#9 (Part II)

#9 The Note (Part II)

     “Do you know what I do?” I asked with all the quiet dignity a woman dangling feet off the ground could muster. “I am a teacher. Or I was supposed to be. My husband . . . well, if he were still here I’d be a teacher by now. I’d have a real classroom with real students. This job was my only shot at becoming a teacher again. Do you understand that Mister Thorn?” Tears gathered. “You’ve ruined my life!”

     “She’s very dramatic.” Thorn said.

     I tried to kick him.

     Thunder caught me, set me down. “Put the blanket back and I’ll take you to the train station.

     “Is there any chance,” The old man sitting on the couch spoke up, “That the table will be returned?”

     All eyes turned to me.

     “I think,” I said after a moment of consideration, “My employer wanted that journal. He sent me all this way. He gave me hotel vouchers and round trip tickets."  I pinned Thorn with a look.  "He deserves a note of apology at least.”

#9 (Part I)

009 The Note (Part 1)

      Laughter rumbled from the big man standing not more than six feet away. He took his leather cap off, rubbed his hand over the cloth tied over his head. His stained leather vest matched his pants. There were spikes on the toes of his boots. Three spikes. “I’m a professor.” He held a hand out to me, the palm itself as big as a dinner plate.

     “You?”

     “I’m Thorn.” Then, at once, the self-assurance of a professor and his prison arrogance melted away. “I don’t have the journal. You’ll have to tell your employer –“

    I interrupted, temper wearing thin. “You lied! How could you do that to me?”

    “Ms. Applewhite . . .” Thunder’s tone was warning.

     I looked up at him. “He lied to my employer. He said come get the journal. My employer sent me. What do you think my employer is going to do now?”

     I found myself lifted, turned, and staring right into Thorn’s eyes. It was from this perspective that I was reminded of the resemblance between Thunder and Thorn. It was in the deep chocolate color, the flecks of gold, the way their noses wrinkled up when unhappy with something.

     “Do you know what I do?” I asked with all the quiet dignity a woman dangling feet off the ground could muster. 

#8 (Part II)

#8 The Appraisal (Part  II)

     A moment later shadow blocked the slim line of light from under the bedroom door.  “It is all right, Ms. Applewhite.  Let me in.”

      I did not let go of the comforter.  My hands trembled, and turning the lock became a chore.  Thunder pulled me into the living room, his arm draped over my shoulders.

      “Damn to her!”  The man belonging to the icy voice snarled, a hand going to his mouth and nose.  He glowered at me with baleful black eyes.  “Damn to her, and damn to you!”

      The old man sitting on the couch began to rise.

      The icy voiced man shoved past the old man, toppling the oldster back to the cushions.  He said something else over his shoulder, but it was garbled and broken.  The front door slammed shut behind him.

     “A wise trick.”  The oldster adjusted his cane and stood again.  “Wrapping yourself in goose-down when so many of his ilk are allergic to it.”

      “Is that what I did?”  I couldn’t help the relief in my voice.  I looked up at Thunder.  “Is that bad?”

      “He won’t come near you now.  He’s probably on his way to the clinic for treatment.”

      “I thought you said he was military.  Don’t those in the military have an infirmary or their own doctors to check in with first?”  I was curious about this glimpse into Thunder’s life.  Too much of what Thunder said confused me.  “At least I didn’t run.  I wanted to.  That is worth something, right?”

      “Worth, I think, less than it could be.”  The deep voice said.

      I looked up and around, pulling the comforter closer to me.  I could only but stare at the man standing there.  I could see at once the similarities in the eyes and face this newcomer had to Thorn.  But ti was the huge man's clothes that confused me - clothes no sane man would wear.  “Once more,” I told Thunder, “I must admit this makes no sense to me at all.  Your brother is a . . . a convict?”

#8 (Part I)

#8 The Appraisal (Part I)

     I locked the bedroom door.

     “Who is the woman?” A voice cut through to me.

