Her sides and shoulders shook, as her voice broke into sobs. Her fingers glistened with tears. She inhaled her sobs and stared at Darby. “My daddy left us when I was just a little girl. It broke my mama’s heart. She took her life after that, leaving me to grow up with my grandmother,” she paused to wipe back tears.
“Here!” said Darby, as he handed her some tissues from the bookstand beside his chair.
“Thank you!” she mumbled, half snorting and half strangling. “I always felt it was my fault. That maybe I was to blame. My counselor tells me that that’s quite normal. I guess it is. I wish I knew.”
Darby sat quietly and waited for her to continue.
“The horrible thing is, Daddy ran away when we were here. He and Mama had been fighting, picking at each other, always finding fault. I never knew which way to turn. Mama liked coming here. Daddy did too. They called ahead, and we came. But this time it was different. Mama claimed Daddy was seeing someone, some woman from Tennessee. That he didn’t love us anymore. Daddy swore that wasn’t true. They said terrible things about each other and to each other. We went to bed, but the next morning Daddy was gone. ‘I knew he would leave us!’ my mother cried. ‘I bet that wench was waiting for him on the road.’ Mr. Nelson phoned the sheriff’s office. The sheriff sent out deputies to search the area, just in case something had happened. Daddy liked to walk, to take long hikes. Maybe he had gotten lost, or slipped on a rock somewhere. Sometimes he’d talk to himself. That’s how he handled his sorrows.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe I inherited his sadness, like some kind of gene.”
Darby sat forward, his fingers intertwined. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“At home, when not in school, I just sit in my room and stare out the window. I used to play with a bunch of girls down the street. They all had mamas and daddies. I guess I was eleven or twelve before I realized how sad I was. I would come home and cry. Their moms were sweet to me, but I knew when it was time to go home. I don’t mean to sound like a cry-baby, but I’ve lived with that so long, I just feel numb inside: unwanted and worthless. I tried cutting my wrists once, but was too scared. I did leave a patch of red scratches on my arms, which my homeroom teacher noticed. That’s when they sent me to the nurse, and later to see a doctor. To be evaluated. I was so embarrassed. When I returned to the classroom that first time, the kids snickered. I hated them after that, every fucking one! Yes, every fucking one,” she affirmed. She inhaled again and fought to regain her composure. “I’m sorry,” she suddenly said. “I’m sorry.” Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks and slid off her nose.
“That’s fine,” Darby said. “We’re all free to say what we need to. Life’s sparkle dimmed after that, didn’t it? A hurt beyond words?”
“Yes!” she muttered, sniffling back more tears. She shook her head in the affirmative, as she attempted to smile. “Yes, sir! It did!”
Darby looked away while she cried more.
“You never said much about yourself,” she sat erect. “We just all fell into blabbering about ourselves in there, didn’t we? Aren’t you married? Don’t you have a wife and children? A son or daughter? I’d love to meet them, if you do.”
“I’m afraid not. I’m what you see and nothing more.”
“I don’t believe that! You’re just trying to blow me off. I could die in this room and you wouldn’t care,” she retorted with a teary huff.
“Now that’s what I mean about choosing the way we feel. You could have said: ‘Hey! You’ve had it rough, too, I bet? No ring, no wife, no family, no kids. Just you, alone! There must be a story there.’ Or, ‘I don’t want to talk about myself anymore. Can we talk about something else? Like maybe your life? Huh?’”
Stephanie smiled. “You don’t have to rub it in. You’re as bad as my counselor. She’s into cognitive behavioral therapy, whatever that is, but if you ask me, it’s a pile of crap. Or it is with her.”
“She might care for you more than you know. It’s just that deep down she doesn’t connect with what’s happening to you. Is that possible?”
“Yes, sir! It’s like she’s hearing my voice, but not me. But I feel better now.” She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handful of wadded up tissues. “I guess I look terrible,” she stated with one last sob.
“Tell you what! Why don’t we pursue this some more tomorrow, if you want? I’d love to explore those dreams you’ve had, especially about the strangers and the old houses falling in. I’ve had dreams like that, too. Is that a deal?”
“Yes, sir!” she clutched her hands together between her knees. She leaned her head sideways. Her mouth, face, her eyes, cheeks, and chin seemed to smile in unison.
Darby rose and walked her to the door. “Better turn up your collar. It’ll frost hard tonight. Here! Let me walk you to the Villa.” He accompanied her past the urns, to the first steps of the Inn’s back entrance. Warm light streamed through the French windows of the rear doors. The guests were seated about the fireplace. Darby could see them through the muslin veils that hung between the enormous gold drapes that framed the windowpanes. An air of long-ago opulence caressed the room.
“Good night!”
She turned to hug him. He caught her hand and pressed it. “You’re going to make it, Stephanie. Reach down inside your soul; you’ll find more courage than you realize!”
She hurried inside.
For some bizarre reason he thought of Ivan Ilych, the magistrate in Tolstoy’s story. Seeing the drapes must have aroused the association. Ivan had injured himself while hanging drapes, in nothing more than a simple fall—just a simple fall. But the persistent wound changed his life. Never was he the same again. Darby stared into the room, let his benumbed feelings float up and slip away, then turned and walked back to the cottage.
Chapter 3
Darby awakened cold, his right arm numb. He opened his eyes and stared at his watch: 5:00 a.m. It didn’t matter how early he retired or how late he stayed up, his internal alarm functioned with incredible regularity. He hated to get up. He’d rather return to his dream. The road had climbed through a rocky gorge over the crest of a vast ridge to fade into a grassy lane before ending near a field with a path that led into the distant woods. He had gotten out of his car, looked around, only to realize he had no idea where he was. Yet he recognized the path, the woods, the field, the lane, the ridge, and rocky gorge. He had traveled this road so many times, always to awaken in a state of disorientation. He pulled the sheet and blanket up over his shoulders and tried to fall asleep. He wanted to follow the path that led toward the woods. But it was no use. Whatever REM sleep he longed to reenter had expired. He rolled to his right and struggled out of bed.
With his feet still in slippers, he turned on the coffee pot; then wandered toward the fireplace to stir its white ashes with a poker. Not a single spark, not even a faint ember glowed in the gray fluff. After several minutes, he poured himself a cup of coffee, donned a woolen jacket, and stepped out into the morning cold. All was dark in the Villa. Jon Paul and Linda would be waking soon, along with Garnett. He didn’t envy the man’s drive to Atlanta, or the surgery that awaited him in the west.
Darby peered out into the dark quietness. Ever fresh, new, and different, each morning seemed to possess a mood, a mode, an elusive essence all its own. Instantly, the cold seized him and, shivering momentarily, he stared up into the night’s predawn vault. How its radiant stars
