Chapter Nine #2
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a new king-sized mattress and box springs?”
Shirl’s smile spread. “I sure do. Local, are you?”
“I am now. I just moved in yesterday.”
“Welcome. I can make you a deal.” After tapping a finger on her chin, Shirl named a price.
“How much to deliver it? About fifteen miles. And set it up?”
“Stairs?”
“Yes, second floor. And to move my current bed to the guest room—same floor.”
“Seventy-five. First, I’ve got something over here you might want to see. Going to need nightstands, aren’t you?”
Among the clutter, she had two with iron legs and drawer pulls the same deep bronze as the bed. The dark wood of the top and the generous drawer appealed, as did the open shelf below.
A perfect spot for a couple of to-be-reads.
Arden opened and closed the drawers.
“Damn it, Shirl,” she said, and made Shirl laugh. “How much for the works?”
She bought the works, and the gooseneck lamp, the table—piecrust, the seller called it.
Then she and Zorro drove through town, out the other side, where she tested and bought a mattress and box springs, stopped again to buy two sets of new sheets, king-sized pillows, a simple cream-colored duvet, and shams.
She let Zorro out to walk and pee, and shot him a look in the rearview when they got back in the car.
“This is exhausting. But I’m going to finish. Antique shop’s right on the main street downtown. Um, Spruce Street. Then the hardware’s on the way out again. I know exactly the doorknobs I want now, inspired by my new bed.”
She found the antique store charming, and much easier to navigate than the flea market. Add a whole lot quieter than any of her other stops.
She didn’t expect her luck to hold, and when it did, decided this was a magic day.
The owner-operator, a woman in her thirties with a shiny brown ponytail and bright blue eyes, showed her the winner.
“My husband refinished this.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The right size for the room, with simple lines, good storage—if she ever needed it.
“It’s what they call a flame grain. I think it really adds interest. It’s from the early twentieth century, has dovetailed drawers.”
“I’m afraid it’s perfect.”
“Really? I’m glad to hear it. Did you notice the china cabinet right over here?”
“Oh, well, I…”
She noticed it now.
“It’s from the same period, but it’s not a set. Still, they really complement each other.”
She didn’t need a china cabinet. She didn’t have china, or things to display in it. But …
“How much for both, and will you deliver?”
Once more she got back in the car, sighed.
“Hardware store, and watch me. I’ll end up buying a chainsaw.”
She made her way to Riley’s Hardware, grateful she drove in the direction of home.
When she parked, she checked Zorro’s travel water.
“I swear, last stop. I know exactly what I want. They either have them, can get them, or don’t and can’t. I’ll be quick. Promise.”
She went in, found a bright, clean shop. And one more than twice the size she’d expected. Organized, too, but what did she know about hardware? She saw a clerk helping someone in a paint section, another with a customer in the lighting section.
She would not look at lights. Doorknobs only.
An older man—a tall one, easily six-three—checked out another customer.
Since she knew what she wanted, she headed toward doorknobs.
A number displayed themselves on a section of wood to represent a door. Good idea, she mused as she worked her way through from the ornate to the bland and everything in between.
Her luck held, as she found exactly what she wanted—then realized she’d need to change out the exterior locksets, too.
No problem.
The older man walked over. He had a lanky build, cat-green eyes, and silver hair where several streaks of black still lingered.
“Afternoon. Can I help you today?”
“Yes, you can. This one, in the oil-rubbed bronze, and the same finish in that one, with dead bolt.”
He grinned at her. “That was easy.”
“It’s all so organized it makes it easy.”
“I appreciate that. I’m Joe Riley.”
“Oh, this is your store? It’s the easiest I’ve been in today, and I’ve been in too many today.”
“Rehabbing, are you?”
“No, I just don’t like my doorknobs. I moved in yesterday.”
“Is that right? From?”
“Ohio.”
“Funny. I thought you looked familiar, but I guess not.”
“My first time in here. I’ll eventually be back for paint, but I’m holding off. I think twenty-one interior doorknobs and three exterior fill today.”
“Twenty-one? I’m going to check my inventory, but I wouldn’t have that number in stock.”
“I’m not in a hurry, as long as you can get them.”
As they walked toward the counter, a dog walked around it. A long-eared, glossy brown hound, he stepped right over to give Arden a sniff.
“You have a dog.” She instantly leaned down to pet.
“That’s Elvis.”
“Because he ain’t nothing but a hound dog.”
Joe let out an easy laugh. “Got it in one. He’s a friendly one, but he really seems to like you. That grumbling sound he’s making? That’s his I-like-this-one grumble.”
“I like him, too. He probably smells my dog. He’s out in the car.”
“Well, go get him!”
“I … really?”
“Would he have a problem with Elvis or the rest of us?”
“No. Zorro likes everybody, on two or four legs.”
“Got a black dog, do you?”
“Black Lab. If you’re sure, I’ll bring him in while you check about the knobs. He’s been mostly stuck in the car all afternoon.”
“Cut him loose awhile.”
She went out, put the leash on Zorro. “I’ve got a dog-friendly store, and you can make a friend. Don’t embarrass me.”
He looked shocked she’d think he would.
His tail wagged as she walked him in, then his whole body wagged.
“That’s a handsome boy,” Joe said from behind the counter. He wore readers now over those green eyes. “Nothing like a good dog, is there?”
“No, there’s not.”
The two dogs sniffed each other everywhere, bumped bodies.
One grumbled; the other sang.
“Carries a tune, does he?”
“His happy sound. You should hear him when I put music on.”
“No, nothing like a good dog. I didn’t ask, privacy or pass-through on the interior knobs?”
She only had to hear privacy. “Privacy locks from the inside?”
