and tools.
It occurred to her that this was the first time, the only time, she’d been alone here. On the heels of that came the thought that maybe she was asking for trouble being alone in a place where Kane had already wielded his sorcery.
She glanced uneasily up the steps. And thought of cold blue mist. As if the chill of it crept over her skin, she shuddered.
“I can’t be afraid to be here.” The way her voice echoed made her wish she’d brought along a radio. Anything to fill the silence with normal sound.
Won’t be afraid to be here, she corrected herself as she opened a can of paint. How could she, or any of them, make this place their own if they were afraid to come into it alone?
There were bound to be times when one of them came in early or stayed late. The three of them couldn’t be attached at the hip. She—all of them—would have to get used to the quiet of the place, and the settling noises. Normal quiet, normal noises, she assured herself. Hell, she liked being alone and having a big, empty house all to herself. It was tailor-made Dana time.
The memory of Kane’s nasty games wasn’t going to scare her off.
And since she was alone, she didn’t have to compete for the super paint machine.
Still, as she began to work she wished she could hear Malory’s and Zoe’s voices, as she had before, turning all those empty rooms into something bright and cheerful.
She comforted herself that they’d finished priming Malory’s section and had a good start on hers. It would be a kick to finish her own space with her own hands.
She could begin to play with different setups in her head. Should she shelve mysteries here, or was this a better spot for nonfiction? Local interest?
Wouldn’t it be fun to display coffee-table books on, ha ha, a coffee table?
Maybe she could find an old breakfront somewhere for the café section. She could display tins of tea, mugs, books. Should she go with those cute round tables that reminded her of an ice cream parlor, or the more substantial square ones? Wouldn’t this room be the perfect place to set up a cozy reading corner, or would it be smarter to use that space for a small children’s play area?
It was therapeutic to watch the clean white paint cover the dull beige, stroke by stroke marking the room as her own. No one could push her out of here as she’d been pushed out of the library. She was working for herself this time, and setting the rules herself.
No one could cut her off from this dream, from this love, as she’d been cut off from other dreams. From other loves.
“Do you think it matters? A little shop in a little town? Will you work, struggle, worry, pour your mind and your heart into something so meaningless? And why? Because you have nothing else.
“But you could.”
She felt the cold shiver over her skin. It made her breath come too fast, tightened the muscles of her stomach toward pain. She continued to paint, guiding the roller over the wall, listening to the faint hum of the motor. She couldn’t seem to stop.
“It matters to me. I know what I want.”
“Do you?”
He was there, somehow there. She could sense him in the chill. Perhaps he was the chill.
“A place of your own. You thought you had one before, all those years of work, of serving others. Yet does anyone care that you’re gone?”
It was a well-aimed arrow. Had anyone even noticed she was no longer at the library? All the people she’d worked with, worked for? All the patrons she’d helped? Had she been so replaceable that her absence hadn’t caused a single ripple?
Hadn’t she mattered at all?
“You gave the man your heart, your loyalty, but he cast you off without a thought. How much did you matter to him?”
Not enough, she thought.
“I can change that. I can give him to you. I could give you a great many things. Success?”
The shop was full of people. The shelves were filled with books. The pretty tables were crowded with customers sipping tea, having conversations. She saw a little boy sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner with a copy of Where the Wild Things Are open in his lap.
Everything about the scene spoke of pleasure—the combination of relaxation and brisk business.
The walls were exactly the right shade, she thought. Malory had been on the money there. The light was good, made everything friendly, and all those wonderful books temptingly arranged, on shelves, on displays.
She wandered like a ghost, passing through the bodies of people who browsed or bought, who sat or stood. She saw familiar faces, the faces of strangers, heard the voices, smelled the scents.
Attractive and intriguing sidelines were set up here and there. Yes, yes, those were the note cards she’d decided to carry. And the bookmarks, the bookends. Wasn’t that the perfect reading chair? Roomy, broken in, welcoming.
It was very clever to use the kitchen as the hub of the three enterprises, with books, candles, lotions, and art all together to illustrate how nicely each complemented the others.
It was her vision, she realized. Everything she was hoping for.
“You’ll enjoy it, of course, but it won’t be enough.”
She turned. He was there. It didn’t surprise her in the least to see Kane standing beside her as people moved around them, through them.
Who were the ghosts? she wondered distantly.
He was dark and handsome, almost romantically so. The black hair framed a strong and compelling face. His eyes smiled into hers, but even now she could see something frightening lurking behind them.
“Why won’t it be enough?”
“What will you do at the end of the day? Sit alone with only your books for company? Alone when everyone else gathers with their families? Will any of them give you a single thought after they walk out the door?”
“I have friends. I have family.”
“Your brother has a woman, and the woman has him. You’re not part of that, are you? The other has a son, and you’ll never be inside what they have. They’ll leave you, as everyone else has done.”
His words were like darts in the heart, and as she bled from them she saw him smile again. Almost kindly.
“I can make him stay.” He spoke gently now, as one did to the wounded. “I can make him pay for what he did to you, for his carelessness, for his refusal to know what you needed from him. Wouldn’t you like him to love you as he has loved no other? Then, at your whim, you can keep him or discard him?”
