~Chapter 24~
Trespass
(original posting starting on August 12, 2009)
Part 3
September
6, 1999
He
should’ve left well enough alone.
From
his rearview mirror, he’d seen Hallie Belden practically peel out from the
Fosters’ driveway in Jim Frayne’s Explorer.
He would’ve bet good money she hadn’t been looking back at him in her
rearview mirror.
He
couldn’t deny that Mart Belden’s cousin was strikingly beautiful.
Hell, no hot-blooded heterosexual man could deny that.
He seriously doubted any non-heterosexual men would deny it.
Her insanely long legs looked erotic in those impractical boots she was
wearing. He‘d never seen eyes so
seriously black, like a starless night in the mountains.
She had a beautifully dark complexion that had to be natural—he just
knew Hallie Belden didn’t spend her days at the tanning salon.
Her hair was dark and long and thick, and he could almost imagine twining
his fingers in it, pulling her head back and devouring her perfect neck.
Damn, that carnelian and onyx necklace would look stunning on that
swan-like neck.
Of
course, there was also no denying that Hallie Belden was an ice princess.
Hell, she was a bitch.
And
she hated his guts.
With
an alpha male growl, he threw the extra folding chairs into the trunk of his
car, slammed the lid shut, and got back behind the wheel. Why did this bother him so much?
He was Dr. Simon Drake, beloved hometown golden boy doing Indian Lake
proud. He was the youngest son in a
large and loving family, entirely spoiled without actually being spoiled rotten.
He was attractive, intelligent, personable, and a brilliantly talented
surgeon on the rise in New York City. He
was a prize catch, never without a date. He
could flash his baby blues at any woman he wanted and have her melting in his
arms within seconds.
And
yet Hallie Belden continued to run away from him.
He
knew she wasn’t dating Jim Frayne, despite her brazen display on Main Street.
It was clear from Jim’s reaction that he hadn’t been expecting,
wishing for, or even enjoying that kiss.
Jim
Frayne is a fool.
As
he passed the Fosters’ house on his way back to town, Simon saw Hallie’s
shopping bags still sitting on the front lawn.
He took his foot off the accelerator and stared as the car cruised by, as
if goose-necking at a wreck on the highway.
When the car had drifted just past the driveway, he braked and stared
again at the bags in his side mirror.
This
wasn’t New York City. He could
leave the bags there and they would be fine until Hallie came back for them or
the Fosters returned home.
Sighing,
he threw the car into “Park” and got out.
At least he would put them up on the porch. After all, he thought, with a glance up at a sky so
blindingly blue that not even a cottony wisp of a cloud dared to mar it, it
might rain.
Curiously,
he peered into the bags as he picked them up to see just what Hallie Belden had
been buying at the street fair. Some
soaps, an ashtray—those looked like mom and dad gifts to him—and four
hand-carved puzzles with children’s names brightly painted on comical farm
animals. At least he thought they
were for children, he mused with one eyebrow arched skeptically.
Did she really have a nephew named Ansel?
Or was that a girl’s name? Odd
family. How had she gotten so lucky
to be simply Hallie?
Not
that there was anything simple about Hallie Belden.
When
he returned to his car, he was mildly surprised to discover that he still had
the bags in his hands. Well, he’d
take them downtown and surely he’d run into Hallie there. If not, he could give the bags to his sister, and she’d
take them to school tomorrow morning. Or
Mart would. Or Jim.
Or Caroline Foster. Hell, he
could give the bags to practically anybody in town and they’d be sure to run
into Hallie soon.
He
got another surprise when he found himself turning, not right down Main Street
and toward the fair, but left onto the highway that led out of town and toward
the Winthrop School for Boys.
I’ll
just drop off the bags for her and go,
he thought, gritting his teeth. If
it were any other woman, he could probably flash his enigmatic smile, make a
wise-cracking apology for having distracted her to the point of forgetting them
in the first place, and instead of returning to the Founder’s Day festival,
they’d end up in her bedroom.
But
with Hallie Belden? Simon could
imagine her reaction. He winced and
unconsciously reached down to protect his favorite part of his anatomy.
Why was he doing this anyway? Hallie
would probably scowl at him or sneer at him or swear at him.
She’d say he was being patronizing and mockingly solicitous for
bringing bags that he very well could have given to any number of Indian Lake
residents to pass along when they saw her next.
He could just imagine Hallie’s black as night eyes flashing at him with
spirited temper. It was a huge turn
on … dammit.
