A Keeper's Truth (6 page)

Nerves and
alcohol wreak havoc with my insides, my pluck gone the way of the dodo bird. I
take a sip of Champagne and gaze out into the room, people watching. Suddenly,
the room seems even more crowded, the notion making me dizzy.

“You have
a lovely home,” I say, avoiding his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear
the fire is making the silver flecks in his eyes spark.

“Thank
you. There is still a lot to do, much to update, but I’m settling in.”

“What made
you buy in Carlisle?”

“It’s 1625
feet above sea level.”

I stare,
dumbfounded, and Bryce grins.

“I have
family nearby,” he says. “I fell in love with the town ages ago, when I was
here to assist an archeologist studying the area. The Niagara Escarpment has
more than one-hundred sites of geological significance, including some of the
best exposures of prehistoric rock and fossils to be found anywhere in the
world.”

“Are you
an archeologist? Do you travel a lot?”

“I’m a
historian. I teach, but not here. My work takes me around the globe, although
I’m trying to cut back, to spend more time with family.”

A
historian. Hmm, my inner nerd is giddy.

“Aren’t
historians, like, book worms? You’re not what I envision. You got a pocket
organizer hidden somewhere?”

Bryce
tut-tuts me, smiling. “How cliché. I specialize in anthropology, the study of
human origins, societies, and cultures. Most of my time is spent teaching
ancient history: Mayan, Inca, Roman, Egyptian, civilizations that thrived for
hundreds or thousands of years.” He frowns, seemingly bored.

Not me, I
studied art history in university, even spent an entire semester addicted to
Egyptian pottery.

“Have you
published any articles or books I might’ve read?”

He shrugs.
“I mostly speak at conferences, schools.”

He looks
too young to have such experience.

“Do you
get to go on archaeological digs?” Bryce doesn’t strike me as someone who likes
to get dirty . . . in the dirt.

The right
side of his mouth twitches. “Every once in a while one of the archaeologists or
geologists I work with calls me to a site.” He reaches behind me, his scent,
soap mixed with vanilla and apples, engulfs me as he pulls something from a
shelf. “
Gotta
love the dig,” he says. Cradled in his
hand is a tiny porcelain dish encased in
plexiglass
.
The dish is covered in symbols of various shapes and sizes, all encircling a
naked woman standing waist high in water, holding a tree branch above her head.
My breath blooms over the plastic box as I investigate the etching too
intricate for tools of this century, let alone one past.

I take a
stab at dating the piece. “The Minoan civilization, sixteen-hundred BC?”

“Add a
thousand years. Early eighteenth century. A rare find.” He points to the center
of the plate. “The woman is Xi Wang Mu, known as the goddess of immortality.
Here, she’s following the other gods of life across the sea, away from her
former Palace of Immortality, which has been swallowed by angry waves. Her
chief duty is to tend to this peach tree, the tree that bestows eternal life to
anyone who eats the fruit.” He returns the priceless plate to its haven on the
shelf and turns to me, now brimming with excitement. He’s young, my age I’d
guess, and articulate, speaking with a maturity beyond his years. His knowledge
is mesmerizing.

“Truth be
told, my specialty is prehistory, cultures that existed prior to written
language. I’m especially close to
Lemurian
culture.”

This
sounds familiar, the concept floating close to acknowledgement, but still out
of reach.

“
Lemurians
 . . . I’ve read about them before.
They’re more myth than fact, right?”

“Depends
who you ask,” he says, not bothered by my skepticism. “Unlike the
Atlanteans
, who were obliterated before sunrise,
Lemurians
struggled to survive the catastrophic remains of
comet bombardment for thousands of years, until they were eventually overtaken
by tsunamis.”

“
Atlantean
, as in Atlantis?”

