Feeling chilled, she pulled on her red velour robe. Then she sat curled up on the living room sofa, trying to deal with the emotional storm that had been unleashed within her.
With her knees tucked under her chin, she practiced the breathing exercises her childhood therapist had taught her, at least as well as she could when curled up. Her mind bounced around between calling the sheriff, who wouldn’t be able to do anything because the guy was gone, an urgent but unsuccessful desire to believe it had been a trick of her sleepy mind, and waiting for morning to release her from her dark cave.
Because, suddenly, this beloved house felt like a cave and she felt trapped in it.
Don’t be silly, she argued with herself. Just because something bad happened to you over twenty years ago doesn’t mean it will happen again.
But memories she had buried long ago bubbled up like a hot tar pit, black and ugly. She’d been lucky, she reminded herself. Lucky that her kidnapper had released her unharmed after only two days. Lucky that she had grown up with a protective father and mother, and a grandmother who had given her magical experiences.
Reminded herself of how the therapist had insisted that she had done nothing wrong, that she had nothing to feel guilty about.
That she wasn’t a bad girl.
She thought she’d moved past that. Believed she had moved past that. Then in one split second some jerk had brought it all back.
She couldn’t allow this. But she still sat in the dark with all the curtains drawn, straining to hear any untoward sound. The prized clock, a genuine Regulator, kept ticking as normal from the dining room wall, a familiar sound from happy times. The scent of her grandmother’s beloved lavender sachets filled the house. No unfamiliar odors, no unusual sounds, crept through the darkened house. It was so quiet, in fact, that her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears.
She supposed someone else would have the nerve to go outside to see if the guy was still there. She couldn’t bring herself to do that. It wasn’t that she was a coward; it was that his appearance at her bedroom window had cast her back to her abduction as a child.
Somewhere inside her, that little girl still resided.
But as her fear began to ease, her ire began to rise. She’d been enjoying a beautiful gift from nature, the biggest, brightest full moon she’d ever seen. That invader had ruined it.
Hell, he’d ruined more than that, she thought grimly. Would she ever again feel comfortable with sleeping in this house when a window was cracked open as she had tonight? Would she feel she needed to keep the heavy curtains drawn all the time now? That she had to sell this house or live in a cave as long as she stayed?
Finding that her strength had returned, she rose from the sofa and made her way to the kitchen. Grandma had believed in insulated curtains to save on heat, and she certainly hadn’t shorted the kitchen windows. As Haley turned on the light, she looked at a line of navy-blue curtains that skimmed the top of the backsplash over the sink and completely sealed out the night. She put the battered whistling teakettle on the stove and began to heat water. The ginger jar, a delightful blue-and-white copy of some original, still held Grandma’s favorite green tea. A cup of that ought to return the night to normal familiarity.
She decided against calling the police before the day completely dawned because the guy was gone, and a bunch of strobing blue, white and red lights on the street might disturb her neighbors. Morning was soon enough.
She was safe. Of course she was safe. She’d just arrived in this town and there was no reason for anyone to want to disturb her in any way. So what if some guy had looked in her window, probably out of curiosity. If he was interested in something else, he was in for a surprise. The self-defense classes she’d been taking for years, to deal with the sense of helplessness her abduction had given her, were at the ready.
Next time, if there was a next time, she wouldn’t allow fear to overwhelm her before she could react. She’d be ready.
The teakettle shrieked its tuneless note as steam poured out the spout. She rose, spooned some tea leaves into a china cup and filled it with hot water. That brought back memories, too, of how her grandmother would finish a cup of tea and turn the cup upside down on the saucer, spinning it three times. Then Grandma would enchant her by “reading” the leaves that adhered inside the bottom of the teacup. As Haley grew older, she understood it was just a game, but one she’d always enjoyed.
She wondered if she could read the leaves for herself. That might distract her until the sun replaced the moon in the sky.
She was beginning to feel foolish for the strength of her reaction to the Peeping Tom. She was safe and snug in a house full of good memories, and she shouldn’t allow anyone to ruin that.
Determination mostly replaced her instinctive fear, and the soothing ritual of making tea helped considerably. The fragrance of the green tea filled her with warm memories. Memories of her grandma telling her how all tea came from one kind of plant in Southeast China. Of how the difference in flavors was made by how the tea was cured. Of course, Grandma had told her scrupulously, all teas started from the same plant but over centuries the transplanting of those plants had resulted in a few different varietals. But still, she said firmly, tea all goes back to the same plant.
When they went to the store to buy more tea, young Haley had stared in fascination at all the boxes announcing different names and tried to imagine the old times when tea had to cross perilous mountain routes to reach the rest of the world.
She could understand, even at a young age, why tea had been so important to so many. Like spices, she thought. The harder it was to get them, the more valued they became.
The tea tasted a bit on the old side, and she promised herself she’d get a fresh box in the morning. Grandma must not have been drinking it often toward the end. But then, she’d never let anyone in the family know she was failing until the day before she died.
The trip down memory lane was relaxing her, as was the comforting tea and thoughts of her grandmother. Then, rising from the mists of childhood, she remembered Roger McLeod. He’d been a few years older than her, but it hadn’t seemed to trouble him. He spent some of his free time with her, playing games or regaling her with local history. “Even grandmothers need a break,” he’d joked once.
She wondered if he still lived down the street. When she’d met him, he’d been his father’s apprentice, making custom saddles for the horse owners hereabouts. Once she’d been allowed into the workshop and had been amazed how many layers of leather were used, each one treated and stretched and cut to fit some part of the saddle precisely.
“It has to be comfortable,” he’d explained once. “People who spend long hours riding can’t afford to get sore because the saddle just doesn’t fit right. And there’s the horse, of course. It needs customization as much as the rider.”
She smiled now, remembering that day so long ago. She’d been what, thirteen? And he’d been graduating from high school. Hadn’t Grandma mentioned him occasionally in her letters?
He must still be around here. Maybe still in his father’s house two doors down. She smiled at last and decided she’d overreacted to a Peeping Tom. She’d tell the cops in the morning, and they’d check it out. That alone would probably be enough to keep the guy from coming near here again.
She glanced at the clock on the wall over the freestanding stove and saw that it was shortly past four. She should try to get some more sleep, if she
