He didn't even appear offended as he stood up and went back to the table and picked up that irresistible little hammer again. "Why don't you tell me who I am?" I urged. "Give me my name, if you know so much."
"In a moment, please," he said politely. "I've got many tiny suits of armor to make for a very special collector who prizes this sort of thing." He held up a bit of the silver shaped like an S. "These tiny bits will have holes at either end eventually, and when they are fitted one to the other with little bolts, the chain-link mail will move freely, allowing the wearer to be very active, unlike the suits of armor that came later."
"But aren't you a Tatterton? Don't you own that company? Why should you waste your efforts on something others can do?"
"You want to know so much! But satisfy this question, because so many others have asked the same thing. I like working with my hands, and I have nothing better to do."
Why was I being so hateful to him? He was like some fantasy figure I'd created long ago, here in the flesh, waiting for me to discover him, and now that I had, I was making him dislike me.
Unlike Logan, who seemed strong and confident as the Rock of Gibraltar, Troy seemed very vulnerable, like I was. He hadn't said one word to chastise my ugly behavior, and yet I sensed he was hurt. He seemed a violin strung too tightly, ready to twang at the least careless touch.
Then, when I didn't even try to interrupt what he was doing, he put away his hammer and turned to smile at me winningly. "I'm hungry. Would you accept my apology for being so rude and stay to have a snack with me, Heaven Leigh Casteel?"
"You know my name!"
"Of course I know your name. I have my eyes and ears, too."
"Did . . . did Jillian tell you about me?"
"No."
"Then who?"
He glanced at his watch and seemed surprised by the time. "Amazing. I thought only a few minutes had passed since--I started work this morning." His tone was apologetic. "Time slips by so quickly, I'm always surprised at how the minutes race by, how soon the day is over." His eyes glazed reflectively. "Of course you're right. I am frittering away my life playing with what amounts to silver Tinkertoys." His hands plowed through his hair and mussed the waves that had arranged themselves neatly. "Do you ever think that life is too short? That before you've half finished what you have, in mind, you're old and feeble and the grim reaper is knocking at your door?"
He couldn't be older than twenty-two or three. "No! I never feel like that."
"I envy you. I have always felt I was in a mad race with time, and with Tony." He smiled at me then, quite taking my breath away. "All right, stay. Don't go. Waste my time."
Now I didn't know what to do. I longed to stay, yet I felt embarrassed and frightened.
"Oh, come now," he prodded, "you've got what you wanted, haven't you? And I'm harmless. I like to fool around in the kitchen, though I can't take the time to do more than throw together sandwiches. I don't have a set schedule to eat. I eat when I'm hungry. Unfortunately, I burn up calories as fast as I put them in, so I'm always hungry. So, Heaven, in short order we will have our first meal together."
A meal was due to be served me this very moment in Farthinggale Manor, and I forgot all about that in the excitement of following this man into his kitchen, which resembled the kind of galley they put on yachts, everything close and efficient. He set about opening doors to whisk bread and butter on the table, lettuce, tomatoes, ham, and cheese. Once he had what he wanted from the cupboards, he butted doors closed with his forehead, since both of his hands were full, but not before I had a chance to glimpse the contents. Every shelf was packed neatly, and very full. He had enough food here to last five Casteel children a year-- eaten stingily. As he worked putting the sandwiches together, not wanting my help and insisting I be his guest, sit, and do nothing but talk to entertain him, he appeared both tentatively glad to have me and, at the same time, ill-at-ease and self-conscious. I found it difficult to talk, so he suggested I set the table. I did so quickly, then took the opportunity to have a better look at the cottage. It was not so small, seen from the inside, as it had appeared to be from the outside. It
had wings jutting out, leading to other rooms. A man's home, sparsely furnished.
Setting the table put me at ease, as keeping busy had always done, so I could turn and watch him without embarrassment. How odd to be here with him like this, in an isolated cottage with darkness and fog shutting us in, as if we were alone in the world. The fire behind me crackled and spat, and sparks sizzled up the chimney. A flush heated my face. I felt too hot and too vulnerable now that making sandwiches had given him something to do. The busy person always seemed more in control than the one watching. I gazed too long at his face, watching the play of the fluorescent lights on his hair, stared too long at his body, astounded at how responsive my body was just to the sight of him. I filled with guilt and shame. How could I feel this way about any man after what Cal had done to me?
I closed off my emotions, clamped down hard on them. I didn't need any man in my life, not now!
"Dinner is served, milady," he called shyly, grinning at me. He pulled a chair for me and I sat before he whipped off a white napkin to expose six sandwiches on the silver platter. Six! Parsley, and radishes made to look like roses, garnished the tray; nestled in parsley beds were deviled eggs, and circling around were wedges of various cheeses, an assortment of different crackers, and a silver bowl of shiny, red apples. Polished apples. All this when he had planned to eat alone?
Why, back in the Willies we could have lived a week on all this food, Granny, Grandpa, Tom, Fanny, Keith, Our Jane. . . all of us!
Then he brought out two bottles of wine, one red, one white. Wine! What Cal had ordered for me in fancy restaurants when I lived with him and Kitty in Candlewick. And wine had fuzzed my brain and made me accept what otherwise might have been avoided.
No! I couldn't afford to make another mistake! I jumped to my feet and snatched up my coat! "I'm sorry, but I can't stay," I said. "You didn't want me to know you were here anyway . . . so I'll pretend that you aren't!"
In a flash I was out the door and racing toward the hedge in a night so black it was frightening. The damp ground fog swirled about my legs, and far behind me I heard him calling my name.
"Heaven, Heaven!"
What a strange name my mother had chosen to give me, I thought for the first time in my life. Not a person, a place; then tears were in my eyes and I was crying. Crying for no reason at all.
Four For Better or Worse
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