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Chapter Seven: Housekeeping - Part Two
Calla
Libra: Every story has two sides. Listen to both. It may not help you fix the problem, but it will help you understand it better.
Calla crunched on the carrot stick she’d just cut. “Okay,” she granted, waving her knife in Flax’s general direction, “so say you got pulled in through the rip at the exact right time in the exact right place under the exact right circumstances, could you—theoretically—get back to the real world?”
Flax, still kneading dough, looked up at her with an eyebrow arched. “What’s with all the questions? You got some pressing engagement to get back to back home?”
Calla shrugged with a swallow. “Seems if the worlds ripped apart once, they ought to be able to again, right?”
Flax pursed his lips, sprinkling flour onto his cutting board before slicing the dough into smaller bits. “Now you’re talking quantum physics, theoretical physics, metaphysics,” he shrugged, dismissively, “a lot of -physicses. Topics which neither we are qualified to discuss.”
“But you must have some idea,” she countered teasingly. “I mean, you’re just the guy with all the answers, aren’t you? You knew what was going on with Mei before anyone. You knew about the rip.” Her gaze narrowed on the man still hunched over the flour-dusted countertop. “Tell me you don’t know more about all this than you’re letting on.”
Flax sucked a harsh breath in from the corner of his grimacing mouth, the sound making a whistling hiss through his teeth. “Darling, I think you’re giving me more credit than I deserve.” She watched as his hands deftly wrapped the beef wellingtons and lay them in neat rows on the baking sheet. “I knew about Mei because I’ve been here long enough to see the signs. You make it long enough, you will too.”
She watched as he brushed the dough-covered meat with melted butter. “I think you’re full of crap,” she told him, turning her back on him to slide the freshly cut veggies into a pan to sauté. “I think you’re hiding something.”
“And I didn’t know about the rip;” Flax continued as if Calla hadn’t spoken at all, “I guessed. But, I do suppose, that I may have heard of other cases where the worlds have met—and sometimes, merged—in the hotel’s past from other guests.”
“So it’s happened before?” Calla pushed the now sizzling contents of her pan around. “Which would logically mean that it’ll happen again.”
“Why so interested?” Flax shoved the now full sheets into the oven. “Didn’t think you were in such a fired-up rush to get back.”
She shrugged. “I’m not.” She turned down the stove’s heat. “But Rowan is. Doesn’t seem right, him having to stay here against his will.”
When he had no answer to that, she turned around, switching off the stove completely and putting her pan on the folded towel that served as a potholder next to her. “What?” she asked when she saw him standing there with his arms crossed, an expectant look on his smug face. “What?”
“Yeah,” he drawled. “What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to help Danny Boy go home, good for you. What else?”
She straightened her spine and turned away, peppering the veggies in her pan without a word.
“You think,” Flax answered for her, “that maybe if you figure this out fast enough, you can send Mei on through a rip, get her back home before she checks out.”
When she didn’t answer, he reached out and took the pepper mill from her. “I think that you’ve got enough seasoning there.”
She fisted her hands on the countertop angrily. “Mei’s a good person. She doesn’t deserve to get stuck here like that. None of us do.”
She heard Flax sigh—half-laugh, half-grunt—before he grabbed her shoulder and turned her around. “This—like just about everything else in life—isn’t about what anyone deserves. It’s just what is.”
Calla stared up into his usually so easygoing face. He was a handsome bugger, with his toothpaste-commercial smile and beach-worthy bod. And, Lord, did he know it—and used it to his every advantage—often flirting reflexively with everyone around him. He was always joking with some flippant response always on the tip of his tongue. It made it hard to take him seriously sometimes.
“And, though it might be hard to think it now,” he added, turning away from her to check on the still simmering pot of gravy on the stove, “believe me, there are worse fates.”
She thought maybe he did it on purpose, act all suave and slick, so no one could get a good handle on everything going on beneath the veneer.
“Just tell me one thing,” she asked him as he turned toward her so she could stare deep into the seemingly endless black of his eyes.
“Shoot.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “You’d help Mei, if you could.” She paused, her head tilting in question. “Wouldn’t you?”
For a moment, they just stared at each other, letting the tension and silence settle heavy between them. He leaned back, his weight resting heavy on his heels. Again, his arms crossed over his chest before he nodded stiffly. “Yeah,” he told her, his tone measured and hard. “If I could.”
Calla narrowed her gaze at the man as she wondered exactly what that meant. It was evasive, a shifty sort of answer. There was something he wasn’t saying—some important omission.
But, just as she was about to ask about it, the kitchen doors opened and Lenten and Olive walked in.