“Atlantis
was a fantastical place, brimming with scores of people. The sun shone for all
but a few hours of the day, bringing life to boundless acres of garden. The
land, laced with volcanic soil and fed by an immense irrigation system of fresh
mountain water, offered feasts of fruit, flowers, vegetables, and herbs. The
markets were busy day and night with trade beyond wonder, and the evenings
filled with song, laughter, and dance. Oh, the dancing,” he says, sighing. “The
imperial palace was a magnificent mega of early Etruscan architecture, and clad
with silver and copper, it radiated warmth that could be felt for miles. One
could spend countless days exploring the city’s streets, the gardens, the
temples, the shrines, and the royal residences that encircled the heart of the
city. From atop a bridge you could look upon a canal bustling with import or
take in the glory of one of four grandiose harbors. And that,” he says with an
awe-inspiring smile, “was just the place. The people, ah, the people were
something to behold.”

His
account, so vivid, takes my breath away. I tingle from the inside out and feel
like I’ve magically returned from a stroll down the stone-lined streets of the
majestic city only seconds ago.

“You are a
fabulous storyteller,” I say, truly impressed.

“I get
carried away sometimes.” He smiles. “Enough about me. Tell me about your work.
I know you’re an artist.”

Art—my
favorite subject. Before I get a word out, someone calls Bryce from across the
room. A waiter waves frantically from the doorway.

“Hold that
thought,” Bryce says, frowning. And away he goes, my white knight in black.

Nothing
like I’d imagined.

T
he party
gets louder as more guests squeeze in. I sip the last of my Champagne, keeping
an eye out for Karen or someone familiar. The fire has my right side toasty.

A man
stumbles toward me, polishing off a bottle of Heineken. “Yummy,” he says, his
beady eyes grazing my body.

“Excuse
me?” He’d better be referring to the beer.

“Power
wrapped in foil,” he slurs, leaning in close, his weight supported by the
mantel.

Mental
note—avoid the drunks.

“What are
you supposed to be?” I say, looking for a way to get past him. His skin is
pasty white, almost translucent, and gives me the creeps. Gauzy material clings
to his limbs, a couple of rounds in the dryer too many. His head twitches on
his shoulders and his lips move, but I don’t think he’s speaking English. I’m
busy trying to stay out of his reach. With every step he takes toward me, I
take two steps back.

“Dude,
you’re bugging me out.”

I’m
planning an escape via body slamming when a hand takes mine, pulling me away
from the wall and more than an arm’s length from the freak. Bryce has
materialized out of nowhere. The freak looks startled, then embarrassed. He
turns and disappears into the horde of costumes.

“I
appreciate—”

“You need
to eat,” says Bryce, leading me from the room.

I’m about
to protest but he’s right: I’m hungry. I didn’t have much dinner and the wine
is dousing my defenses, which apparently I need to keep sharp. We zigzag
through the crowd, and I glance at our interlocked hands, tempted to pull free.
Bryce holds tight, as if he has the right, and I wonder what kind of playboy
this guy really is. I’ve seen them all, but he’s an enigma.

In the
dining room, Bryce hands me a plate and I make my way around the table,
collecting goodies. I dole out compliments—the spread is amazing. It’s
just the two of us in the dining room, and the chatter filtering through is
quiet. While I munch, we talk. Bryce adores art and seems truly interested in
my work. Of course, when I talk about painting, I have the tendency to ramble.
At one point I scrutinize his eyes, curious to note if I’m boring him, but he
stares right back, a corny grin on his face until I look away.

“I’m a
starving artist lately,” I joke. I’m lucky Meyer was well insured and the house
is paid off. “It’s been a while since I completed a painting and even longer
since I’ve sold one.”

“You have
gorgeous curves for someone starving,” he says.

And the
tiger returns, a man on the prowl.

I lower my
plate to the table, no longer hungry. “Yes,” I say, suddenly the hairless
body-pierced Goth teen I once was, “but you’re chasing the wrong tail.”

An
uncomfortable silence fills the room. I turn to leave, and Bryce appears before
me like a ghost.

“Please
don’t,” he says, mock punching the wall. “I can be a gentleman.”

I open my
mouth to comment and he places a finger on my lips. My mother, when I was
twelve, broke a guy’s finger for silencing her. It was the first time I
considered her illness, her lack of control, dangerous.

“Promise,”
he says, his expression extinguishing my fire.

I remove
his finger, gently, and collect my plate.

