“William . . . what’s going on?” My voice would have hardly registered on sonar.
With as much speed and urgency as before, he lowered his head to my ear and whispered, “I will explain everything. I promise you . . . trust me.”
I resisted rolling my eyes. I’d heard that before.
He spun me around and guided me, with a light hand resting over my back, to a pair of modern sofas where John and Stella were seating themselves. As their eyes traced back to us, William readjusted his hand from my back to slide it in his pocket.
“Have a seat,” he said to me with a coolness in his voice I did not recognize.
I did as requested, sliding my body into the corner of the sofa. He took a seat beside me, positioning into the opposite corner, keeping as much space between us as the couch would allow. John and Stella’s gazes were penetrating. Their eyes shifted between the two of us with curiosity, as if attempting to piece together a puzzle.
Finally having a moment of quiet, I was able to ponder the string of events that had just taken place. I’d awakened in a foreign place surrounded by strangers; with otherworldly forces coursing through my body; and reunited with the man who I never dreamed I’d see again. Maybe that’s what this was . . . a dream.
“I’m John Townsend, and this is Stella.” The imposing man dressed in a tailored suit, began. “I believe you already know Mr. Winter’s here . . .” The edge in his voice led me to believe he wasn’t thrilled with this. “You are at my estate and vineyard, Townsend Manor, outside of Newburg, Oregon. You have been here, unconscious, for five days now.” He stopped, and although I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the quiet man sitting beside me, I could see John watching me with interest—as if trying to figure out a mystery as furtive as why the sky was blue.
William glanced over at me, meeting my gaze for a moment, and then turned his attention back to John. Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed he was signaling my gaze to do the same.
“Why am I here?” I asked, turning my stare towards John.
“Maybe you should ask him,” John suggested, with annoyance written on his face, and pointing at William. “He’s the hero. He’s the one that nearly killed himself saving you.”
Something tugged at my memory when John said this . . . water . . . blackness. My face fell featureless, and every last drop of blood drained from it when I recalled, with vividness, my last memory.
“I remember . . .” I whispered, the scene flashing before me like a movie in the theatre. “But I went under—I . . . drowned.” The word sounded with an air of finality, chiming against the room’s cathedral ceiling.
“Actually, you didn’t, but if it’s any consolation, you would have if Mr. Winters wouldn’t have been so conveniently around.” John’s eyes narrowed at William, as a father would at his son after he’d done something reckless.
“Is this true, did you save me?” I whispered, my eyes amplifying.
William sighed, leaning forward and fixing his stare on his clasped hands below him. His silent answer had me reaching at my stomach from the nausea circling in it when I thought of the ocean claiming his life that night because of my carelessness.
“I think that’s our cue to leave, Stella.” John glanced at the goddess sitting beside him. She sat so close her leg that swung from its crossed position, brushed his trousers. He didn’t appear to be affected by the gilded leg caressing him, though.
“Since you’re the reason she’s here, it is your responsibility to make the initial explanations before class begins tomorrow.” John addressed William as he stood up.
“I look forward to seeing you again soon, Miss Dawson.” John’s eyes grazed over me, as a butcher would a slab of meat before deciding how best to cleave it, and then chuckled, patting William’s shoulder as he passed by him. “You know, I think I’m beginning to understand why you pulled that asinine stunt . . . she’s exquisite.” He bestowed upon me one more long stare, one about as appealing as grease mixed with lard, and exited the room.
Stella sauntered past us without any acknowledgement, although I didn’t miss the once-over she gave William as she passed him. Unsure where to direct my gaze, I stared through the open French doors across from us which lead out onto a balcony. The scents of honeysuckle and rain enter my senses.
Although I’d identified it with assured confidence, I was sure I’d never smelt honeysuckle before this. How could I know the nectar-sweet aroma that entered my nose was a delicate flower I couldn’t even identify by sight? Strange . . . like the majority of happenings occurring around me. It seemed I’d been transformed into a living, breathing Wikipedia.
I heard the door slam shut, and my eyes flew back to the man whose own eyes had storm clouds rolling through them. His fists were clenched, causing a web of veins to burst through the skin.
His expression defrosted a moment later, and he looked at me in a familiar way—a staggering way. “Why don’t you get changed,” he requested, as his eyes trailed over the silk pajamas I was adorned in. “And I’ll get you out of here and explain everything.”
The skin between my eyes creased together—a physical response to the confusion and bewilderment running like a herd of wild horses within me.
He reached his hand towards my face, and right before it came to rest on my cheek, indecision colored his face, and he lowered it back down to the sofa. I felt nauseous from the disappointment. “Trust me,” he said, nearly pleading.
Not able to deny him anything, I nodded my head. “I do. I’ll change and then we can go.”