“Correct.”
“All of them privacy.”
His eyebrows quirked, but he just nodded. “I can send you home with three of those, and the exterior today. Need to order the rest. Should have them by Tuesday.”
“That sounds good to me. Oh, these lamps.”
They stood on the far end of the counter.
“Beauties, aren’t they? Mixed wood, hand-turned bases. My grandson made them.”
“Made them?”
“He took my knack with wood and tripled it. Likes to make things in his free time. I saw he was making one of these, talked him into making a set. We’ve got a small lighting section.”
“Yes, I saw. They’re for sale?”
“As soon as I get them tagged and put up.”
“How about I say sold, and take them with me?”
Joe’s eyebrow lifted again. “Don’t you want the price?”
“I do, and I hope you’re a fair man, because I really want them. No, I need them. I bought a new bed today—well, new to me—and nightstands, and these lamps need to be on those nightstands.”
He studied her, nodded. “They’re priced at two-fifty each, but we’re going to make it four hundred for the set.”
“Let me repeat. Sold. Thank you. I’m Arden,” she added as she offered her hand.
“It’s nice to … Wait a minute. That’s it!” He snapped his fingers on both hands. “I knew you looked familiar. Arden Bowie. I read your books.”
Pleasure had to fight its way through surprise. “Seriously?”
“I knew that face. I’ve seen it on the back of your books. You’re prettier in person.”
“Now I’m flattered all over the place.”
“You tell a damn good story. Wait until I tell Gideon I met a real author. That’s my grandson. It’s his afternoon in the woodshop.”
“Mr. Riley—”
“Joe.”
“Joe, you’ve made my day, potentially my year.”
She drove home buoyed. Not only had she crossed several items off her list—added things that weren’t on it—but a complete stranger had recognized her because he read her books.
And liked them!
“How’s that for a first day, Zorro? And you know what? I’m going to put my dresser in the guest room—not now, but when I find what really suits my new bed, and those lamps.”
Maybe find an antique mirror to go over it. She should’ve looked while in the antique store.
No, no, her mind had been too crowded. Plus, she’d shopped more in one four-hour stretch than she had in any given six-month period.
Take a break, settle in a bit more, and don’t get carried away.
When she pulled up to the house, she found that feeling again. The absolute pleasure. And wasn’t she adding to that, selecting pieces specifically for this place, this time of her life?
“Give me time to haul all this inside, put it out, or stow it. Then, my very good boy, you can run around the back as long as you like. While I have a nice glass of wine on the back deck.”
While Arden sat on the deck, enjoying birdsong and wine, Dustin sat in his room.
He’d come to appreciate the shithole of a room. There, at least, he didn’t have to play the game, didn’t have to answer questions, come up with sympathetic remarks for the losers in his talk therapy sessions.
He’d had a full day, too. Slop for breakfast, his work detail—frigging laundry—his session with the asshole shrink, slop for lunch, a visit from dear old Mom, the group-talk bullshit, the hour of outside time (hard-earned), slop for dinner. Common-area time, twice daily.
He hated that, having to tolerate the assholes locked up with him, pretend to be friendly, play stupid games.
Now, in for the night, but before lights-out, he could relax.
He’d been sure, so sure, he’d score early release. He’d taken all the steps, earned the label he knew some of the idiots who ran the place termed a model prisoner.
Or patient, if they knew someone could hear.
But the deal was stone. Five years, not a day less.
He liked sitting in his room, lying on his cot, planning what he’d do to make the lawyer, the judge, all of them pay for stealing five years of his life.
He was thirty now, for God’s sake. He’d spent his thirtieth birthday locked up in a loony bin with a bunch of losers, crazies, and assholes.
And what had his mother done? She’d brought him cupcakes. Fucking cupcakes.
They’d taken the last years of his twenties, and he could never get them back. He vowed his thirties would be his decade.
He’d take whatever he wanted, however he wanted. He’d punish everyone who’d stolen from him.
His father had taught him not to get mad, but to get even.
The son of a bitch hadn’t visited him, not even once in nearly five years, but he’d always had solid advice.
Getting mad meant making mistakes. He understood that now.
So he’d control his temper. Jesus, he’d had enough practice the last four years. He’d control himself, and he’d get even.
He imagined a big target, all those rings with the bull’s-eye, and one by one, put an image of those who needed to pay over it.
One by one, he obliterated them. He listened to their screams, to their pleas. It actually calmed him to see it, feel it, hear it. The nightly ritual not only soothed him, it reminded him he remained in control.
They couldn’t see inside his head. They only saw what he let them see.
Then last, always the last step in the nightly ritual, he put Arden’s image over the target. She, the most important, the target of his affection. She, the woman he’d chosen to love, honor, obey, and serve him. Until death.
He’d need to punish her, for her own good. For a time, once they got to the cabin, he’d need to keep her locked up. Let her know how it felt to be locked up.
He imagined he’d need to keep her on a leash, or in shackles after that. Until she learned her lesson. Until he was sure she’d learned her place.
He’d take care of her, of course. Provide her with a home, with food, with clothes.
Then it would be just the way it had been in the dream he’d had the first night in this shithole.
He’d provide, she’d be grateful.
And they’d be happy.
Since he knew the time was coming, he picked up his book. He wasn’t allowed any of Arden’s, so he chose books set in various areas of the country to help him select where they’d live.
He opened it at random, just before the guard glanced in the little window in the door.
“Lights out,” he called.
Dustin smiled, nodded, set the book aside.
He lay down on his bunk. And when the lights went out, thought that when he had Arden, when he needed to lock her up, he’d keep the room dark.
So she’d know just how it felt.