     This voice I did not like. Despite the interest in the words there was an icy detached quality to the voice.

     I backed up step by step until the backs of my knees bumped the bed. Then I sat down abruptly. I hadn’t liked it when Thunder warned me not to run. My fingers fisted in the white downy comforter. I wrapped it around myself. It was the only protection I had against such a voice.

     “It is not ours. That is all that matters.” Another of the men answered. It was a weary voice, tired. And it was deep, too. Once I met one of my husband’s uncles. The man sang opera for fun. We had him to dinner one night. During dinner he ate plenty, which he said was to keep the weight on to better preserve his tone. What I found most fascinating was when the uncle spoke normally, as one normally speaks in conversation, the crystal on the table vibrated. “And I fear I may have made the situation worse.”

     “Worse?” The question warbled out thinly. “It is my business that is to be destroyed for this! It is my reputation to be broken! My certificates of authenticity will be –“

     “Nobody is saying you are a liar, Strumbeck.” The deep voice soothed. “This is not your fault.”

     “And it is yours?” Thunder asked sharply.

     “Bring the woman out.” The deep voice said.

#7 (Part II)

#7 The Scout with the Appraiser (Part II)

    “When all the world knows you have something valuable and important, when reputations and jobs are staked on the truth of the matter, why would the military not get involved?”
     I looked up at Thunder as he turned out to the street. He was serious!  “I don’t understand.”  I told him.
     His motorcycle was only a short length away.  Thunder helped me put the helmet on.  Then he grasped my shoulders, “I don’t know which scout it is Strumbeck brought along.  You must listen to me very carefully Ms. Applewhite.  If I tell you to do something you must not question me.”
     “Now would be a good time to drop me off at the hotel.  I can stay there until Thorn arrives.”
     “No.  Too many people can play end-of-days with your arrival and any issues with the table.”
     “End-of-days?”  His use of the term seemed precognitive.
     “It’s a game of marbles.”
     The drive to Thorn’s house was quiet.  It was hot in the helmet.  By the time Thunder pulled up into the drive sweat blotted my forehead.  Thunder helped me off with the helmet.  This time he was the impatient one.  Then, with a hand wrapped around my arm, he took me back inside.
     Not that I saw much.  The table was no longer in the hall.  Four or five people were seated on the creamy white living room couches.  Thunder, though, walked me straight through to the guest room I’d had a nap in just hours before.  “Lock the door.  Do not run.  Understand?”
     I dared challenge, “What happens if I run?”
     Thunder paused.  I knew he was going to lie a moment before he did; his eyes darkened, narrowed.  “The scout has brought his dogs and they are prone to chasing anything that flees.”

#7 (Part I)

007 The Scout with the Appraiser (Part I)

     “The appraiser is at Thorn’s house right now.” George said the moment we stepped back into Thunder’s gym. “There is a scout with him.”

     “Why would an appraiser bring a ballist along?” I asked, thinking of the gentleman’s game base ball. My husband had loved the older era base ball, had complained endlessly that the demise of sportsmanship came about with the very first scout.

     George averted his face. “Don’t leave her here, Thunder. Half the men would eat her alive, and you know it.”

     Which did not make me feel comfortable. I stepped closer to Thunder, the age-old wisdom that a man who has protected a woman once will protect her again.

     “She’s not a hunter.” Thunder’s arm came around me, albeit lightly. The imposition of his presence had been before sunrise was now comforting, and almost friendly. “Come. In this sense a scout is not for rough play, but as in military.”

     “That makes the situation all the more absurd. Why would the military be interested in a table?”

