Amaranth - By Rachael Wade Page 0,23
toward the doorway to look for him in the living room. My throbbing finger stopped me. I went to the sink and ran it under cool water, flinching at the sharp sting. I reached for the faucet to turn the water off when a cool hand grazed my back. I jumped, still shaken.
There he stood, a washcloth and first aid kit tucked under his arm. “Sorry I ducked out on you. As soon as I saw, I ran to the bathroom to grab the first aid stuff.” He opened the kit as he spoke, pulled out an alcohol swab and some antibacterial ointment.
“Oh. Well, that was ... quick,” I replied, perplexed. “How did you know the first aid kit was in the bathroom?”
He shrugged as he tore open the alcohol wipe. “Lucky guess. How deep is it?”
I looked. “Not very. It doesn’t need stitches.” I glanced at him, noticing he hadn’t looked at the cut yet. That he was actually avoiding it with his eyes. I looked back, saw it had started to bleed again. “Huh. You love all of those old horror films. I never thought the sight of blood would bother you.”
He grinned, tightened his grip on my palm and began to clean it. I winced. “That’s different,” he finally said. “The movies, I mean. Those leave so much to the imagination, you don’t really see very much. Besides,” he continued, reaching for the ointment, “seeing blood on TV is much easier than seeing it firsthand. In person, I can smell it. That makes a difference, believe me.”
I watched him prepare to place a bandage on my now sticky, mangled finger. “Yeah, that’s true,” I said. “I hate the smell of blood too. It’s disgusting. At least this is a small cut, though. Not too bad.”
“Thankfully,” he replied, smoothing the bandage around my finger. “I really wasn’t planning on squeezing in a trip to the emergency room tonight.” Smiling, he kissed my forehead. “You sure you’re all right? You seem really tense. You need to talk?” He eyed the knife.
“Actually, there is something ... but--” The phone rang. I tossed the knife into the sink and rushed to my purse on the kitchen table. “But let’s talk about it later, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and watched me rummage through my bag to find my keys. “Just one more thing and we can go.” He nodded to the counter where I’d left the roses and quickly tucked them into the vase, then filled it with water. As he did, he said, “Glad it’s me and not you doing this. If you fell in and drowned, I’m not sure I could revive you from that.” Laughing, he tossed the bloody washcloth next to the sink.
“Be nice. I can take care of myself.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” he said while we headed for the front door, his hand leading me, my heart racing.
* * *
“I warned you it was too big for me,” he said while he parked the car next to the house. Quite an understatement, was all I could think. Gavin’s driveway turned out to be a long dirt road that led us past enormous oak trees and rich tresses of Spanish moss that glistened in the sunset. I’d gasped when the elegant plantation home came into view. White with black shutters and gardens galore: stunning, as if I’d been time-warped into another era.
I sensed his eyes on me and turned my head to see him watching me, expectant. “Too big?” I said. “It’s massive! What do you do with all the space?”
“Come on, I want to show you.” He slid out of the car and held open my door, and led me up the polished porch stairs to the front door. An antique plaque hung next to the door, the words “The Duval Home” edged in age-darkened silver.
“I thought your last name was Devereaux,” I said.
“It is. Duval was my mother’s maiden name. My grandfather put that here, before he passed. To honor my mother.” He spoke of his mother with a reverent sadness. It made me ache for him.
We walked into the main hall near a wide staircase and rounded the corner to what seemed some type of living room with Victorian furniture and long taupe drapes, a grand piano stationed in the far corner. A dark green color covered the walls, and wood floors with deep brown hues stretched across the room, making the light that poured in through the windows deftly dramatic.
“This is the