Actually, Lenten strode in dragging the poor girl in tow behind him. “I need you to watch Olive,” he said without preamble to Flax.
Flax stepped away from Calla, reaching for the towel he kept tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Wiping his hands, he answered, “Sure.” He nodded to the girl. “Petunia, I’ve got potatoes in the sink that need washing. Give us a hand, if you please?”
Calla noticed how the little girl, looking nervous and reproved, peeked up at her uncle warily before he nodded. Only after having been given his consent did she move to grab a stool and start washing sulkily at the sink.
Once the water was rushing, Flax stepped forward with Calla close at his heels. In a low tone, he asked Lenten, “What’s wrong?”
Lenten turned on his heels. “Nothing,” he said as he started out of the kitchen, “I’ve just some things I need dealt with and would rather not have Olive underfoot.”
“Underfoot?” Flax slammed the door shut with a hard, fast hand before the other man could leave, effectively trapping Lenten. “Since when has she ever been underfoot?”
Lenten laid his head in his hand, frustrated. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He looked away. “It’s just that, just now, Mei…” He shook his head. “I don’t want her there when…” He trailed off again, his breathing so ragged and sharp it hurt Calla to look at it. “She’s just a child. She shouldn’t have to see that.”
“She’s seen it before,” Flax reminded the man.
Calla so wanted to ask questions—like when and who and how—but didn’t. It didn’t seem like the right time.
Later.
Flax shrugged. “She’ll see it again.”
“Not like this.” Lenten, looking much too haggard, sighed as he took off his glasses to press hard against his tired eyes. Calla watched his fingers push painfully in, pinching his lids shut, as if he could shove the images back. As if he might blind himself. “It’s different this time. Harder for her.”
“For her?” Flax scoffed, his tone biting and almost cruel. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding everyone and everything for damn near two weeks, because it’s hard for her?”
“What is it you want from me, Flax?” Lenten, turning on the man, squared off his shoulders as he shoved Flax back a step.
“I want you to admit that this doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Olive,” Flax spat out as he took a large step right back into the other man’s face. “You’re being selfish, Lenten, running like you are.”
Calla watched Lenten, his face flushed and hands and fisting, puff up even as Flax’s nostrils flared, his black eyes lit up with challenge.
“You asked me to deal with this,” Lenten stated, his calm tone belying the tension raging through both men, “that’s what I’m trying to do. Now, can you please just—for once—do what I ask. Watch Olive until I can…” He coughed before he trailed off a bit.
Flax shook his head, disgust twisting his face. “Until you can what? Lock Mei in her room? Shut her away until her time comes? Is that really how you’d have her spend her last moments?”
Lenten turned away, sniffing before letting out a strained breath.
“You’d really do that to her,” Flax accused, sounding genuinely taken aback by the man’s cold detachment.
Calla remembered how Mei had mentioned that the southern gentleman had once—a long time ago—told her he loved her. She could see it now. Not just the effervescent flirtations he shared with everyone, but some deeper emotion that was uniquely reserved for Mei burned in his gaze.
“There’s nothing I can do for her now.” Lenten's voice was rigid and quiet, each syllable forced and controlled. “I have to do what’s best for Olive. It’s what matters now.”
“I was wrong. You’re not selfish.” Flax leaned forward, poking a finger into the shorter man’s chest. “You’re heartless. Tell me, did Mei mean anything to you at all?”
Calla flinched at the shock of pure hurt in the usually composed man’s wide blue eyes, her stomach clenching at the sight. She didn’t quite understand it, but that momentary lapse in his guard shook her.
Maybe because, in that second with his defenses down, he reminded her so much of Olive.
Hooking her arm around one of Flax’s, Calla pulled, trying to tug him back further into the kitchen. “Flax, come on.” Lenten may not be one of Calla’s favorite people at the moment, but Flax was kicking where it already hurt. And, like the man or not, Calla couldn’t just stand there and let him. “Come on, we’ve got the wellies in the oven,” she said, trying for a bit of tact.
But the man wouldn’t move. He just stood there stiff and angry, glaring—practically growling—at the other stonily angry man. “You want to do what’s best for Olive? Then take a good look at your little girl there,” Flax continued, pointing a finger at the eight-year-old girl with her back turned. Who could undoubtedly hear the shouting—running water or not—but chose to stand sorry and resigned at the sink. “You may not give a damn about Mei, but Olive loves her like a mother. She’s witnessing something no little girl ever should and you think that shielding her from it—that covering her eyes and pretending it’s not happening—is going to solve anything. Her whole world is collapsing all around her; she needs more from you right now.”
“What she needs,” Calla said, trying to shove herself between the two men, “is for you two to calm down. She’s eight, not clueless.”