#6 (Part III)

#6 How Lunch With Thunder Went Terribly Wrong (Part III)

     “I wish, Mister Taddeo, I could find Thunder a nice Italian girl.  He loves Italian food so much.”  I ignore Thunder’s warning look.  “He says yours is the best.  It’s why we came here today.  Thunder told me he doesn’t eat anybody else’s Italian food.”
      “Bah!”  Taddeo slaps the table top with his hand.It is just for show, though, because when he turns away with the bottle of bubbly water Thaddeo’s cheeks are pink.  “I will bring you my special. No pesto!” Taddeo returns with cheesy shells liberally sprinkled with onions and roasted garlic.  I paste on a smile.
      Thunder waits until Thaddeo returns to the kitchen.  “What’s wrong now?”
      “I’m allergic to garlic.”

#6 (Part II)

#6 How Lunch With Thunder Went Terribly Wrong (Part II)

     “Taddeo! Please, you’re embarrassing me!” Thunder holds up the bottle of bubbly water, shakes it.
     “Ahno!” Taddeo runs over, his apron flapping at his knees. He has red sauce all over his hands. “It is ordered special. A man brought this in today, for his pretty bride. I make the dinner. Now I must call and say I cannot do this for him. I have ruined the bottle. It was a perfect bottle. It is ruined now!” Taddeo’s words slur into an accent the more upset he becomes. He pulls at his hair, the red sauce smearing across his forehead and over an ear. “Not that you are not pretty. Is she not pretty, Thunder? She is so pretty. Maybe, soon, you give her a ring?” By the end of his small speech I struggle to translate. 
     Since Thunder is looking more than embarrassed, his wide brown eyes not meeting mine, I jump in. “Thunder and I are good friends, but not lovers. I’m helping him find his paramour.”
     It is the wrong thing to say. 
     I don’t know if Thunder knows Italian. Each complaint, growl, lecture was met by Thunder bobbing his head. Even with Thaddeo grumbling at Thunder the language sounded Romantic. Thunder’s shoulders rise up around his ears as the seconds pass. He’s beginning to look like a bodybuilder who has gone lost his neck somewhere. 
     I take pity on Thunder. 

#6 (Part I)

#6 How Lunch With Thunder Went Terribly Wrong (Part I)

During a break at the gym Thunder leads me across the street to ‘his place’. One wouldn’t think such a sculpted man would go nuts for pastas and breads, but Thunder does. He says it’s one of the reasons why he works out so much: Thunder is an Italian food addict. His favorite sauces are puttanesca, rose, and pesto. I tell him I might know what pesto is, which makes Thunder laugh. He orders a plate of spaghetti with pesto, tells me it’s the best, and scoots it aside when I turn green. As it turns out I know what pesto is. Not a fan of pesto.

The owner of the restaurant, Taddeo, brings me a bottle of bubbly water to settle my stomach. Every time he moves a fragrant parfume of meatballs and Italian herbs float my way. Taddeo, talks with his hands. The water is the expensive, imported kind bottled in artistically uneven glass. Taddeo promises not to put it on Thunder’s tab.

I take a sip and watch Thunder’s face go completely expressionless. We were talking about music before hand.  Just this month Thunder brougt a phonograph for his gym.  The big boys at the weights prefer concerts by blues singers. Those doing circuit training like ragtime music. Grumble George, the sourpuss gym overseer, prefers traditional folk. Thunder lets George put on a single folk record once per day. George chooses the obscure ones. I try to pick up the conversation where we left off, “Aren’t all folk songs obscure?” Thunder isn’t responding.

He’s sweating. When I set the bottle of bubbly water down his eyes follow it. “Don’t get me wrong, “ he starts. “I like you. I do. We’ve been friends for not a long time now. I feel I can talk to you about anything, including that hair I can never reach. But . . .”

I look down at the bubbly water. In the bottom, sparkling like a megawatt smile, is a diamond ring. “Huh. You didn’t plan this?”

