Reckoning (19 page)

I hesitate, thinking I should probably go home. That I shouldn’t be hanging out here, spending time with him. But instead of apologizing and excusing myself, I say, “OK. I can do that.”

“Great. Be right back.”

He disappears into one of the bedrooms and I can’t help but wonder which one he sleeps in and what it looks like.
Stop it, Kat.
Why do I keep having these thoughts?

He returns carrying several large, framed prints that he carefully leans against the wall. There are a couple of impressionist style watercolors; a print of what I think is that sunflower thing by Van Gogh, and two or three landscapes. I look at the last with interest. They appear to be originals.

“Did you draw any of these?” I ask, remembering our conversation in the antiques store. I gaze at one that appears to be a mix of watercolor pencils and pastels.

Lovell looks over my shoulder. “Yeah. That one you’re holding as a matter of fact.”

“Really?” It is beautiful, depicting a small village situated in a green, wooded valley with dark mountains, partially covered by clouds, rising behind. “Wow. You’re really talented. You could sell this.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s that good.” He cocks his head to the side, looking at it critically.

“I do! I could never hope to draw anything like this.” And I couldn’t. In comparison, my drawings and pencil sketches look like pathetic doodles.

“Thanks.” He seems oddly pleased by the compliment and I wonder if anyone has ever praised his work before.

I feel him move closer to me, the heat from his body sinking into my bare arm. “Where is it, anyway?” I ask. “The location in the picture.” I swallow, trying to ignore his nearness.

He looks at it thoughtfully, as if remembering. “It’s in Scotland. The Cairngorm Mountains, in the Highlands.”

I turn my head and stare at him in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Why?”

I can’t be sure, but his eyes seem to darken to a deeper shade of blue. Or is it only because I am standing so close to him?

I inhale slowly and lean slightly away, forcing my eyes back to the picture. “That’s just so ironic. I was trying to convince my mom that we should take a trip there a few days ago.”

“Really?”

I nod. “My family – on my mom’s side anyway – are from there.”

“From the Highlands?”

“Yeah. A place called Mallaig.”

Lovell picks up one of the pictures, running his hand across the edge of the wood frame. “What did your mom say? Did she agree?”

“I don’t know. She’s still thinking about it.”

Lovell nods slowly, looking at me. “You should. It’s beautiful.”

“When were you there?”

“Just a couple years ago.”

I set the landscape aside, picking up the Van Gogh. “Did you go with your parents?”

“No. I went with my uncle.”

He is still standing close to me, his body thrumming with energy. I can feel it, reaching out to me, my muscles twitching in response. I step away, holding the print up, pretending to imagine what it would look like on the wall. “For some reason, I just can’t imagine you standing in the middle of a field, with a canvas and easel, paintbrush in hand,” I say, trying to ease the tension building in me.

He chuckles softly. “I can’t either. Not quite my style. I sketched that from memory.”

“Good memory,” I reply, looking back at the picture and noticing all the small details, like the sharply pointed top of a church steeple, the soft blue of a small pond and the small gray and white smudges of sheep in the field.

“It can be pretty magnificent scenery. Not something you forget easily.” Picking up one of the larger watercolors, he heads to the living room. “How long has your family been in the United States?”

I lean the Von Gogh against the wall and follow him. “A few generations now. My great-great grandmother was the last one to live there.”

He holds the picture above the fireplace, moving it into position. “Does that look centered?”

I step back for a better view. “A little up and to the right. Perfect.”

Pulling a pencil from the pocket of his sweatpants, he makes a small mark on the freshly painted cream-colored wall before setting the picture down. He disappears into the kitchen, reemerging with a hammer and box of nails. “Anybody in your family ever gone back?” he asks, as he gently taps a nail into the wall.

“My mom did when she was little. That’s when she had the chance to meet my great-great grandmother. I’m named after her.”

He turns and looks at me. “Really? That’s cool.”

I stick my hands in my back pockets, rubbing at a scratch in the floor with the sole of my flip-flop. “Yeah, she was pretty impressed by her.”

Lovell grabs another picture from the table, eyeing the walls. “Too bad you never got to meet her.”

Despite the warmth in the room, a chill creeps over me. I rub my arms, nodding in agreement. “Yeah. I wish I could’ve. My mom says I’m a lot like her.”

