Adelaide Confused Page 2

  I didn’t waste time letting him settle in the passenger seat. Rearranging later would be a pain. Instead I pulled a lever, leaned my seat forward, and slid it up the track. This created a tiny gap that lanky Stephen could crawl through. My car was old, a 1980’s Chevy Chevette, and if it wasn’t properly handled, it wouldn’t run.

  We reached Francesca’s apartment in a matter of minutes. I pulled up to the curb and honked twice. I could feel Stephen’s infatuated anticipation growing stronger as we waited. Really it wasn’t his fault.

  Francesca and I had met when I first moved to the island. Hoping to capitalize on my rare ability, I applied at the Crowne, the island’s finest (not to mention, most expensive) hotel. For a time I was the hospitality specialist, meaning I groveled to the wealthier guests, seeing that their every need was met. Being empathetic gave me an edge. I did well at the Crowne, but lacked the patience and humility required for such a job. So I quit before I was fired.

  Francesca had been manning the Crowne’s front desk since high school. She was a local; St. Simon’s born and bred. But hospitality wasn’t her only job. Francesca was capitalizing on her own special gift—her body. With a mass of dark hair, sharp arched eyebrows, and natural blood-red lips, she had the sultry and seductive thing going on.

  Working at the Crowne had given Francesca ample opportunity to rub elbows with the blue bloods. Her favorite type was the young, wealthy, and dumb. She’d had a string of boyfriends (and I use that term lightly) who habitually bought her things. Flowers, yeah. Clothes, sure. But Francesca could give any escort service a run for its money.

  Robert, or Bobby, bought her a new pair of boobs. Edward paid for a new name. She hadn’t always been Francesca Black. (Katie Wainer just didn’t suit the image she had in mind for her future.) And Stewart had been extravagant, buying her a French bedroom set. I suppose he’d been most interested in the new bed... you get the point.

  We didn’t have much in common. She got her legs waxed and nails done. I didn’t, and I didn’t wish I did either. But for all that, she wasn’t superficial. On the contrary, I’d say she was painfully practical. But what it really came down to was that she put up with me, even when I had unexplainable episodes.

  She’d talked me into seeing The Time Traveler’s Wife when it had come to our local theater. I’d specifically asked if it was a drama, knowing from experience how bad things could get when a crowd’s strong emotions were rushing through me. She’d said no, claiming it was probably a romantic comedy. I’d tried to stay calm, but by the end there was no hope for it. I had been hysterical. And if you’ve seen the movie, then you know that a slight sadness did not encompass what I felt.

  She’d found me in the bathroom sobbing but didn’t bat an eyelash, just took me home. That happened just weeks after we’d met. I’d been sure she would avoid me after that. She didn’t, instead she acted as if it had never happened. I’d had numerous similar episodes, Francesca witnessing many, but she hadn’t abandoned me yet.

  A spike of excitement, a dose of anxiety, and a whole lot of lust—Francesca must’ve been coming. With a grating screech the passenger door opened and she slipped inside. “Thanks, Adelaide. I know you’re not one to play chauffeur, but it’s an emergency. Brock’s leaving in a week and my carpets need cleaning.”

  “I’ll do that for you,” Stephen offered.

  Francesca turned in her seat. “Oh, hey Stephen, that’s sweet, but I prefer to take advantage of men I don’t particularly like.”

  In a backwards sort of way, she’d paid him a tremendous compliment. I could feel him beaming all sorts of things, mostly pride and adoration.

  “So, how do you ask for that? I’ve had a fun time, will you buy me something?”

  “See, that’s your problem, Adelaide,” she accused. “You lack subtlety.”

  “How do you subtly ask a man to have your carpets shampooed?” I questioned wryly.

  “I invite him over for a glass of wine, which I’ll make sure he accidentally spills. And while he’s in the throes of guilt, I’ll casually mention I’ve been meaning to have them redone.”