#5 (Part III)

#5 The Table (Part III)

     “A what?”
     “I’m offering you breakfast. Would you like some?”
     “Yes, please.” We ate bagels slathered with cream cheese and jam. Thunder didn’t like strawberry jam, preferred peach, and stripped off his shirt halfway through to show me his muscles, and explain what exercises he used to develop each set. He was bragging, chatting along, and full of energy.
     I was washed out, talking slower and less.
     “Time for bed.” Thunder said.
     “I’m supposed to go to a hotel. I have a voucher for it.”
     “We can do that later. I’m going to call the appraiser. Thorn should be back before lunch. I’ll wake you up when he gets in. Trust me, I’m safe.”
     “Said the wolf to red-ridding hood.” I muttered. This quip came more natural. It did not startle me this time.
     Thunder, though, Thunder threw his head back in laughter. Not for the first time that morning I noted how sharp his teeth looked. The thought follows me down into sleep, and is the first thing I think of when Thunder wakes me hours later. “Thorn can’t get away for a few more hours. Want to go work out?” He ends the sentence with a hopeful puppy-dog look. Then he ruins the image by running his tongue over his top teeth. His very sharp top teeth.

#5 (Part II)

#5 The Table (Part II)

    “Don’t run.” The voice that emerged was not normal. It was rough, raspy, and dangerous. “I’ll be in control soon. Just don’t . . . move.”

     How does one stay in place when every single nerve screams at you to flee?
     Thunder kept his face turned away from me. Perhaps this is why I did not run. After several minutes – maybe five or ten – his shoulders relaxed. “I will call Strumbeck.” He said. Then, “Care for some breakfast?”
     “Are you offering me real food or leading me to the slaughter?” The quip came from nowhere. I froze afterwards, stunned at hearing my words. I hadn’t as much as joked since my husband’s . . .since my husband was gone.
     The words changed something in Thunder. It wasn’t just that he relaxed, but he seemed at ease, whereas before he’d been reserved. Bragging, but reserved.
     “You’re not a hunter.”

#5 (Part I)

#5 The Table (Part I)

     Thunder led the way up a brick path to the door of the house. We passed neatly trimmed and fragrant bushes of lavender and rosemary. “This is Thorn’s home. I don’t live here anymore. Used to. Just never fit in with the elegance he likes.”

     Just within the door was a table so familiar I looked at once for envelopes. “I have one of these at home. They must have been made by the same company.”

     “A knockoff, maybe.” Thunder dismissed. He tapped the top of the side-table. “This is the original. Thorn had it appraised six years ago. A carver-magician made it for our great-great-great dam.”

     “Dam?”

     “Another name for mother.”

     “Oh.” I considered the table. “I thought they were mass produced. I’m sorry. The one I have at home had a sticker on the bottom of the back left leg. I found it when I was cleaning the piece.”

     Thunder’s expression turned dark. “Did the sticker say Strumbeck and –“

     “Grandsons.” I said.

     I’d been treated to Thunder conversational, Thunder irritated, Thunder caring. Now I was treated to Thunder angry. He put a hole in the wall above the table. Plaster dust sprinkled the top of the furniture piece he’d lovingly caressed a moment before. Off to the side a black and white print swung for a moment, and then fell. The tinkle of glass one last final note in the air between us. Except it wasn’t. Because Thunder was breathing in a pant, each outward expulsion of air heavier than the one before.  
     Thunder was a big man, muscled.

     For the first time since meeting him I felt fear.

#4 (Part III)

#4 Romantic Hero (Part III)