With no small amount of effort, she shoved Flax a few steps back, wedging herself between them. “I know, I’m the fresher in all of this. I don’t know the -physicses or the histories of any of this, but I know this chest-pounding display—while just swoon-worthy—isn’t helping her. If you two are looking for a bit of a fister, you can well beat each other senseless somewhere else.”
She put down her hands, still glaring at both men in turn. “For all the good it’ll do you.”
They all turned as the door to the kitchen opened again. The sight of Mei, standing barefoot and sad in the doorway, broke the dense, violent tension only to replace it with awkward silence.
“Mei,” Olive murmured reverently as she stepped off the stool and started for her only to be held back by Lenten.
Calla saw the woman soundlessly gasp at the restraining arm holding the small child away—as if she were a danger, a monster.
A ghost.
Calla frowned as heartbreak dragged the other woman’s face down. Swallowing hard, Mei said slowly, enunciating each syllable as she spoke, “I need to speak with you, Lenten.”
“Not right now—” he started.
“Please,” she begged, her voice straining with effort. “I need to speak with you.”
Lenten looked at her long and hard. As if sensing that this would be their very last chance—that Mei would have her say now or never again—he nodded even as his jaw stiffened.
Without a word, he picked Olive up in his arms, squeezing her gently before handing her to Flax, who held her tight even as she struggled in his embrace. Then he and Mei walked without touching through the glass door into the large, empty dining room.
“Hey there, sweet pea,” Flax said with overdone cheer as he bounced the little girl on his hip, “why don’t you help me ice the cake for dessert? There’s chocolate frosting in the fridge and the cake’s on the counter in the back.” Setting the child down on the checkered tile, he turned her away from the door and softly but firmly pushed her to the other end of the kitchen. “Go on now.”
Calla watched the child dutifully go before turning back to see Lenten, red-faced and stressed, pace as he listened to Mei as she tearfully talked. Calla winced when she saw the woman walk up to him, trying to touch his shoulder. But Lenten lurched away from her, his lips thinning. Calla couldn’t hear what they were saying through the thick kitchen door, but the image of Mei’s crumpled, dejected face, wet with wrenching pain, said everything.
“Come on.” Flax grabbed her wrist, startling her. “We’ve got dinner to deal with.”
Still struck by the scene a room away, she let herself be dragged back into the kitchen. “Why is he doing this?” Calla asked softly so Olive wouldn’t hear. “Treating her like this? I thought he—”
“He does,” Flax said, cutting her off before she could finish saying the words. He shrugged. “That’s why he’s doing this.”
Calla turned back in time to see Lenten shake his head stiffly before stalking off, leaving the weeping woman alone. Calla started toward Mei as the woman buried her face in her shaky hands miserably.
But Calla stopped, her fingers curling cruelly around the countertop edge as the woman’s shaky hands wiped at the wetness streaking her cheeks. Calla gasped, watching as Mei’s swiping fingers smeared her features as flesh met flesh and mixed with tears. Smudged traces of black, pink, and white blurred like paint as they disappeared into the beige blank.
“Oh God,” Calla breathed as she brought the back of her hand up to cover her gaping mouth.
She yelped when a hand closed over her shoulder, spinning her swiftly around until she was embraced and crushed against a warm, hard chest. Gripping the fabric pressed against her cheek, she breathed in Flax’s scent and let him give her what comfort he could.
Good Lord, she’d known.
In her mind, she could logic out all the whats and whens and hows of it.
But actually seeing it.
Rationally, she knew it wasn’t much. It wasn’t graphic or gory. Yet, even in it bloodlessness, the impossible erasure was shocking. Like watching someone’s humanity being peeled away.
“Do you know if it hurts?” she asked Flax softly, so softly she barely heard herself.
He held her tighter as he shook his head, the scratchy stubble on his cheek chafing her skin.
She didn’t know if he meant that he didn’t know or that it didn’t hurt.
She knew which answer she preferred and took the small comfort, not caring if it was a true or not.
They stood like that for a long, silent moment, before she stepped away from him and sniffed. She looked through the glass door out into the empty dining room.
“You okay?” he asked.
She shot him a disbelieving glare. How do you answer a question like that at a time like this?
He nodded and shrugged. “Come on.” He cocked his head toward the oven. “It’s about time to check on dinner.”
Calla followed his gaze, but settled on the small child staring at them, a look too old and too pained for an eight year old heavy on her face.
Calla wanted to cry for the child.
Flax laid a hand on her shoulder again before walking past to chatter and distract little Olive. Wiping her eyes, Calla reached for the oven mitts, letting Flax’s soothing voice ease her too.
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