A few
minutes pass before either of us speak, but soon enough the charismatic Bryce
makes an appearance. For twenty minutes he revels in stories about his family
and how they’ve thrown Halloween parties for generations, “As a way of keeping
friends in check,” he says. “It’s my favorite holiday, and like Lemuria,
predates all known religion. The Romans first recorded Lemuria as the name of
their oldest ceremony, conducted every year on the ninth, eleventh, and
thirteenth of May. Like modern-day Halloween celebrations, Lemuria was staged
to win the favor of restless souls or spirits.”

I take
another look at his costume, my imagination running wild.

We talk
about Carlisle, the people in it, where I live, and how long I’ve lived here.
We laugh.

Not once
does Bryce mention Meyer. He offers no condolences. There is no awkward
shuffling of his feet, no pouty lips, no sad eyes. I chew on this while duty
calls him to help with a red wine disaster. Bryce makes me feel free of my
widow status, as if time has rewound and I am a single, independent,
well-educated woman. It’s been ages since I’ve felt this way.

For some
reason this frame of thought leads me to contemplate Thomas. He is handsome and
kind and we’ve become friends. So why don’t I feel this way around him? Is it
because our relationship revolves around the loss of my husband and our
daughters being close? Maybe. It’s obvious that Thomas cares for Abby, and I’m
grateful for all he’s done for me, but . . . he makes me think
of Meyer. Sometimes I appreciate that about him. Sometimes I hate him for it.

With Bryce
gone
, the dining room feels drained of life, so I
decide to wander, to see what Karen is up to. Only I can’t remember which door
leads to the living room, so I end up in the kitchen. It’s a beautiful kitchen.
One wall runs the entire length of the room, spotted with gorgeous creamy-white
cabinetry built flush with the soaring ceiling. The cabinets are faced with
leaded glass doors and the walls are covered in elaborately detailed
wainscoting. The center of the kitchen features a long island topped with a
thick slab of granite that glitters in the light of a wrought iron chandelier.

I amble
over to the floor-to-ceiling window in the middle of the far right wall,
between what looks like two walk-in pantries. The window is draped with a sheer
curtain that puddles elegantly on the floor. I’m about to pull back the
curtain, with the intention of peeking into the yard, when it swings open, revealing
a set of French doors. Two men stumble toward me from the night and before I
have the chance to move they’re standing at my toes.

“Fucking A
it is,” one says.

“Just the
thing I needed,” says the other.

I glance
from one to the other, aware of two things: they are brothers and both are
drunk. They are physically boisterous, elbowing each other in the ribs. Deep,
mischievous laughs rise from their chests. They are not dressed in costumes but
in suits finely cut to showcase buff bodies. One brother closes the doors
behind him and the stench hits me—cannabis. The other one stops short and
stares at me.

“Well,
now, what do we have here?” he says.

They both
sway, raking me with their eyes, alcohol and pot seeping from every pore. An
array of suggestive expressions cross their faces, most racy and sexual, all
promising mayhem.

I hold my
breath and my body tenses, knowing something is off.

They look
at each other then back to me. “I think we have ourselves an Irish
fae
out of her realm,” one says. He laughs. “What do you
think, Brother?”

I wonder
how all these people know my costume when Grams struggled until I put the wings
on. Even then she came to the same conclusion as Karen. I’d taken the wings off
in the dining room and they hang from my hand. Both brothers follow my line of
vision.

“The
Tuatha
Dé
don’t have wings, never
have. Fuckers could’ve used them at one point though.” He elbows his brother in
the side. “Suppose you know the stories, so you can flutter over here and sit
with me a while.” He flutters his fingers, suggesting I follow to the antique
bench in the corner. “I bet I’ve enough experience to keep a sex
fae
pleased.”

The other
brother practically falls over laughing, and I stand frozen in silence. I’m not
scared but I’m shocked. I can’t believe these men are being so blunt, so
obnoxious. And there is something strange about their movements.

Bryce
walks in, head down, carrying a cloth soaked with red wine. He looks up and
drops the rag, leaping to my side, wrapping his arm around my waist, our bodies
touching from shoulder to thigh. My body is slightly tipped into his, one foot
hovering, the other rooted to the marble floor. I can feel his muscles through
our clothes, solid and strong. It’s a possessive stance and I should be mad, or
at least embarrassed, but I’m so relieved I just gaze like a fool.