     Thunder kept up a steady conversation.  I didn’t answer a one of his questions.  Towards the end, when he turned the nose of the machine up a long elegant drive to a ivy covered house, his questions were higher.  It was a sign of worry or stress.  The gas lamp over the garage door flicked on.  I could only assume someone from within the house had hurried to give us illumination. 
     The moment the bike stopped I slid off, tore at the straps to the helmet.
     “I’ve never had a woman hate me like that before.”  Thunder’s tone was conversational.  He tore his helmet off, pulled the sinew free and ran a hand through his curly dark hair.  His amber eyes caught the low light.  “Is it because I own a gym?  Usually women do the opposite and think it’s a free ticket to grope.”
     I'd hurt him!  I searched for an explanation, some way to kindly explain why I didn't want him between my legs, even if it was to just deliver me to his brother.  “My husband is . . . my husband is gone.”
     He tilted his head.  At once his features were hidden by shadows; his brow, his cheeks, his chin, the edge of his nose were the only parts one saw skin.  He seemed fiercer somehow.  Animalistic.  “I didn’t know you were mated.  I’m sorry.  It’s such a loss.”  He retrieved the helmet from me.  “And, it explains a lot.” 
     “Mated?”
     This earned me another slanted look.  This time assessing.  I saw him swallow words.  He had the picking-and-choosing expression I’d come to associate with others discovering I’m a widow.  “Soul Mated.”  He finally said, but softly and kindly. 

#4 (Part II)

#4 Romantic Hero (Part II)

     From the first, from Thunder's tap on my shoulder I felt burdened by him.  I wanted five minutes alone just to think.  To take a deep breath.  To put into perspective the man with the newspaper on the train.  Thunder, though, hustled me off the platform.  we stopped in front of 'his baby'.  Thunder explained his the moto-solex worked using perpetual motion and steam properties.  These were words I'd never heard before, nor understood.  All I knew is this was no horse we'd be riding to meet Thorn. 
     Now, halfway to Thorn's house, we were stopped again under a gas lamp.  Thunder repositioned me on the back.  I appreciated the care he took on not touching my knees or legs with his thighs.  I was already uncomfortable with how the skirts of my dress had to be bunched up in order to safely 'ride' the contraption. 
     For a moment in putting his own helmet back on Thunder paused.  The sun wasn’t up yet – not a hint of it in the skies.  The air was sweet and dew wet.  He lifted his face towards the full bellied moon and drew in a deep breath.
     “You can tell a lot about a city by its people.”  Thunder said.  “And the shops.  I own a gym.  There are only two in the city, so I feel pretty lucky there’s not much competition.”  He slung his leg over the seat, caught my hand and brought it around to rest on his waist.  "Hold on tight this time.”
     It was an invasion.  The vibrations of the motorbike underneath my thighs had me gritting my teeth.  My hand over the taut mountains and valleys of his stomach muscles wanted me to jump off the bike.  The helmet was a cumbersome weight on my head.  I could barely keep the thing from banging against the back of his skull.
     I was not enjoying the ride. 

#4 (Part I)

#4 Romantic Hero (Part I)

     Thunder stopped the 'moto-solex' twice to make sure my helmet was on tight. This last was under a gas-lamp. It was still too early for the sun to be up. I shivered, feeling once more alone and vulnerable in this man's presence.
     He said, “Sorry about Thorn not being here to pick you up. He had an early-morning appointment at the university.”

     “Tamorace has a university?”

     He adjusted my helmet’s chinstrap once again. “Make sure you hold tight like I showed you.”

     I dropped my eyes to the worn leather gloves he wore. I lied, “I was holding tight.”

     He slid back onto what he called a bike before me. This was like no bicycle I'd ever seen. To begin you didn't push the pedals with your feet. You held onto the gear-like handles, turning them to go faster or slower. Then there was the matter of the hot air spitting from the back. In my previous life this would have fascinated my husband. I found it as uncomfortable as sitting too close to a working radiator in the summer months.
     I tried to hold myself separate from the man. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. Thunder was what my grandmother used to call “easy on the eyes”. Though he'd pulled his curly dark hair back with a length of sinew, a few locks were unmanageable. One he pushed aside to stare at me with his amber eyes. Thunder had a thick nose, but not obscenely so. Nor were his lips the type that suggested he ate and partook spirits in excess. He had a noble chin and a noble forehead, the shoulders of a balif and the hips of a bedscorcher. Over muscled legs he'd pulled a pair of thick leather pants - the type steam workers used to protect their skin.
     By all rights I should have been licking my lips.