Their tentative friendship had just taken one massive, ugly step backward. Gretchen sighed and tossed the limp sandwich back onto the plate, her appetite gone.
***
Anger and despair raged inside of Hunter. He tore down the halls of Buchanan Manor, knocking over priceless vases and statues as he passed them. He needed something—anything—to quell this helpless rage he was feeling.
She’d asked about his face. Wanted to know why he was so hideous. She couldn’t see past the scars despite her pretty words.
And it made him furious, even as it made him feel black with despair.
Why was he nothing to her but a ravaged face? Why was she just like everyone else? Why could she not ignore them and focus on the man underneath?
He slammed a hand into a delicate Chinese ginger jar, pleased when it launched off the end table and smacked into the wall. Good. Now it was as shattered as he felt inside.
How could he possibly explain to another person the event that had destroyed his life? Waking up in the arms of strangers as a young boy? The horror and fear he’d felt as they’d held a gun to his head and transported him to the boat? The emptiness he’d felt when days had passed and no ransom was forthcoming? Could they possibly have known that his father couldn’t have cared less that he had a son? That he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the child who had killed his beloved wife in childbirth? The grim determination he’d felt when he’d realized he’d have to save himself, and launched over the side of the boat . . . only to meet a fate worse than death when he hit the propeller?
It had destroyed his life, reshaped him like a crucible.
There was no one to trust. Better to be alone and safe, secure and unharmed. He could count on no one to care for him, save for those he paid. He grasped the delicate doily the vase had been sitting upon and fought the urge to rip it into shreds.
He would always be alone. No matter how much he hoped otherwise, it was just another reminder that he was unlovable. No one would ever see past his face.
A throat cleared.
Hunter turned. Eldon was in the doorway. He coolly surveyed the destruction Hunter had left behind him—the shattered glass covering the hallway, the destroyed priceless vases. He said nothing, simply waited.
Hunter ran a hand down his face, suddenly weary. “Send the cleaning crew in this wing tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“That’ll be all.” Hunter turned, heading toward his room. He’d change and work out his aggression in his private gym. A few rounds with the punching bag, some shadowboxing, some weight lifting, and maybe he’d be tired enough that it wouldn’t matter.
“Shall I send her away, Mr. Buchanan?” Eldon’s quietly worded question made him stop in his tracks.
Did he want that? He could say the word and she’d be out of the house within the hour. No more questions. No more wide-eyed inquiries about his scars. Just him and utter silence once more.
He thought of Gretchen’s lovely face, her laughing eyes and her outrageous sense of humor. Her curves in the dress she’d worn tonight. The way her entire face lit up when she smiled, which was often.
He still wanted her. Still wanted to be around her, wanted to bask in her playful smiles and teasing comments.
“No,” he said abruptly. “She stays.”
“I see.”
“Thank you, Eldon.” He walked down the hallway and shut the door to his room.
***
Gretchen set her alarm for sunrise. She had a plan, and today she was going to put it into action.
When it went off the next morning, she jumped out of bed, slid into her favorite yoga pants, and dragged her hair into a messy ponytail. She tossed down a can of food for Igor, kissed his head, and bounded out the door in her slippers, heading to the library.
Hopefully she was early enough.
To her relief, the library was empty when she entered, and the customary flower and note inviting her to dinner were not present. That meant Eldon had not arrived yet. Perfect.
She sat down at the letters and began to work, glancing at the door repeatedly. Excitement was making her twitchy, and it was hard to settle down into the latest letter. They were so incredibly dry. Lula wrote to someone named Ben over and over again, and Ben never wrote back. It was so boring to read, like a one-sided conversation. Like she cared about household life a hundred and thirty-odd years ago? Like readers would?
When she finished transcribing the latest description of what bushes were flowering and how many times the neighbor had visited Lulabelle, she carefully folded the letter back into the yellowed envelope and replaced it in its spot in the trunk. Yawning, she pulled out the next letter and glanced at the date.