I don’t want to end up in the same predicament. No way.
Isaac isn’t afraid at all anymore, but he had just one rule:
“In the week before each full moon,” he said that night we talked about it, “never give in to my advances. I’m different in that time, more open—my judgment is off.”
I laughed a little. “What, like you’ve had too much vodka, or something?”
“I guess that’s actually not a bad comparison,” he said. “Just remember that on the day of the full moon never, ever test the boundaries.”
I never intended to test those boundaries, but I planned a night with him that I wanted to be perfect. Of course, things rarely turn out the way you plan them. It was an innocent mistake on my part, but what happened left me running through the woods trying to get away from his monstrous form.
He didn’t hurt me…but he could have.
I just don’t understand why he’s so confident. The way I see it, as long as I’m human he’ll always be somewhat a danger to me. So, I guess I’m using the scared virgin excuse for as long as I can.
“Wait, it’s going to fall,” I say, pointing to the banner. “Pull it tighter—there, yeah, see how loose it is?”
“A little to the left?” Isaac mocks me, grinning. “A little to the right?”
I stick my tongue out at him.
“Better be careful with that thing,” he jokes.
One car door shuts. It’ll be a minute more as Beverlee helps Uncle Carl into his wheelchair. I scan the den and the kitchen one last time, checking to see if everything is in place. His favorite chair I was sure to vacuum with the hose and fluff up the arm pillows and giant ottoman. Next to it on the inn table is a mug of hot coffee and all three remote controls lined neatly in arms reach. A stack of new science and technology magazines wait for him too—he loves those more than the coffee.
Nathan comes out of the guest restroom drying his hands on his pants legs. Harry runs in through the back door and skids into the kitchen, Daisy behind him barely holding onto the tips of his fingers.
Daisy reminds me of expensive perfumed body powder, the kind that sits in a little round, gold-trimmed container on the vanity of a wealthy young London girl. Except of course, when she’s not being a total tomboy.
“He’s coming up the ramp now,” says Harry.
It’s a small gathering. Zia and Sebastian are at a concert in Boston and won’t be back until tomorrow night. Uncle Carl’s friends from work are stopping by later in the evening after he’s settled in. But small is how Uncle Carl would prefer it.
“Okay,” I say just as I hear their voices coming up onto the porch. With seconds to spare, I run into the foyer and move the coat rack out of the way, pushing it into the far corner. “Make sure everything is moved so Carl’s wheelchair can easily get around it.” That had been Beverlee’s number one demand for a week now. Uncle Carl is having a hard time adjusting to his disability and Beverlee wants to eliminate whatever possible that helps remind him of it.
The doctors still aren’t sure if he will ever walk again.
The whole house smells like a bakery. A plate of chocolate chip cookies is laid out on the kitchen bar. I saw that tip on HGTV once when Beverlee had it on; fresh baked cookies make the house smell inviting, so I thought, why not?
“Don’t even think about it,” Daisy demands as Harry reaches over to take a cookie from the plate.
Shadows move in front of the door and finally it opens.
“Welcome home!” everyone shouts.
Uncle Carl smiles squeamishly.
“Thanks guys,” he says as Aunt Bev wheels him in the rest of the way. He reaches down and takes control of the wheels himself, giving them a push. “Wow, the house looks nice, Adria,” he says. “Smells nice too.”
“Thanks.”
Harry takes the plate from the bar and balances it on his fingertips like a waiter. “They’re fresh,” he says, putting them into Uncle Carl’s reach.
“Thank you, but I’ll have one later—stopped and had lunch before we got here. I’m stuffed.”
Harry takes that as the O.K. to finally get a cookie for himself. Daisy smirks over at him as he stuffs one into his mouth.
The two of them, Harry and Daisy, are already like an old married couple.
“Glad you’re home, Uncle Carl.” I lean over, hugging him carefully. I’m still afraid I’ll hurt him. Most of his casts have been removed, but I’m afraid to touch him, even though he’s been healing for a while.
I don’t care. I feel like I’ll always be afraid he’s too fragile to hug, or let him move around the house without my help. Even now, as he lets me go and regards me with an I’ll-be-alright expression, I can’t help but step back because I’m afraid I’ll bump into him and break him.
I still blame myself for what happened. I’ll always blame myself because it was my fault.
“Beverlee finally got you into that scrapbooking stuff, huh?” Uncle Carl wheels over to see my WELCOME HOME sign hanging from the banister, still not straight on the far end. I quietly glance over at Isaac accusingly who just shakes his head at me. I guess I am being a bit overkill about it…well, about everything actually. In the past three hours, I remember dusting the furniture at least three times. The hardwood floors have never been shinier. And now that I think about it, since Nathan came out of the restroom, I’ve been feeling anxious about what kind of mess he may have left behind. Images of water droplets on the counter, the toilet seat left up, or the light left on keeps creeping up into my thoughts.