Lovell looks at me, something I can’t define flickering mysteriously in his eyes. He picks up another picture, and after my approval on placement, attaches it to the wall.

“So where’s your family from?” I ask, suddenly curious.

He wipes a hand across his forehead, scratching at his ear. “All over. I’m pretty much a mutt. Got some French, some English. I think there might even be some Greek and Spanish in there somewhere.”

“Your family really got around.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I think you could say that.”

We finish hanging the remainder of the pictures and Lovell puts away the tools. “That looks so much better. I was getting sick of staring at blank walls. Thanks, Kat.”

“No problem.” I glance at the dining table, still covered in grime. “That table is really bothering me. I just can’t stand to see it covered in gunk. And it smells like old car oil.” I add, wrinkling my nose in distaste. “I’m going to grab some polish and cleaning rags. Be right back.”

I gather the necessary items from my house and hurry back, but he’s already beaten me to the task, vigorously wiping the top of the table with a tattered dishtowel that quickly turns black with grime. Using one of the clean towels I brought, I join in, removing layers of dirt. We work silently, cleaning and polishing, exchanging dirty towels for clean ones, until the wood dully reflects the sunlight streaming through the window. I apply some lemon oil and beeswax to two towels and together we buff the table until it gleams. It smells good now, too.

My fingers tired and aching, but I can’t resist a smile of satisfaction. “Doesn’t it look great?”

Lovell nods in agreement. “You were right. A little elbow grease and good as new. Or nearly.”

I gently rub one of the scratches. “It’s the scratches and imperfections that give it character. That tell its’ story.”

Lovell is silent and I look up to fine him watching me, that strange, indefinable look in his eyes again.

Picking up the rags, he tosses them into a corner of the kitchen. “I don’t know about you, but I think we’ve worked hard enough for one morning.” He opens the fridge and looks inside. “You want a ginger ale?”

“Sure.” The warmth of the room combined with the polishing has made me thirsty.

He plucks two cans from the shelf, passing one to me, before reaching into the cupboard for a bag of chips and a large bowl. Emptying the chips into the bowl he says, “Want to sit outside?”

I agree. The kitchen suddenly feels small and cramped.

He holds the door open and I slip past him. A faded green and white striped awning partially covers the patio, an old strand of Christmas lights hanging haphazardly along the edges. Two plastic chairs, twins of the one he’d been sitting in last night, sit beneath, along with a matching square table. Setting the bowl on the table he invites me to take a seat. Taking a small sip of my soda, I glance at him from the corner of my eye.

“Did you find these chairs in the garage, too?” I ask, running my hand along the arms scratched surface.

“Actually, they were stacked
beside
the garage.” He pops a chip into his mouth, chewing slowly.

“I wonder why somebody left so much stuff,” I say, gazing toward the garage. A small window, high up on one brick-sided wall, is covered in dirt and cobwebs. A wasp hovers near the window, looking for a way in.

Lovell shrugs. “Maybe they didn’t have use for it anymore.”

“Kind of weird just to leave it, though. You’d think they’d give it away, or donate it or something.”

“They probably couldn’t be bothered. You wouldn’t believe some of the things people leave behind. I used to find some crazy stuff when I was a kid.”

I turn to him. “Like what?”

“Musical instruments, clothes, jewelry, you name it. It was like they’d put it away, and then forget all about it.”

“Did they ever come back for any of it?”

“No. I guess they either never noticed it was gone or figured it had been lost. Or maybe they just didn’t care.”

I pull my feet up to the seat of the chair, resting my elbows on my knees. I can’t imagine someone having so much, or caring so little, that they wouldn’t notice if something was missing. I wonder how often Lovell had been forced to move, his few treasures fitting into one small box. Somehow it doesn’t seem fair. The image of him as a small boy staring forlornly out the window flashes through my mind again. I push it away, shaking the hair from my eyes. “Well, let me know if you find the Holy Grail or something in there.”

He smiles. “I think it’s just a bunch of junk that I’ll probably have to haul to the curb. I looked in a couple boxes and it was just paint cans and cracked garden pots. Stuff like that.”

I grab a handful of chips, breaking them into small pieces. “I still can’t believe someone left that table. It’s probably worth something.”

Lovell stretches his legs. “Not everyone values old things. A lot of people would probably look at it and think it’s nothing but junk.”

I shake my head, unable to comprehend how anyone could think that way.