It occurred to her that this was the first time, the only time, she’d been alone here. On the heels of that came the thought that maybe she was asking for trouble being alone in a place where Kane had already wielded his sorcery.
She glanced uneasily up the steps. And thought of cold blue mist. As if the chill of it crept over her skin, she shuddered.
“I can’t be afraid to be here.” The way her voice echoed made her wish she’d brought along a radio. Anything to fill the silence with normal sound.
Won’t be afraid to be here, she corrected herself as she opened a can of paint. How could she, or any of them, make this place their own if they were afraid to come into it alone?
There were bound to be times when one of them came in early or stayed late. The three of them couldn’t be attached at the hip. She—all of them—would have to get used to the quiet of the place, and the settling noises. Normal quiet, normal noises, she assured herself. Hell, she liked being alone and having a big, empty house all to herself. It was tailor-made Dana time.
The memory of Kane’s nasty games wasn’t going to scare her off.
And since she was alone, she didn’t have to compete for the super paint machine.
Still, as she began to work she wished she could hear Malory’s and Zoe’s voices, as she had before, turning all those empty rooms into something bright and cheerful.
She comforted herself that they’d finished priming Malory’s section and had a good start on hers. It would be a kick to finish her own space with her own hands.
She could begin to play with different setups in her head. Should she shelve mysteries here, or was this a better spot for nonfiction? Local interest?
Wouldn’t it be fun to display coffee-table books on, ha ha, a coffee table?
Maybe she could find an old breakfront somewhere for the café section. She could display tins of tea, mugs, books. Should she go with those cute round tables that reminded her of an ice cream parlor, or the more substantial square ones? Wouldn’t this room be the perfect place to set up a cozy reading corner, or would it be smarter to use that space for a small children’s play area?
It was therapeutic to watch the clean white paint cover the dull beige, stroke by stroke marking the room as her own. No one could push her out of here as she’d been pushed out of the library. She was working for herself this time, and setting the rules herself.
No one could cut her off from this dream, from this love, as she’d been cut off from other dreams. From other loves.
“Do you think it matters? A little shop in a little town? Will you work, struggle, worry, pour your mind and your heart into something so meaningless? And why? Because you have nothing else.
“But you could.”
She felt the cold shiver over her skin. It made her breath come too fast, tightened the muscles of her stomach toward pain. She continued to paint, guiding the roller over the wall, listening to the faint hum of the motor. She couldn’t seem to stop.
“It matters to me. I know what I want.”
“Do you?”
He was there, somehow there. She could sense him in the chill. Perhaps he was the chill.
“A place of your own. You thought you had one before, all those years of work, of serving others. Yet does anyone care that you’re gone?”
It was a well-aimed arrow. Had anyone even noticed she was no longer at the library? All the people she’d worked with, worked for? All the patrons she’d helped? Had she been so replaceable that her absence hadn’t caused a single ripple?
Hadn’t she mattered at all?
“You gave the man your heart, your loyalty, but he cast you off without a thought. How much did you matter to him?”
Not enough, she thought.
“I can change that. I can give him to you. I could give you a great many things. Success?”
The shop was full of people. The shelves were filled with books. The pretty tables were crowded with customers sipping tea, having conversations. She saw a little boy sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner with a copy of Where the Wild Things Are open in his lap.
Everything about the scene spoke of pleasure—the combination of relaxation and brisk business.
The walls were exactly the right shade, she thought. Malory had been on the money there. The light was good, made everything friendly, and all those wonderful books temptingly arranged, on shelves, on displays.
She wandered like a ghost, passing through the bodies of people who browsed or bought, who sat or stood. She saw familiar faces, the faces of strangers, heard the voices, smelled the scents.
Attractive and intriguing sidelines were set up here and there. Yes, yes, those were the note cards she’d decided to carry. And the bookmarks, the bookends. Wasn’t that the perfect reading chair? Roomy, broken in, welcoming.
It was very clever to use the kitchen as the hub of the three enterprises, with books, candles, lotions, and art all together to illustrate how nicely each complemented the others.
It was her vision, she realized. Everything she was hoping for.
“You’ll enjoy it, of course, but it won’t be enough.”
She turned. He was there. It didn’t surprise her in the least to see Kane standing beside her as people moved around them, through them.
Who were the ghosts? she wondered distantly.
He was dark and handsome, almost romantically so. The black hair framed a strong and compelling face. His eyes smiled into hers, but even now she could see something frightening lurking behind them.
“Why won’t it be enough?”
“What will you do at the end of the day? Sit alone with only your books for company? Alone when everyone else gathers with their families? Will any of them give you a single thought after they walk out the door?”
“I have friends. I have family.”
“Your brother has a woman, and the woman has him. You’re not part of that, are you? The other has a son, and you’ll never be inside what they have. They’ll leave you, as everyone else has done.”
His words were like darts in the heart, and as she bled from them she saw him smile again. Almost kindly.
“I can make him stay.” He spoke gently now, as one did to the wounded. “I can make him pay for what he did to you, for his carelessness, for his refusal to know what you needed from him. Wouldn’t you like him to love you as he has loved no other? Then, at your whim, you can keep him or discard him?”
