Chapter 7 Scarlett
SCARLETT
Another month had passed under Luke’s roof. I didn’t have much to show for myself other than a newly acquired skill at cribbage.
And a flourishing crush on the Clifton Forge chief of police.
“Fifteen two and I win.” I put my peg in the last hole on the cribbage board and shot Luke a smirk. “That’s, what, twelve in a row?”
His deliciously soft lips formed a thin line as he tossed his cards on the table. “Eleven.”
“Ah. Eleven.” Tonight, I’d make it twelve. I scooped up the cards and glanced over my shoulder toward the clock on the wall. “You’d better get going.”
“Yeah.” He stood from his stool at the kitchen island, taking his cup of coffee to the sink.
I stayed seated, concentrating on straightening the cards so I wouldn’t stare at his ass.
This island had become a favorite hangout spot for us. We’d started eating here together, breakfast and dinner. And playing cribbage. We’d play a game every morning before he went to work and at least five more every night after he arrived home.
Hour after hour, day after day, I’d learned a lot about Luke Rosen as we moved the pegs on this board.
He was fiercely competitive. Even in the beginning when I’d still been learning the rules and strategy, he wouldn’t cut me a break.
When he won, he taunted me. When he lost, he pouted, demanding a rematch if there was time.
But he was patient. My God, he was patient.
More so than any person, especially any man, I’d ever met.
I never felt rushed to count my hand. He didn’t hurry me along when it took me minutes to decide which cards to put in the kitty. And he indulged me whenever I wanted to play another game.
We talked as we played, sharing stories and random facts about ourselves. The inconsequential details of his life were the ones that endeared him to me the most.
He loved war movie remakes as much as books about those same wars.
He kept his hair short at the sides because he hated when it touched his ears.
And he’d told me stories about college, about his buddies and the trouble they’d get into on a Friday night.
Like the time they’d driven into the mountains with a case of beer and gotten stuck in the mud, having to hike back to civilization the next morning.
Luke was happy with a cheeseburger every night of the week and when he’d asked me again why I didn’t like them, I’d finally confessed.
When living at the Warrior clubhouse, I’d had one hundred too many cheeseburgers.
Jeremiah would leave me there most nights while he ran off to play poker—I now knew that’s where he’d been blowing the money he’d made from stealing and selling the club’s drugs.
When he’d come home, at three in the morning, he’d always bring along a greasy burger.
We’d eat and he’d tell me about his night.
Then he’d pass out, leaving me with a stomachache that had little to do with the burger.
Luke had listened intently, then promised the next time he brought home takeout, the Stockyard’s made a good chicken Caesar salad too.
After a month of cards and conversation, I knew Luke better than any other person in the world.
He was my best friend. My only friend at the moment.
And this, watching him leave for work, was the worst part of my day.
I’d spend the next nine or ten hours checking the clock as I waited for him to come home.
Mondays were the worst. Luke still worked on the weekends, but he was here a little more than during the week.
“Have a good day.” I infused my voice with false cheer as I stood from the island and followed him into the laundry room. Freaking Mondays.
“You too.” He tugged on his boots. “Any plans?”
“Hmm. Well, I did have some shopping to do,” I teased. “Or maybe I’ll go out for a mani-pedi. Probably meet up with girlfriends for a late-afternoon cocktail.”
Luke chuckled. “So . . . TV.”
“I might go wild and read.”
He grinned. “See ya.”
“Bye.” I waved as he walked out the door to the garage.
I waited for the door to go up, for him to reverse out and for the door to go down.
And now I’m alone. Again.
My steps were unhurried as I shuffled to the living room, glancing around for something to do.
Nothing. There’s nothing to do.
The television had no appeal. My mind wandered whenever I tried to read. The furniture had been staged. There wasn’t a drawer, cabinet or shelf I hadn’t organized. Twice. And once per week, I cleaned the house from top to bottom.
My only new pastime was cataloging the neighborhood from behind the safety of the windows and their shades.
The only windows in the house that weren’t covered were those in the dining room. Luke didn’t want the neighbors to think he was a complete recluse, so he left them up most days. He knew I wouldn’t go in there, not even to clean. If the table was collecting dust, too bad.