Picking up his soda, he takes a deep drink. “Did you ever try the psychometry? You know, holding something old in your hands and seeing what kind of vibe you get.”

I finish the chips, brushing the salt and crumbs from my hands. “No, I didn’t.” I’d forgotten all about it.

He angles his head in my direction. “I wonder what that table would tell you?”

“Probably thanks for the bath.”

He laughs. “Probably. But seriously, you should try it.”

I look at him doubtfully. “A little hard to hold a table in your hands.”

“You could just place your hands on it.”

I narrow one eye at him, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.”

“OK. But I have a better idea.” He stands up and goes inside, coming back out with one of the dinner plates from the antiques store.

“What?” I say, eyeing him suspiciously. “You don’t actually expect me to try it?
Now
?”

“Why not?” He sits down, offering me the plate.

“I just…it won’t work.”

“You can’t say that until you try.” He sets the plate on the table.

“OK, then. Why don’t you try?”

He looks at me for a moment, then picks up his can of ginger ale and closes his eyes. Wrapping his hands around the aluminum, he says, “This was mass produced at a plant somewhere in…Texas, then placed in a hot and muggy truck. Then it sat on a store shelf until two days ago when it was purchased and placed in a cold ‘fridge.” He opens his eyes, a teasing smile playing around his lips.

I give him a dirty look. “Ha. Ha. Very funny. That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. But I couldn’t resist.”

“Try harder next time.”

He takes a handful of chips and crushes them, tossing them towards the fence where a fluffy-tailed, brown squirrel sits eyeing us warily. “Just give it a try. What can it hurt?”

I sigh. If I continue protesting, I’ll sound petulant. Not that I really care what he thinks about me, but I can at least be a good sport. “Fine.” I pick up the plate impatiently. “But nothing’s going to happen. I don’t think it’s possible. I mean a plate is just a plate. It’s not like it can store and transfer memories or something.”

“No, but energy can be part of an object as much as a person. Sometimes really powerful emotions or energies can even be transmitted to an object and remain with it for hundreds of years.”

“How do you know that?”

He lifts one shoulder in a nonchalant manner. “I’m interested. And I read a lot. You’d be amazed at the wealth of information at the library.” I’m not sure, but I think I can detect a slight note of irritation in his voice. “Just humor me. I’ve never known anyone else who can do it.”

I take a deep breath. “What am I supposed to do anyway?”

“Just rest your palms on the plate, sit quietly and see what feelings or images come to you.”

I sit up straighter in the chair, placing the plate on my lap, and lay my hands flat across the smooth surface. The porcelain feels cool, the china untouched by the day’s warmth. I close my eyes, and try to remain still.

“Empty your mind, Kat,” Lovell says softly beside me. “You’re thinking too much.”

I turn and look at him irritably.

His mouth turns up at the corner. “I can see the movement of your eyes behind your eyelids.” He leans forward. “Don’t think about anything. Just let it come.”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Lowering my head, I let my hair fall forward against the sides of my face. It isn’t much, but it provides me with a small sense of privacy. At least he can’t watch my eyelids this way.

Feeling ridiculously foolish, I force all thought from my mind and concentrate on the plate beneath my hands. For several moments I feel nothing. Then the plate begins to grow warmer, like a long buried rock finally exposed to the sunlight, soaking up the warmth of the bright rays.
Probably just absorbing the warmth from my hands
, I think. My head twitches, but I force myself to remain still, my mind blank. A series of emotions begins to sweep through me – happiness, anger, loneliness. I hear the faint laughter of a child. Suddenly anxious, I press my hands harder against the plate, my fingers reaching out to curl around the edges. I want to stand up, stop this ridiculous experiment, but something pulls at me, keeping me connected to whatever energy is reaching out to me, drawing me further and further into the feelings and sensations coursing through my body. Images begin to form in my head, faint and shadowy, swirling and wavering as they struggle to take shape. An indistinct wraith-like form slowly coalesces into the figure of a woman: dark brown hair, graying at the temples, bright blue eyes in a narrow face. She is standing in front of a sink, gently wiping the surface of a plate. She lifts the plate higher, examining it in the light from the window above the sink. She turns it slightly and I can just make out the decorative design along the edge. An exact match of the plate beneath my hands. Without warning, there is a fiery burst behind her and the plate shatters. Thick ruby trails of blood drip slowly down her arms.