He
passed the main driveway at Winthrop and turned onto the road that led to the
teachers’ residences. He
carefully maneuvered down the rutted road, past four modest homes and Mart and
Sally’s larger farmhouse, until he came to the quaint little English cottage.
It looked like it could’ve been made out of gingerbread, and its fairy
tale facade didn’t seem to suit what he knew of Hallie Belden.
Then
again, didn’t a witch live in the original gingerbread house?
He
smirked as he got out of the car and grabbed Hallie’s bags.
He didn’t see Jim’s Explorer, but maybe she had left it up at the
school. Stepping onto the small
porch, he knocked on the front door and braced himself for whatever might
happen.
You
left your bags at the Fosters and I thought I’d bring them to you.
Good day, Ms. Belden.
“Good
day, Ms. Belden? What is this, the
19th century? Nobody talks like
that, you idiot,” he mumbled under his breath as he
knocked again.
You
left your bags at the Fosters, and I thought I’d bring them to you.
See ya.
See
ya? Yeah, that’s better.
Simon rolled his eyes as he knocked a third time.
Good-bye.
Safe enough. Stick with the tried and true, Drake. What the hell is taking so long to open the door?
This place is smaller than my apartment.
Subconsciously
reverting to his small-town upbringing, Simon grasped the doorknob and finding
the door unlocked, let himself in. “Hello?
Anybody home?”
There
was no answer. No sound of running
water to indicate she was in the shower, no creak of bedsprings to indicate he
had disturbed her nap. There was
only silence and the very faint chirping of birds in the back garden.
He
set the bags down just inside the door and turned to go, but his innate
curiosity made him look back, taking the opportunity to examine the private
side, the softer side, of Hallie Belden.
If
he reached up, he could easily touch the low, beamed ceiling overhead.
The dark wood was the same as on the floor beneath his feet and several
hooked rugs that looked handmade were strategically placed around the room.
The
couch was a worn corduroy in a neutral brown.
It was in good condition, but didn’t look new, which appeased Simon,
for it didn’t look like Hallie’s style at all.
She seemed to have acquired several of her possessions secondhand, rather
than buying things suited for her desires and personality.
But
if she had gone to school overseas, surely that meant her family came from
money, right? He wished he had thought to question Sally more about the
mysterious Hallie Belden, but he certainly hadn’t thought he’d run into her
again so soon.
Or
be so fascinated by her.
Feeling
not the least bit guilty, he wandered around the living room and studied
Hallie’s life.
The
couch wasn’t new, nor was the coffee table, but the chair by the front window
was. It was bigger than a regular
armchair, but not quite as big as a loveseat.
It had a large ottoman in front of it with a book lying on it, waiting
for its reader to return. Two more
books were on the side table, each with a bookmark holding its place partway
through.
Built-in
bookshelves flanked each side of the fireplace, and both were filled to
capacity. The shelf on the left
contained primarily textbooks, teaching guides, and travel books, while the
shelf on the right had more mainstream fictional fare, albeit in French and
Italian as well as in English. He
cocked an eyebrow at a shelf lined with what appeared to be children’s
books—Lucy Radcliffe. He pulled
one out and flipped through it curiously. Did
Hallie Belden harbor dreams of becoming a spy?
The
mantle above the fireplace held several framed photographs.
There was a formal studio portrait of a dark man with graying temples and
an elegant woman with a stiff smile who looked much younger, but on further
examination simply appeared to be fighting the aging process very well.
With
every chemical and surgical tool at her disposal,
Simon thought with a smirk.
He
replaced the book on the shelf in order to pick up the photo next to the one
that he presumed was of her parents. This
photo showed two teenage boys with their arms around a younger girl between
them. Simon figured they must be
Hallie’s brothers, for one of them looked just like the man in the other
photo. He looked more closely at
the girl and grinned. Hallie
Belden. She had long pigtail braids
and was thin to the point of fragility, but even back then she’d had
incredible legs, showcased by her cut-off shorts.
And what was that on her face? Could
it possibly be a smile? It was
indeed, and glaringly bright due to a shiny pair of braces on her teeth.
There
was a photo of a slightly older Hallie and her brothers around a campfire with
some other teenagers. Studying the
photo, he was pretty sure he recognized Brian and Mart Belden and Brian’s
wife, Honey. The curly-haired
blonde must be Trixie. He grinned
again and chuckled a little at the brightly redheaded Jim Frayne.
His hair had gotten darker over the years, apparently.