  “Wait,” I protested. “I thought you wanted the carpets cleaned, not redone.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. Wine stains you see, so I may as well just change them out, plus, the current color is somewhat dull.”

  “You’re being fickle.”

  “Brock won’t care.”

  As we neared the Sleeping Oaks Country Club, I said, “So I’m guessing Brock will drive you home.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be al—” Francesca gasped, cutting herself off. Her hand descended on my wrist as I put the car in park. No, not a hand, the thing cutting into my flesh was more of a claw.

  I jerked my wrist, trying to shake free. “What are you doing?”

  “What?” She looked at me as if in a daze, then down at her hand. “Oh.” She let go, turning back to stare out the window. “It’s Reed Wallace,” she half whispered.

  Every bit of townie gossip I heard had come from Francesca, so I prepared myself for some seedy details. “Who is Reed Wallace?”

  She looked at me, then at Stephen. “Neither of you have heard of him?” she asked, sounding scandalized. We looked blankly back at her. “The both of you need to get out more,” she instructed. “He’s only the richest man to ever step foot on St. Simons. Hell, he owns half the island! He’s a business magnate, CEO of his own real estate company. He’s also unbearably good-looking and a popular socialite. You need to meet him.” She abruptly got out of the car and came around, trying to usher me out as well.

  “No,” I scowled. “I don’t want to meet some nancy-boy business man.”

  “Stephen needs to meet him too. Trust me, both of you, you’ll regret it your entire lives if you don’t.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” I argued.

  But Stephen, aglow from inclusion, agreed. “If Francesca thinks we should...” He let his voice trail off, but I saw the pleading look in his eyes.

  “That’s just your hormones talking,” I complained. But capitulating, I got out of the car to meet some strange man that Francesca was half crazed over.

  The first glimpse I got of Reed Wallace was his backside as he hunched over. Next I noticed his shoulder blades jutting sharply as he flexed to press a duffle into the trunk of his car. The only illumination came from tall parking lamps; they dropped a gentle glow on the entire area. How Francesca had recognized him, I didn’t know.

  She waltzed right up to his car, but for all her bravado, I could feel an anxiety she didn’t often carry around men. “Mr. Wallace? Oh hello, I thought that was you. We met here last summer, but I doubt you’ll remember me. Francesca Black,” she prompted.

  He turned and quite literally took my breath away. He wasn’t generically handsome like a catalogue model. He was striking, unforgettable. He had light skin that seemed smooth as marble, and a contrasting shock of dark hair. Pale, icy eyes framed in black lashes sat stark among his various sharp features.

  He wore nothing more than a T-shirt and jeans, his tall, toned body fitting them well. I didn’t believe he was everything she described. Real estate tycoon? Doubtful. He didn’t look much over thirty.

  “You don’t strike me as the type of woman men forget easily,” he said. It was the type of line that made me want to roll my eyes. But then he smiled, and I wanted him to love me too.

  Francesca tittered. “I’ll make sure you remember me the next time we meet.” She was wafting her enthrallment at me, at least I suspected it was hers. Suspicious, I turned to Stephen. He seemed to be in a trance, staring mutely at Reed Wallace. With all of our emotions mixing I was having trouble distinguishing my own.

  “Do the three of you come to the club often?” He glanced past Francesca, his eyes shifting from Stephen to me. When his attention focused on me, for that moment the world went quiet. I noticed his scent, his movements
, his voice, each pulling me in, making me want to please him.

  His attention shifted back to Francesca when she spoke. “This is Adelaide Graves and our friend Stephen, they’re dropping me off. I’m having dinner at the club tonight.” Her needy desperation was becoming obvious, it made me uncomfortable. The whole situation made me uncomfortable. But then he looked at me again and I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want the conversation to end.

  Reed Wallace reached out to shake Stephen’s hand, then mine. I was happy when he touched my hand, when he smiled at me. But the moment split and shattered when I felt a creeping boredom.

