Page 2 of Her Reclusive Beast

With a nod that seems to signal that I’m accepting his terms, Max turns and leaves. He’s back in the open doorway five minutes later with a stack of linens, plain white sheets for the bed and some sage green towels. I take them from him with a whispered, “Thank you.”

“Did you eat dinner?” he demands abruptly.

I shake my head no.

“I’ll bring you something.” And he leaves again.

This time when he returns, I’m busy making up the bed. I found some blankets in the closet so the old spindle bedstead looks cozy and warm when I turn to find him standing in thedoorway silently. He extends a tray. “I made you some soup and a sandwich. Just leave the tray until morning.”

I take it from him with another soft, “Thank you.” The soup smells amazing and my stomach rumbles embarrassingly in excitement. And then I watch Max leave once again, this time shutting the door firmly behind him. At least I’m not locked in? I wait a minute and then rush to the door to check. No, it opens easily. And I’m on the ground floor so I could always crawl out a window in an emergency. I check that too just to make sure the windows haven’t been painted shut, but they open gracefully enough. Reassured that I can escape in the face of disaster, I sit down on the bed and try to chew past the lump in my throat.

I knew my fantasies were silly and impractical, but I didn’t expect this cool a welcome either. Max and I have always had a friendly relationship, I thought. Sure, we argue over punctuation and passive phrases, but it’s the kind of argument you have with a close friend over and over — almost a ritual of sorts.

If things don’t go well tomorrow, I’ll call Diana. She used to be Max’s editor before she got promoted, although I’m not sure they got on particularly well.

I wash my face and sweep my shoulder-length brown hair into a ponytail to sleep. The bed is comfortable and the sheets smell of sunshine, indicating they’ve been hung on a line to dry. That’s something I haven’t smelled since I left home for the big city years ago.

The house is dead quiet. After the constant hum of New York, it feels almost anticipatory — like maybe the house is holding its breath waiting for something to happen.

Maybe that’s why I sleep fitfully and am wide awake long before six. I get up and shower and dress in comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt since Max clearly isn’t into formality. The skirt and blouse I was wearing yesterday look mostly okay after my climb over the wall, but I don’t think I’ll be needingthem again anytime soon. I fold the pieces carefully and place them at the bottom of my case. I only have two changes of clothing and some extra underwear, so I’m going to have to hope that Max is feeling generous enough to let me use his washer. Based on his behavior so far, I’m not so sure.

I twiddle my thumbs and check my phone, waiting for six a.m. to arrive so I can leave my room. There’s no sign of increased reception inside the house, so I’m going to also have to ask him for his wifi password. Nibbling my lower lip, I pace the narrow end of the room to alleviate the nervous twist in my stomach. Something about all this just doesn’t feel right. Kind of like everyone else is in on some kind of secret and didn’t bother to tell me.

2

Icrack open my bedroom door promptly at six and glance down the dark corridor. It’s still eerily silent. I have no idea how to find the kitchen, but I’m at the far end of a hallway, so I figure walking to the other end is the first step. There I scent the enticing aroma of coffee and simply follow my nose until I enter a large farmhouse kitchen with gorgeous old oak cabinets and blue delft tiles. Max stands at the modern stainless stove but glances my way with an assessing gaze. “You want eggs?”

Desperately, but I don’t want to be treated like a guest. I’m here to help. Max turns away before I can express any of this and cracks six eggs into a skillet. “Can I help?” I offer hesitantly. He shakes his head without turning.

“I’ve got errands to run in town today. You want to come or stay here?” He turns finally with two loaded plates that he sets down on the table placed against the wall under tall windows.

“Shouldn’t you be writing?” I stand to take a mug from a hook on the wall and help myself to the coffee that I need more than food right now.

Max raises an eyebrow before biting into a crispy sausage link. “Not in the mood,” he finally announces.

Oh dear. “I’ll stay here then. If you don’t mind?”

He shrugs lightly.

“Can I read what you’ve written so far?” I query hesitantly.

Max thinks about it, then abruptly nods. “Sure — office is by the front door. You can dig around to your heart’s content.”

Excitement re-enters my bloodstream. The chance to see inside Max Behr’s office? And his files and his books?

The big man opposite me rolls his eyes. “What else gets you excited, little Jenna?”

I blink at him. I wasn’t aware my feelings were showing on my face so much. “Why do you keep calling me little?”

“Because you are? And you’re damn young. Maybe I need the reminder.”

I want to demand more clarification of his ambiguous statement, but something stops me. This isn’t the time. I’m a fully qualified editor, so if he’s questioning my skills now… Maybe after I’ve assessed his progress and talked with Diana, I’ll be on more firm footing to demand some answers.

Max stands abruptly and places his plate in the sink. “I should be back around two or three. Help yourself to whatever you want for lunch.”

“Is… is there any part of the house I shouldn’t go?” I don’t want to invade his privacy he’s so clearly intent on protecting, but I’m honestly not sure how to avoid it without a map.

He thinks about it with a thoughtful expression. “No, no secrets here. You can wander wherever the mood takes you.” Then he grabs his keys and leaves by the back door in the mudroom just off the kitchen.

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