There
was a photo of Hallie in front of the Eiffel Tower. Her smile wasn’t nearly as brilliant as it was in the
photos of her youth. She looked
more polished and mature. Her
expression was soft and kind. She
must have had strong feelings for the person holding the camera.
Was he the reason her eyes were no longer soft and kind, but hard and
cold?
He
could see into the kitchen via the pass-through, but didn’t go in.
Nor did he wander into the hall where the bedrooms and bathroom were
located. He was beginning to wonder
where Hallie was. Had she changed
her mind about coming back home? Had
Jim convinced her to stay?
From
what he had observed of Hallie’s “fight or flight” instinct, he could
hardly imagine her brushing off their encounters so indifferently and returning
to the street fair for a relaxing afternoon with her friends.
Of
course, he could conjure up any number of completely innocent reasons for her
absence, but for some reason he remained focused on something being wrong.
Not wrong—she was out front, getting back at him by slashing his tires;
but wrong—she was upset and wasn’t paying attention to her driving...
“Give
me a break,” he mumbled, irritated with himself for momentarily worrying so
much about a woman who didn’t give two figs for him.
Still,
instead of leaving, he settled down in the comfortable chair-and-a-half by the
window and waited.
He
didn’t wait long, for just as he had finished counting 77 Lucy Radcliffe books
in various formats and languages, he heard a squeak, and then the sound of water
running. Somebody was out back
running the hose. A couple of
minutes later, the faucet squeaked back off and the water stopped.
The
back door opened and in walked Hallie Belden.
Simon sank comfortably back into the chair—calm, cool, cocky.
Hallie didn’t even see him. She
sat down at the table with her back to him and tugged off her boots.
He heard a muttered curse, something about “never shopping with Diana
again,” before she hatefully flung the boots into the far corner.
She stood and turned into the kitchen, again failing to cast her gaze
into the living room.
Simon
heard the rattle of metal and then a tinny sound of running water that he
guessed was a teakettle or coffeepot being filled. Her back was to him as she
stood at the sink and his arrogant grin slowly evaporated. He began to feel the
tiniest pang of guilt for unintentionally spying on her.
He should say something, clear his throat, or maybe sneak out and knock
on the front door as if he’d never been inside her home in the first place.
While
he was mentally debating with himself on a course of action, Hallie’s elegant,
long-fingered hand reached back and pulled her ponytail over her shoulder.
Then she was undoing the braid and shaking her fingers through her hair
until it cascaded in dark waves of ebony down her back.
His
innocent spy game suddenly took a decidedly voyeuristic turn.
His face flushed and he swallowed hard.
He feared if he didn’t speak soon and break the spell, he wouldn’t be
able to stand up and face her—not gracefully, anyway.
He
watched the flowing raven tresses sway back and forth, hypnotizing him as surely
as a magician’s watch swinging lazily back and forth on its fob.
She moved from cabinet to cabinet extracting some kind of dishware—he
was too unfocused to pay much attention to the details.
The
teakettle started to sing but until Hallie joined in the song, Simon didn’t break from his trance. Suddenly, his
libidinous side gave way to the childish delight of listening to the ice maiden
singing “I’m A Little Teapot”.
He
was captivated by the way she mimicked a little girl’s high-pitched voice, and
even more charmed when her free hand went to her hip, elbow akimbo, as she
formed a “handle” and poured the boiling water into the teapot on the
counter.
The
mischievous little boy inside him, the imp that wanted to yank on her pigtails
and chase her around the playground with a snake in his hands, was begging him
to make his presence known with a teasingly snide comment.
He was sorely tempted to do so.
Hallie
poured a cup of tea and even from where he sat across the living room, he could
hear her blissful sigh as she took the first sip. He braced his hands on the arms of the chair as he prepared
to stand up and speak to her.
At
that moment, she turned.
The
cup slipped from her hands and shattered on the kitchen floor.
Her scream of surprise and fear echoed through the tiny cottage loudly
enough to startle him back into the chair.
“What
the hell are you doing in my house?” she shrieked.
She
got over her fear quite quickly, he noticed, as he leapt to his feet.
“I’m
sorry, Ms. Belden,” he said. “I
didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You
didn’t mean to—? You sat there watching
me? For how long?
Are you—are you stalking me?”
His
eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Do
you think that poorly of me? Or is
it just that you think that highly of yourself?”
The
already black eyes darkened even more and narrowed to thin slits in her flushed
face. Like a cat with a piece of
tuna, she growled a low warning, “Get out of my house.”