  His lack of interest cut at me. But like so many times before, I shook it off, pulling my hand from his grasp abruptly before looking away. The last few minutes had felt like being dunked in a pool of warm and bubbly champagne. But feeling his boredom had changed things. My warm fuzzies had vanished, leaving behind a chill.

  Reed was confused by my reaction, but didn’t let it show. “I suggest you try the crème brulee,” he said to Francesca. “It seems to get better here each time I taste it.”

  “A girl only orders dessert if she wants to prolong the date, so I can’t make any promises yet.”

  He laughed, she laughed, and Stephen watched spellbound. The whole thing seemed strange, my reaction, Stephen’s. Francesca had redefined the concept of playing hard to get, but here she was behaving like a needy puppy.

  “I’m leaving,” I interjected. Catching Francesca’s eye I added, “If you want those carpets I suggest you don’t keep Brock waiting.” I grabbed Stephen by the sleeve and hauled him away with me.

  I’d already installed him in the passenger seat and was about to get in the car myself when I heard the beat of approaching feet. I felt his curious interest before I even saw him. He was feeling incomplete, like he needed something, no, more like he wanted something.

  I turned, door in hand, a foot resting on the floorboards. Francesca had walked toward the club entrance, but was now stopped, rooted in place watching. I didn’t need to be an empath to know she was jealous.

  Reed Wallace stopped a pace or two away and gave me a winning smile. “You left so abruptly, I just wanted to be sure I hadn’t said something to offend you.”

  I didn’t know what he was fishing for. I thought silence might irritate him most, but I felt like ripping him a new one, so I went in the direction that made me feel best. “That’s a bit pretentious, thinking you have the power to offend me when we only met moments ago.” Pretentious but true, he had put me off. The whole introduction had been strange and unsettling, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  He raised both hands, a helpless gesture meant to appease me. But my response had only increased the curious interest that drove him—to what, I wasn’t sure. “You’re right, forgive this pompous ass,” he joked.

  I gave him an empty smile while sinking down into the bucket seat and shutting the door on him.

  Stephen told me I’d been unnecessarily rude, and even more rude than usual. I told Stephen he had a man-crush, and that Wolverine would be jealous. He gave up speaking to me after that. I could tell he was thinking of Francesca since I was feeling extremely lustful.

  My own emotions were felt and experienced the same way as everyone else’s. So I had to be logical, often evaluating myself through questions. Did I have something to feel sad about? Was there a reason I should be excited? A reason to be aroused? If the answer was no, like it was then, then I assumed I was picking up feelings that were not my own.

  Yes, feeling the longing and attraction of another person was extremely uncomfortable. And stewing in the car with a horny teenage boy was not my favorite pastime. The only thing that made it bearable was that he didn’t know—and would never know—that I was invading his privacy that way.

  I parked the car and waited while Stephen collected his backpack. The porch light was on and I caught a glimpse of his mother pacing behind the screen door.

  “Thanks for letting me tag along.”

  “It’s no pro—” A blurry white haze formed in my peripheral vision, costing me my train of thought. I turned and searched the dark corner of his home, wondering if I’d imagined it.

  He looked to where I was squinting. “What? What is it?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing I guess.”

  Chapter 3

  I woke up around nine the next day, sleeping more than the needed eight hours. Peaceful sleep hadn’t always come easy for me. I’d continued sharing a room with my sisters after the accident, a mistake, though at the time I didn’t know it.

  Emotions weren’t reserved for the waking hours. Dreaming was said to be the process by which our minds organized themselves, absorbing or flushing away countless thoughts, images, and emotions.

  REM was the period of sleep when we did our dreaming, and I was often stuck there. My emotions and those I had caught off my sleeping sisters were supplied with stories, the brain’s explanation. I woke to bizarre dreams, feeling afraid, angry, or elated. I had felt it all. But always I woke, unable to reach a deep and restful state.