“No, she’s still not sold on it,” says Beverlee about scrapbooking. “But obviously she’s learned a few things.” She looks up at my handiwork, smiling. I had used her fancy-edged scissors, colored paper and some cool roller stamp things I never can remember what they’re called. Arts and crafts were never my ‘forte’, but what I can do with it serves its purpose, I guess. Beverlee is being kind though; really it looks second grade to me.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Dawson?” Daisy is always charming. The English accent helps make her the center of the room usually. She leans over and squeezes him tighter than I ever will.
Harry and the Mayfairs grew quite close to Aunt Bev and Uncle Carl over the past several months, so they are as glad to have him home as Aunt Bev and me.
“Much better,” he answers, returning the affection. “And now that I’m back in my own house, I know things will be back to normal in no time.”
Beverlee quietly glances away.
I know what she must be thinking, because I’m thinking the same thing. It’ll take a lot more than being home for things to be normal for Uncle Carl again. He’s being strong, but on the inside, I know he must be screaming.
I move into the den area and everyone follows.
“I made you some coffee,” I say nervously, walking toward Uncle Carl’s chair. “One teaspoon of sugar, just like you like it. Oh, and I bought the most recent issues—your subscriptions ran out last month I think.” I fluff the arm pillows up some more—as if they really need it—and then scoop the new magazines into my hands. “Scientific American, Popular Science...and,” I shuffle them around, absently reading the cover article titles. “...National Geographic. I thought Australia was already dry?” I say, looking down onto the cover.
The uncomfortable silence makes me look up again.
Is it that obvious? Suddenly, I feel even worse. How could I let my guilt overshadow Uncle Carl’s homecoming?
Please, please no one bring it up, not now. Six quiet seconds of standing here feels like forever. Please just—
“Well, it’s good to have you back,” Isaac says, stepping in to save me. “Nathan and I are going to start repairing the barn now that it’s warming up.”
“Yeah,” Nathan adds, “and filling in that chasm of a pothole up by the mailbox.”
Thank God, I say to myself. I never wanted the attention on me. I’m not going to let it happen again.
“I think Harry hits that hole on purpose,” I say. “Must be a guy thing.”
Harry makes a face.
“Thanks,” Uncle Carl speaks up, “but you don’t have to do that. The barn has been coming down around its frame for years and that pothole keeps people like Harry from driving into the house.” The innocent comment provokes a few chuckles.
“We’ll do it anyway,” says Nathan, as if the alternative is unacceptable.
“Also, Harry started work at Finch’s with Adria last Friday,” Aunt Bev says. “I’ve got plenty of extra help at work, so I’ll have more time around here.”
Mrs. Finch promoted her to sole manager of the store a month ago. Her daughters, Sandy and Marla Finch, objected with the anger of two twelve-year-old snotty girls spoiled beyond comprehension. Mrs. Finch thinks of Beverlee as the daughter she never had, so it’s no surprise she’s in charge of what Sandy and Marla thought rightfully belonged to them. Now that Beverlee is on salary, she can afford to be at the store less. Minimum wage is my pay and that’s just fine considering all of the unfortunate circumstances: Uncle Carl’s disability, oh and Mrs. Finch being on her deathbed and all.
No one in town expects her to be around another year; except for Aunt Bev who refuses to think badly of a pretty inevitable situation.
Uncle Carl looks over at Harry. “That’s good news,” he says. “At least Adria won’t be alone at the store anymore.” His expression darkens and so does the atmosphere in the room.
Though he’s not been at home in months, Uncle Carl has been vocal about my safety and ‘being alone’. I admit it worries me, how strict he might turn out to be now that he’s home. Though, he and Beverlee don’t know a thing about the real dangers. Like most of Hallowell, they have no idea the town is home to a small werewolf population, and that three of them stand in their den at this very moment. They’re oblivious about my involvement and how many times I nearly died because of it. What makes Uncle Carl so worried about my safety in a generally safe town is my sister, Alexandra, and the robbery at Finch’s the night Uncle Carl was in the on-purpose ‘accident’.
The whole robbery story was Harry’s doing. It was his excuse for the store being left unlocked and the mess we made while making a run for it.
Harry plops down on the couch, stretching his arms across the back. “Adria wouldn’t know what to do without me,” he says grinning. “She makes me lift all the heavy stuff—Hey Bev, can I file some sort of harassment against her?”
I snatch up a couch pillow and whap him over the head with it.
“See!” Harry yells.
Beverlee shakes her head, laughing quietly.
It’s nice to see her smile, even if it only breaks her face for a very brief moment. Much like Uncle Carl, since the accident, she’s not been the same.
When Uncle Carl moves his wheelchair against the ottoman, Beverlee maneuvers around quickly to help him. I think we all stop breathing, watching intently, but trying not to make our stares so obvious as he struggles to move the weight of his body out of the wheelchair. The muscles in his forearms harden as he braces his hands on the armrests and lifts himself out of the seat. Beverlee is behind him every step of the way, her face a concerned mask of angst.