He
had already begun crossing the room, intent on rectifying the piss-poor
situation he had managed to put himself in, but the swaggering surgeon was all
that kept coming out, his tone patronizing even as he tried to apologize.
“Ms. Belden, I’m dreadfully sorry I ruined your ‘cuppa’.
Please let me help you clean up.”
“Get
out of my house,” she growled again, and this time the fangs came out to
accompany the feline snarl.
He
stopped at the kitchen doorway and stared down at the jumble of broken china at
her feet. “I’m really very
sorry,” he said again, more sincerely this time, and bent to pick up a few of
the larger pieces. They were a
rough white bone china with pink and gold decorations on the sides. Did nothing she owned suit her fiery personality?
Hallie
dropped to her knees and with a towel she had procured from the countertop,
began cleaning up the spilled tea. “Get
out,” she said again, but this time her alley cat choked on a more kitten-like
mew.
“No
sense crying over spilled tea,” he joked.
“It’s just a teacup and a rather ugly one at that.
Nothing that future generations of Beldens will be longing to inherit.”
He
could barely see any white in her dark, narrowed eyes.
For that matter, he could hardly see the pupils.
God, her eyes were beautiful.
She
reached out and jerked one of the larger pieces from his hand.
He winced, sucking in his breath in a short hiss as the broken china
sliced across his palm. It wasn’t deep, but it bled freely. “Some thanks I get,” he
teased as he stood and went to the kitchen sink to rinse off the blood.
“Thanks?”
she snapped back. “Thanks!?
For what? For trespassing in my private home? For being a peeping Tom?
For—for—vandalizing my property?”
He
grabbed a paper towel and applied pressure to the oozing cut.
Turning around as casually as he could manage, he grinned crookedly at
her, failing to keep in mind that she was the only female on the planet immune
to his charms. “Vandalizing? Can
we try not to get melodramatic, please? You
dropped the cup, Ms. Belden.”
“Stop
calling me that!”
“Calling
you what?”
“Ms.
Belden.”
“You
made it quite clear last week that I was not to call you by your given name.
What precisely is wrong with Ms. Belden?
It’s
formal, polite, distant. In
fact, it seems just your style.”
Her
voice was still strong with temper, but her eyes were beginning to glass over
with unshed tears. “Ms. Belden is
perfectly fine, but when you say it, you say Mizz Belden, like I’m some
dowdy spinster librarian.”
He
tried hard to contain his smile. She
was so earnest in her argument. Dowdy
spinster librarian was the furthest thing from his mind when he looked at her.
In fact, med school would’ve been a hell of a lot more interesting if
she had been the Harvard librarian.
Clearing
his throat, he replied with equal earnestness, “My apologies, Ms.
Belden. That is, Ms.
Belden.
I mean, Ms.—hmm…” He
shook his head woefully and winked at her as if, like Chandler Bing, he just
couldn’t stop himself from putting unnecessary emphasis into his sentences.
She
didn’t take the bait.
“I
don’t have much of a sense of humor where my name is concerned,” she said
flatly.
He
opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again, pressing his lips together to keep
from whipping out yet another snappy retort.
But
she didn’t go for that, either.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You
were going to say something, so say it.”
“I
was merely going to make a comment about adding ‘your name’ to my mental
list of things you have no sense
of humor about. But the way my luck is going today, it would turn out you
have no sense of humor about your sense of humor, either.”
Before
she could open her mouth, he continued, “I came here to bring you your bags,
which you left on the Fosters’ front lawn.
I thought it was the neighborly thing to do.
I apologize for making that presumption.
Nobody answered the door when I knocked, so I let myself in. I also apologize for that—old habit from growing up here in
Indian Lake, I guess. I thought you
easily would’ve beaten me here, so I decided to wait for you.
When your arrival was not forthcoming, I’ll admit I worried a bit.
My profound apologies for entertaining the idea that you couldn’t take
care of yourself. I looked at some
of your books while I was waiting, because I enjoy literature and am always
interested in what kinds of books other people like to read.
I’m sorry for prying into your private life and for touching your
things. I absolutely should’ve
announced my presence the moment you came in the door, and I apologize for that
as well. My only excuse is that I
was very eager for the opportunity to observe you in a non-defensive state of
mind. You really can be quite
charming when you don’t have your hackles up, Ms.—”
He stopped, cleared his throat sheepishly and despite previous failures,
tried a friendly wink.
If
he thought he had seen Hallie Belden angry before, it was nothing compared to
the fury he saw blazing in her blackberry eyes now.
