He's a recluse. She's seeking refuge.
In the dark early morning hours he answers his door to a woman who needs help.
He's spent years cultivating being alone.
She's spent months doing the wrong thing.
Neither of them expects what comes next.
Chapter 2
She heard it before she saw it. The fire hummed in a hollow purr. Seemed to echo from that solid rock structure which came into view stretching from floor-to-ceiling and must have been 15 feet long. Stacked tidily in a built-in rack at the near side to her were perfectly cut pieces of wood to feed what looked like a steady appetite. The soothing comfort of wood heat permeated the room.
Her eyes continued until she saw him sitting just to the side of the wide arch of the fireplace. When she walked into the large open-concept living area, he looked up from a paper he’d been reading and tossed it to the floor beside him, straightening and rotating his neck.
He pointed to a plush giant size black leather couch stretched out in front of the fireplace. “Sit,” he said.
She did. She was taken aback at his face. A dark moustache framed full lips and possibly a week’s worth of a beard cupped his chin and grew up the sides of his face like vines. His eyes appeared grey in the light of the fire’s flame, his expression serious and focused on her. His tight sleeves had been pushed up slightly, and what showed of his right forearm revealed some serious tattoos, but she couldn’t make out what they were from where she sat. This man had to be close to her age, and in spite of herself and the improbability of how she came to be here, she couldn’t help silently observing he was one incredibly handsome guy.
“So tell me. What’s this about?”
She removed her gaze from his striking face and stared into the fire. “My name is Jenna-Leigh Maddox. I’m a licensed massage therapist and hairdresser at Kate Roberts’ ‘Salon Salon!’” She paused and took another breath.
“I know the location.”
She turned back to him. “I’m so grateful you answered the door and allowed me to use your bathroom. I,” she stumbled now because she felt so foolish.
“I can see the bruise forming on your face. Your boyfriend hit you?”
His voice was matter-of-fact, not insulting or unkind.
“Yes. He slapped me.” She inhaled again. “Not the first time.” She stood, restless and embarrassed. “I’m the cliché, okay?” She crossed her arms. “I forgave him more than once because he was ‘so sorry’, blah, blah, blah. I never figured out how I set him off.” Tears surfaced. Again.
“Tonight was different.”
“Yes. Tonight he picked me up from work because my car’s getting some work done and won’t be ready until tomorrow. I worked late because of a special appointment I make for a police detective once a month, and so he stopped off for drinks with work friends before he picked me up. He was really late getting there.”
He watched as she paced in front of the big couch, not getting too close to him.
“Drinking is not a good look on him.”
“And you don’t know why he hit you tonight?”
“I can tell you what made him mad, but why he got so mad, I have no idea. He was totally unreasonable, and I tried to talk him down from his anger, but it wasn’t working. When I locked up the salon, he started yelling at me. I told him I would call an Uber, and he slapped me and told me to get in the car which I did because I was afraid. So I hoped for an opportunity to get away and when he stopped at a gas station to get some cigarettes, which he only smokes when he’s really drunk or high, I grabbed my purse and ran.”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.” “Please,” he added.
He knew she wanted to ask why, and his request probably added to her fear, but she returned to the bathroom and tugged her purse out to the living room, found the phone and handed it to him after opening it with her fingerprint. He quickly maneuvered his way through whatever he wanted to find.
“Did you agree to this tracking app?”
“What?”
“He has a tracker on your phone. I’m removing the sim card now.”
“He followed me with this app?”
“It allowed him to know where you were as long as your phone was with you.” He handed the devices back to her. “I have a disposable phone you can use.”
“I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”
“It’s not complicated. You’re desperate.” He scratched at his chin. “You saw the porch light through my overgrown approach to the door. Took a chance.” He stood. “You’re not stupid – just emotionally involved with someone who doesn’t appreciate what he’s got. Like I said, not complicated, but, yes, frankly, cliché.”
She dipped her head, sat back on the couch, and just above a whisper, said, “Nailed it.”