  This was about the time my mother was becoming desperate to fix me. She tried therapy, counseling, more therapy, pills, pills, hypnosis, meditation, and more pills. For a while I was hooked on the drugs they gave me for my insomnia.

  Thanks to Ben I slept peacefully now, drug free. When Mary died he moved into a yellow trailer not far from the motel. Like all things that reminded him of what he was missing, their old house was abandoned, closed off and left unoccupied. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to sell it, to move on.

  He offered to let me rent it after he realized I was having apartment troubles. Troubles like: there weren’t many apartments on the island, they were expensive, and I couldn’t stand being surrounded by people.

  That was my favorite thing about the house, the location. It was a small and well developed island, so isolating oneself was impossible. But I was about as removed as you could get, living on a twisted back road with outdated homes, often abandoned or just downright trashy. Oak trees and bushes that smelled sweet, like honeysuckle, encroached on the road, bugs sang, a dog barked... it was nice.

  The house was a tiny square of white wood siding set away from the street. A tin roof and red brick chimney added to its charm. I occupied the only bedroom, a loft that filled the sloping second story. Downstairs was simple as well. The front half of the house was the living space, the back half a kitchen overlooking the yard.

  I spent the few free hours I had before work puttering around, doing a few chores. I made a grocery list. I took a stack of dirty laundry to the kitchen where I had an upright washer and dryer stowed beneath the stairs. But it wasn’t until I was wiping down the kitchen counters that I noticed something was off.

  I was whistling, whistling while I worked. That was not my typical behavior so I surveyed myself and noticed a faint pip, some sort of happy excitement. It wasn’t like the excitement I usually felt, which was a naturally strong emotion. It was so light and clean I’d almost missed it.

  I walked to the front of the house. The feeling didn’t grow, but as I jogged up the stairs it fizzled out. I was myself again. Confused, I went back downstairs, wandering around the house while trying to gauge this strangely familiar, yet odd, feeling.

  I didn’t know how or why I experienced what other people felt, but I was fairly certain there wasn’t a convenient scientific explanation waiting for me. What I did know was that it was a lot like having a conversation. Most of the time people walked around feeling indifferent, a sort of commonplace. That was like silence—my sanity. Sometimes they would feel twinges, small emotions which were like a whisper that I had to be standing very close to catch. The opposite, the strong emotions people usually felt when they laughed or cried were like a shout. I could pick those up from far away.

  I only had one neighbor that lived close enough to give off emotions I might pick up
, and they’d have to be pretty strong at that. But I suspected he was emotionally retarded (lucky for me) because I’d never felt a thing. Not even once.

  So I was half convinced the excitement was my own. But logically I didn’t have a reason to be merry; this was when I’d typically assume it wasn’t mine. But then whose was it? I’d moved into this house shortly after coming to the island at eighteen, and I’d lived here the six years since. Never once in all that time did I feel something not my own. The house was a haven, or it had been until that moment.

  I looked out the front windows hoping to see a child skipping down the street. Nope, nothing, no one, quiet. I wandered to the kitchen, pushing aside the lacy curtains to look out. Regretfully there was no trespasser, no snooping salesman.

  I squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of my neighbor’s property. Our houses sat back to back, the yards meeting with a sagging chain-link fence that the shrubbery had nearly swallowed.

  Emotionally everyone was different, though I had noticed trends. In general, women were more emotional than men. But like I said, everyone was different, some more emotional than others. My neighbor was the least feeling man I’d ever met—as in, no feelings.

  Admittedly, I didn’t know him well. It was possible that I would start feeling his emotions if we spent time together, though the possibility that I might not was more intriguing.

  I opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the overgrown and unkempt yard.

  His name was Lucas Finch. The only other thing I knew about him was that he was a mechanic and owned a body shop in Brunswick. When I’d first moved in he’d offered to cut my grass. I’d declined, but had since regretted the decision as I lacked a green thumb... and a lawn mower. But it had been a bad time, I’d just left home and my recovery had a rough start. To say I was antisocial would be putting it mildly.