Her fingers were clenched so tightly around the towel in her hand that
drops of the sopped-up tea began to drip back onto the floor.
He
could feel his own anger at her callousness toward him starting to build up in
his gut, and he delivered the remainder of his apology tersely, totally
dispensing of any cajoling charm.
“I’m
sorry I startled you. I’m sorry I
caused you to break your sad little cup. I’m
sorry I had the gall to drip blood in your kitchen sink.
I’m sorry I attempted any sort of apology for a woman who clearly
isn’t going to forgive or forget.
In fact, I’m sorry for anything I have ever said or done or thought
that offended you, your ladyship, and I’ll go ahead and apologize now for
anything I might say, do or think in the future, because even though I live
across the state, this is a small town and our families are intertwined.
Despite our—your—very best efforts, it is inevitable that we
will run into each other again in the future.
So please accept my advance apologies.”
He clenched his jaw and forced out the final four words in a deliberately
dead even tone, without any unpardonable emphasis.
“Good day, Ms. Belden.”
He
jerked around and stalked out the kitchen, through the living room and out the
front door, viciously slamming it behind him.
On the porch, he stopped to catch his breath and regain his equilibrium.
He
hadn’t anticipated that would hurt so much, but he could feel a distinct
pain—
He
looked down and opened his clenched fist. Inside
was a piece of the broken teacup, digging into his palm.
Now both his hands were bleeding.
This cut was no worse than the other, but all he could do for the
moment was stare at it as it trickled blood.
Terrific. Way to destroy
your surgical career, Drake, he thought sullenly. All for a coldhearted, unbending, humorless, goddamn
gorgeous shrew of a woman.
He
couldn’t imagine what could stimulate such vitriolic behavior from Hallie
Belden over her name, over a cup, over an innocent intrusion into a private life
that looked straightforward and unremarkable.
Maybe she really was a spy.
He
snorted sarcastically and turned back for one last pathetic chance to get
skewered by Ms. Belden.
Shit,
I can’t even stop thinking
that, he admonished himself.
He
could see how it could be annoying, but hatefully so?
Well, he’d simply say nothing at all this time around.
He’d give her the broken piece of china, in case she wanted to attempt
to glue that hideous teacup back together, and leave.
He
was raising his hand to knock on the door when he saw something through the
window that made him stop short. For
the first time that afternoon he truly felt like he was trespassing somewhere he
was not welcome, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable for doing so.
Hallie
Belden was huddled on the floor in the far corner of her living room.
Tears flowed freely from her dark eyes and streaked her cheeks.
Her pretty face was contorted in anguish rather than rage.
Simon
could see that she clutched what looked like a photograph in her hands.
He took a quick glance at the mantel but nothing was missing, and the
picture in her trembling hands wasn’t framed like the others.
Her
true emotions were no longer veiled by haughty indignation.
She may not have knowingly exposed her heartache to him, but it was there
for him to see all the same.
This
time Simon’s pain was localized in his heart, rather than his hands.
Maybe he was a conceited, narcissistic, philandering bastard, but his
life’s calling was as a healer. More
importantly, he was a Drake.
Face
grim with empathy, he fingered the shard of china in his hand, rolling it in his
palm as he pondered his options.
Knocking
on her door now would only bring the walls back up.
But by the same token, turning to his sister would be breaking a
confidence Hallie wasn’t even aware he shared and would again bolster her
defenses, in addition to giving her yet another reason to despise him.
He
reached out and laid the broken china on the windowsill.
As he stared at the shattered cup and the shattered woman in the blurred
background of his field of vision, he had an inspiration.
He picked the pink and white piece of china back up and tucked it into
his pocket.
Giving Hallie Belden an unseen glance of understanding and regret, he turned and left her to her private sorrow.
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AUTHOR'S NOTES
Part
2 (4,354 words)
The “original gingerbread house” is a reference,
of course, to the fairy tale Hansel and Gretel.
My cousins have a “chair-and-a-half” which is the
only way I was able to successfully Google search them, after trying fruitlessly
for “oversized loveseat” and “small couch” and turning to my cousin in
desperation. I’d love to have
one, theirs is so comfortable to curl up in with a book.
Chandler Bing is one of the "emphatic" characters from the 90's sitcom Friends (in case you live in a cave *g*).
Thanks to my steadfast editors: Ruth, who keeps my commas straight; Heather, who isn't afraid to tell me when my sentences sound awkward; and Annette, my faithful cheerleader, even these last few months when she has been Internet challenged.