The front door had a window without a shade, but it was marbled and impossible to spy through—I’d tried. And given it was on the first floor, it didn’t afford me much a view anyway.
The office, on the other hand, was perfect.
I scurried upstairs, drawing a deep breath of Luke’s scent when I reached the balcony. The earthy smell, mixed with his soap, was intoxicating as I passed his bedroom and continued to the office.
It was brighter in here, where the morning sun glowed on the glass. The window overlooked the street and I knelt on the carpet, peeling back the shade to peek outside.
I was careful to maintain only the tiniest of openings, but just a sliver of sunlight on my face seemed to warm my entire body.
Two plus months inside and my skin was beyond pale. I was translucent and in desperate need of some vitamin D. But I’d obeyed Luke’s rules and stayed inside.
Waiting. Waiting for him to tell me it was safe.
Dreading the day it was safe.
This home had become my sanctuary and though I was lonely, there was peace here. There was peace with Luke.
For a woman who’d waited twenty-eight years to wake without fear of the upcoming day, peace wasn’t something I took for granted.
A car door slammed across the street and I shifted to get a better look. A pretty young woman with auburn hair stood beside a blue car. I hadn’t seen her or the car before. Didn’t that house belong to an older couple?
On cue, a man I did recognize rolled out a suitcase, loading it into the trunk.
Must be his daughter.
He kissed her on the cheek.
Yep. Daughter.
She said something to his back as he returned to the house that made him laugh. Then she slid behind the wheel and drove off.
The rumble of a large engine came from down the street. I leaned back to check the wall clock. Seven thirty-two. The bus schedule was nothing if not reliable.
It was nearing the end of May and soon there’d be no more school buses. I was actually looking forward to the days when the neighborhood was full of kids. They’d be more entertaining to watch than an empty street.
Minutes after her children had climbed onto the bus and disappeared, the neighbor in the blue house—across the street and three down—backed her Honda out of the driveway.
The man in the green house one over drove a hatchback.
From what I could tell, he lived alone, but on Wednesday last week, he’d had an overnight guest. I’d tried to wait and get a look at him or her, but after three hours, my knees had fallen asleep and I’d given up. The car hadn’t been back since.
With that side of the street empty, I moved to the other side of the window.
The woman who lived in the tan house next door was in her late forties or early fifties, with a short brown bob.
She left home around eight each morning and returned around two.
I wasn’t sure if she worked part-time or if she volunteered someplace during the day.
The bumper sticker on her car read I’m a Quilter. What’s Your Superpower?
The clock ticked by and away she went, off to quilt or meet friends or work.
And that was it. The morning rush. There’d be mothers out pushing babies in strollers later.
A jogger on occasion. The mailman swung by around noon.
I’d spent an entire day here once, watching and pretending I was part of the outside world.
But sitting on the floor for eight hours wasn’t exactly comfortable so I slowly eased the shade into place over the glass and made my way downstairs.
For my daily backyard inspection, I allowed myself a slightly bigger opening when I pulled the curtains away from the french doors.
He needs a deck.
The same thought hit me each and every day. Two long cement steps dropped straight from these pretty doors to the grass.
Oh, what I’d do to Luke’s yard if I were allowed to go outside.
Saturday afternoon, after he’d returned from his regular trip to the station for a workout and some time at his desk, Luke had mowed the lawn in his boring, boring yard. The grass was thick and lush and green, but besides two trees in opposite corners along the fence, the space had no accents.
There were a few flower beds up front but since bushes didn’t count as flowers, the front was more of the same. Yesterday, after his Sunday morning trip to the station, he’d spent an hour outside, sweeping the garage and pulling the few stray weeds from those beds.
I’d been in the living room when I’d heard voices in the driveway.
I’d rushed to my perch upstairs. Luke had been talking to a beautiful woman with dark hair and a man—presumably her husband—with tattoos up both forearms. He’d had a baby wearing a pink bonnet strapped to his chest in an equally pink carrier.
Luke had laughed and smiled, flashing the dimple on his left cheek and straight, white teeth, as he talked to them for over twenty minutes. And I’d watched, longing to join them in the sun.
My hand skimmed the knob, aching to twist it and step outside for just a moment. To smell the summer and look at the sky and feel the breeze on my skin.