The Parting Gift(12)

Blaine wasn’t expecting to be overwhelmed with emotion when he stepped through the back door of the old house. The familiar staleness of his father’s cigarette smoke still clung to the walls, and the odor raked through his memory, dredging up the old loneliness and hurt.

This was the same screen door he had slammed the last time he was here. His father wasn’t home at the time, but he had slammed it nonetheless. Perhaps as a statement to that dark chapter of his life. He had wanted it to be over, never to rear its ugly head again. But here he was, and the past was still alive in this place… haunting him here in the present.

An oppressive heaviness settled back into his heart as if it had been here all along, waiting for him to return. He closed his eyes and swallowed back the thick emotion lurking in his throat.

Then he noticed her. She was sitting at the table with her back to him. Her shoulders, draped with wavy dark hair, seemed to tremble almost imperceptibly. He realized she hadn’t heard him come in and was unaware of his presence.

Who was she, and what was she doing in his father’s house, sitting at his table as if she owned the place? His breath caught in his throat as a thought struck him – maybe his father no longer lived here – or perhaps, was he was already too late?

He peered frantically around the kitchen to find something, anything, which would answer his questions. But nothing was out of place. Everything preserved in the exact position it had been when he left. Blaine exhaled a silent sigh of relief and turned his gaze back on the unfamiliar woman sitting in his mother’s chair.

Was she yet another example of his father’s disrespect for his mother’s memory? Dirty old man. She’s far too young for him. But his father was dying. What sense did it make? He stood and observed her in silence for a moment, trying to decide how she fit into his personal nightmare.

It took him by surprise when she spoke. “I’m going to miss you.” Her voice was thick with regret and grief.

So, there was the connection to his father, and here she was mourning her inevitable loss.

Regardless, she didn’t belong in his mother’s chair. “Odd. I wasn’t aware we were acquainted,” he intoned, his voice dripping with sarcasm, aware he was startling the trespassing woman.

She turned abruptly and stood. The full sight of her stole his breath momentarily, but Blaine was a master of disguising his own emotions, so she would never know the effect she had had on him in that first fleeting instant. Her eyes scanned him intensely, and she seemed to be comparing him to something she held in her hand, a scrap of paper, yellow with age. Amidst her double and triple takes she began to stutter, “You’re… You’re…”

“Blaine Graham,” he finished for her out of sheer impatience. She stared at him with her mouth agape as if seeing a ghost. When she began to waver, he was certain she would faint and stepped forward just in time to break her fall, catching her against his chest.

Blaine swept her limp form up in his arms, and paced into the living room, delivering her to his mother’s sofa in four long strides. He laid her down gently and positioned a small pillow under her head, then sat back onto the coffee table and stared at her.

“Mara?” The old man’s voice was gravelly and broken, a mere shadow of what it had been. Blaine stood abruptly, glowering in the direction of the stairs leading to his father’s room. His heart leapt up into his throat, and sweat dampened the sandy blond hair hanging over his forehead. He wiped his clammy palms down the side of his faded blue jeans and glanced back at the woman on the sofa.

She was stirring now and her soft moan recaptured his attention. When she sat up and appeared dazed, he offered her his hand, whispering, “Are you Mara?”

Mara nodded as she took his hand and pulled herself to her unsteady feet. “He’s calling for you.”

Sudden realization seemed to register in her eyes and she shook her head as if to clear the haze. “Oh! Your father! He needs to know you’re here! You should go up! Come with me; I’ll take you.”

“Wait a minute. I’m… I’m not ready. I’d like to get settled first – I’ll just put my things in my room, then we can talk about how to proceed.” Blaine gazed straight into her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t recognize his fear.

“Oh.” Her disappointment was evident. He turned to go back into the kitchen. “Captain Graham?”

He spun on his heel to face her again. “Yes?”

“I’m… um, I’m sorry, Captain. I’ve been staying in your room.” He glared at her, allowing his indignation to reflect in his glacial stare. “It’s just that it’s close to his, and sometimes he needs me during the night.”

A slow, meaningful smirk rippled across his lips. “Of course he does.”

Then it was her turn to glare. Fire leapt into her dark eyes, and her mouth clamped shut as if she were biting back the urge to rip him to shreds with an envenomed speech.

His smirk disappeared. “Fine. Tell me then, Miss –?”

“Crawford. Mrs. Crawford.”

“Oh, pardon me. Mrs. Crawford. Are there any special re-commissions I should know about for my mother’s sewing room? The room off the kitchen?”

She shook her head sternly, her anger evidently tying her tongue.

“Good. I’ll take that. I trust I’ll be well out of your way there.” With that he stalked back into the kitchen and out the back door to where he had left his suitcase.