He smiled a figment of the smile I remembered, and then stood up. “I’ll be right outside the door.”
After he’d left the room—although the intoxicating scent he left behind led me to believe otherwise—I let my eyes search around the bedroom that was as elaborate and vast as the presidential suite at some hotel in downtown New York. There was enough crystal and gold-leaf within it to have kept a family of four comfortable for their lifetimes.
I found the clothes I’d worn that fateful night, freshly washed and folded, on the dresser across from the bed. I slipped into the cotton skirt and linen top faster than I’d ever changed in my life, and faster still, I glided to the door and flung it open.
True to his word, he was waiting for me right outside my door. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. A brilliant smile exploded, like the one I remembered, and the opulence of the Manor around me paled like a dim star beside the full moon.
I fell in line beside him as he led me down the long hall of Townsend Manor. I would occasionally stop to inquire as to some piece of art work or ancient looking artifact, and true to his good-natured spirit, he would pause to answer, but his answers were hurried. He seemed anxious, if not desperate, to get me out of the Manor that resembled more a fantastical castle than an estate in rural Oregon.
We walked down a sweeping set of stairs—their glossy mahogany covered down the center by plush, ivory carpet—down into the foyer that could have held my attention for days.
William cleared his throat, distracting me from admiring the baroque like architecture around us. He motioned me through the open double-doors, and followed behind me.
His Bronco laid in wait in the circular driveway. My heart overreacted when he placed his hand over my back as he led me to the passenger side door, and assisted me in. He entered the cab with his signature grace, and we were in motion; departing to whatever location he had in mind for explaining the impossible mysteries.
He exhaled once we passed through the black, sweeping metal gates that had a cursive T embossed in the center of each one.
Feeling as unsure of what to say as he looked, I started simply. “So, this is what you meant by living off campus?” I asked, admiring the Manor from the side view mirror. Like some kind of palatial estate from the Golden Age of England, Townsend Manor was made of solid brick, although the generous, mullioned windows led me to believe the house was made as much of glass as brick. It was symmetrically designed, and a mixture of classic and gothic architecture. It rested in the center of a vast square of lawn adorned with several pathways and gardens, which were fenced in by the endless rows of grape trees.
“Yes, this is what I meant by living off campus,” he answered, keeping his eyes adhered to the twilight stricken road before us.
“Well, it’s a little nicer than the OSU dorms I guess,” I said, trying to lighten his mood. His tight smile of response was proof his mood could not be so easily lifted.
A few minutes went by in silence, and my patience had its fill. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see—we’re just about there.” As if on cue, he turned onto a narrow dirt-road, and the Bronco bounced over the intermittent potholes, until he pulled over onto a patch of grass sprouting with weeds.
“We’re here,” he announced, gliding out of the door.
I looked around at the unimpressive landscape which was almost fully bathed in darkness. “We are?”
I opened the side door and stepped out. The tall grass tickled my bare legs.
“Follow me,” he whispered, when he came up beside me.
He led me down a trail that someone would have a hard time sticking to if they were unfamiliar with it, and when I was sure the endless trees and stretch of trail would never run out, we emerged through the thick layer of growth.
“Wow,” I muttered, as I took in the moonlit lake before us. It was so calm it looked like a mirror, reflecting every single star, planet, and orb in the night sky. What looked like an enormous house rested on the edge of the water in front of us.
He grabbed my hand, and I felt my face flush from the shock coursing through my body from our combined touch. As if suddenly aware of something, he looked at my hand in his, and then into my emotion-filled face. He released my hand.
“I’m sorry about that . . .” he whispered, sounding ashamed—probably because he didn’t want to give me the wrong impression. The hand that had felt so right in his fell like a dead weight at my side.
“Come on, I want to show you something,” he said, before gliding off in the direction of the lake.
The wooden dock groaned in protest beneath our footsteps as we traversed over it, heading towards the long, white houseboat resting in wait at the end of it. He untied a couple of mooring lines and hopped onto the back of the boat’s deck. He held his hand out to assist me.
I looked at him with hesitation, this day only growing more unusual.
“It’s John’s. Don’t worry . . . I’m not planning on stealing someone’s boat for a midnight joyride,” he teased, extending his hand towards me again.
I accepted it, and leapt onto the boat beside him. “This is . . . nice,” I underemphasized, admiring the boat that wasn’t quite as opulent as the Manor where its owner resided, but somehow more elegant. Its lines were sharp and aesthetically pleasing, and the cabin area was covered in windows tinted black. The wood deck shined like a sheet of ice.
“It is, isn’t it? I thought tonight’s revelations would be a bit more enjoyable from the deck of this.” He glided open a slider door, and stepped into the cabin of the boat. I looked up at the stars, searching for the brightest one I would use to make my request tonight.