“I see you
two have met the lovely Tess,” Bryce says.

The
brother on the right is suddenly anxious. “We’ve met. Tess is it?”

Bryce
looks down at me, grinning. “You might want to stay away from these two. They
are notorious seducers. They may prove to be a bit more than you can handle
tonight.”

The more
serious of the brothers, the anxious one, waves at Bryce. “You know she can
see,” he says.

“What the
hell is that supposed to mean?” I say. I look to Bryce for an explanation, but
his attention is on the brother to the right, his expression amused.

“I do,”
Bryce replies. He flashes the brothers an ominous smirk followed by a subtle
nod.

The three
men glare at one another, ignoring me completely.

Suddenly
two sets of hands fly up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” the brothers mumble. They
saunter off, falling over each other laughing.

I push
away from Bryce.

“What was
that all about?”

“You have
a knack for attracting the life of the party,” he teases.

“And you
keep strange company.” I’m absolutely baffled.

His face
reads,
you have no idea,
but he says, “Those two fancy themselves the
Taungbyone
brothers from Myanmar mythology. They are
reasonably harmless, if not troublemakers, and their history fascinating,” he
pauses, smiling, “of legendary proportion. I hope to tell you all about them
sometime but for now just avoid them. I’ve known them for many years, and I’ve
seen what they can do when they pick a lady to admire.”

I shake my
fists out. I’m pretty sure I can protect myself, but this sounds like a better
plan.

“I was
trying to find my way back to the main room,” I say, aiming to justify how I
came to be in this situation for the second time this evening. I smile,
blushing. I know it’s a weak explanation, but a valid one isn’t coming to mind.
These types of things just happen to me.

More so
lately.

Taking my
hand
, Bryce walks through a maze of hallways until we
come to stand at the entrance to the great hall. It is loud, voices competing
with the music. It’s even more packed than it was before, and I wonder how I’m
going to find Karen in this never-ending crowd of costumes.

Bryce
raises my hand, pulling it to his shoulder, forcing my body to follow until it
collides with his, and before I even recognize what’s happening, we’re dancing.

The man
can dance.

The crowd
disperses like a ripple of water, gathering around the perimeter of the room.
Bryce holds me tight, leading gallantly, and for the first time in a long time,
I feel like I’m part of something special, like I’m one of two, adored. Our
bodies move in time with the beat of Sting.
When we dance, angels will run
and hide their wings
 . . .

My feet
follow, led in graceful circles. I hear only music and my blood pumping fast
and heavy within my skull. I look into the awed faces flying by, some clear,
some blurry, and at one point catch a glimpse of Karen, jaw agape. I
float—the princess swept away by her Beast.

Until I
catch the word widow as I flow past the throng.

One word
is all it takes. My legs abandon me and Bryce floats away without a partner. My
stare wanders the room, listless, until steady hands direct my hips toward
Karen.

“For now,”
Bryce whispers into my ear in parting.

I watch
him fade into the chaos that has resumed its place on the dance floor then turn
to Karen with disappointment, relief, and a myriad of emotions clouding my
judgment.

Karen, on
the other hand, is annoyingly giddy.

An hour of
mingling
passes without incident, allowing me to nurse another glass of wine, enjoying
the sensation of it dissolving the slight edge I have to my demeanor. Bryce has
taken his self-appointed role as my protector seriously. As he socializes
around the room, he keeps an eye on me. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I
am conflicted. I’m loitering beside the bar with Karen, half listening to her
drone on about something someone said about something someone did.

“. . . what
do you think?” Karen says, hands on her hips, awaiting an answer to the
question I only caught the tail end of.

I don’t
bother lying. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

Her eyes
follow mine to Bryce. “Someone is awfully enamored with you.”

“Who? What
do you mean, ‘enamored’?”

My view of
Karen about to speak is blurred as a burly lady who has clearly had too much to
drink falls into me spilling her entire cocktail down my arm.