He actually gave a short laugh. “Thank you.” He walked briefly in front of the fire. “Look, I’m not sure what you want from me, but I will help you. Why? I have no idea. I live here alone and have no interest in interacting with most people. I’m willing to make an exception for you as long as you don’t intend to make amends with this guy. If you do intend to get back with him, you can spend the night and then make sure I never see you again when you leave tomorrow morning. Are we straight?”
He crossed his muscular arms.
“I have no intentions of making amends.”
“’No intentions.’” He stated it. “That could mean ‘if he talks all nice to me, I’ll forgive him. Again.’” He used his fingers to make quotation marks.
In spite of herself, she laughed but quickly replied, “Okay. I get it. I’m done. Life with him no longer holds any appeal. What do you want me to say?” She heard the whine in her voice and quickly sat straighter and said, “May I ask your name?”
“Stone.”
“Stone? Is that what I’m to call you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, but I could use a drink of water, please.”
“Come with me.” He scooped up the paper he’d tossed to the floor.
She followed him again around the great fireplace to another completely open and well-equipped kitchen where she observed the huge fireplace had been built to service both rooms. He gestured to the refrigerator and told her to help herself. He explained if she wanted tap water, the glasses were in a cupboard he opened to show her. She took a bottle of Aquafina from the fridge and thanked him.
“Do you work tomorrow?” He set the paper down and leaned against the granite counter on the large island, crossing those strong arms again.
“No. All I have to do at some point is pick up my car. I can call an Uber. I do work on Thursday through Saturday this week.”
“No Ubers here. Your schedule varies?”
“Yes. Except we always have Sundays and Mondays off.”
“What time does the auto shop open? And does your boyfriend work tomorrow?”
“It opens at seven. And, yes, my ex-boyfriend works tomorrow from 6:30 to 4 PM.”
A brief smile crossed his lips. “I’ll drive you to the shop and follow you to wherever you’ve been staying. I’ll wait while you get your stuff, and you can follow me back here. That is, if you’re sure you want to do this. I’m well aware you don’t know me and have no reason to trust me, but, frankly, that goes the same for me.”
She looked fully at him and he met her gaze with his steady stare. “You’re willing to do this for me? And you can’t tell me why?”
“I wish I knew.” He broke his stare then and looked out an ornate kitchen window into the darkness.
“Are you going to tell me anything about your story?” She kept her voice soft, not really wanting to intrude on this stranger’s privacy since he had in fact rescued her.
“Some,” he said. “But I think we could both benefit from some sleep. We’ll plan to be at the shop when it opens.” He pushed himself away from the counter. He walked out of the kitchen and she followed him again like a puppy.
“I apologize. I’m not set up for guests.” He approached the couch and quickly lifted cushions, maneuvered a lever and pulled out a hide-a-bed. “The sheets are new, never been used. Actually it’s all like that. I hope that’ll do for you.” He paused to gauge her reaction. “Where are your wet clothes?”
“They were soaked, I set them in the shower.”
“C’mon. I’ll show you the laundry room and you can do what you want with them.”
It was farther down the wide hallway on the right, and she was relieved to see the somewhat older washer and dryer without all the regulatory additions that made doing the laundry take forever. This washer had a good old-fashioned top-load large capacity agitator with a good menu of choices as did the dryer. The only evidence of activity in the room was a couple pair of Levis hanging on hooks by their belt loops on a wall. Otherwise, like the bathroom, spic and span.
“You’re a bit of a neat freak, huh?” she asked with a smile in her voice.
He gave a brief laugh. “Mostly. Until you get to my office. That’s where my organizational skills take second place to my comfort and accessible demands.”
“I think I’ll throw my clothes in the wash if it won’t disturb you,” she said tentatively.
“It won’t.” He started to walk away but turned back. “Try to get some rest. And help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Stone.” She looked up to him to make eye contact, wanting him to know how she truly appreciated his kindness.
“You’re welcome, Jenna-Leigh Maddox.”
Father, thank you for this story. I loved writing it. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Into the Fire 