Cellar Door (3 page)

Liam

The lush melody of her voice wraps itself around me as she reads aloud the classic poem by Robert Frost.

She has no idea that I often listen as she reads to the patients. Her voice soothes the beast within me. All the stress of life and death simply falls away as if by some miracle, some magic only she possesses.

My ears perk up when I hear the man speak of her dream to write a book. It all makes sense now, the hours she spends at her desk across the street from the coffee shop. My angel has a story to tell, I’m sure of it.

As far as I know, she has no friends, not even acquaintances. No pets, nothing but her books and words—words that tumble around inside her head, begging to be brought to life. Yes…it will be easy to do what I have planned. After all, I’m all she’s got. I long to corrupt her, to soil her, to mark her, and seal her as my possession. Perhaps by doing so, I will be her salvation.

She inhabits my dreams, my every waking moment, yet she doesn’t even know I exist. How trite. To her, I’m just the caustic, rude asshole who knocked her books from her hands. How can it be that, even though I attract the attention of most of the nurses at this hospital, the one woman I want doesn’t understand how the thought of her haunts me?

If someone were to ask me why I’m obsessed with the beautiful stranger, I don’t know that I could give a reason. Certainly not a logical one. All I know is the cavernous void that lurks deep in my soul was as black as pitch until the moment I looked into her cobalt blue eyes.

The tiny flicker of hope she sparked in me continues to burn steadily. But I must feed the flame if it is to flourish. I must keep her near me so it doesn’t blow out.

I’ve devoted my career to saving lives. Perhaps it’s time for someone to save mine.

Madonna

I smile as I glance over and see that Mr. Williams has drifted into a peaceful sleep. Shakespeare’s sonnets did the trick today. I’ve done what I came to do, given a dying man another all too brief reprieve from the nightmarish toll cancer is taking. He’s sleeping more lately. I wonder how many more visits we’ll have.

I kiss his cheek and leave the book of poetry on his bedside table before I slip from the room. As I round the corner, wiping a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand, I nearly run into the man with the dark hair and striking blue eyes, the same one who knocked me and all my books down a couple of weeks ago.

“I see you still haven’t figured out how to manage those wretched books you insist on carrying around everywhere you go,” he gloats.

He is infuriating as ever but this time I’m prepared. “I see you still have that enormous chip on your shoulder you insist on carrying around everywhere you go,” I snipe in reply. I usually have better manners than this. The man brings out the devil in me, and I wish I knew why.

Rich, baritone laughter echoes off the walls, surrounding us. He beams at me, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes conveying his pleasure at getting a rise out of me. His eyes narrow as he takes in tear-streaked cheeks, evidence of my sadness over the impending loss of my friend. But he has no way of knowing that.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks in a surprisingly fierce tone of voice. From his show of concern, you’d think we were old friends. I’m not sure we could be any farther from friends, actually.

“I’m fine. Allergies,” I mutter, ignoring the skeptical tilt of his head as he waits for me to fill the silence with an explanation.
Not happening.
His hospital ID badge identifies him as an orthopedic surgeon. Wow. I bet he just plows over anyone who gets in his way and nobody ever stands up to him. Someone needs to, that’s for sure. So I keep going and let sarcasm rule the day.

“So…Work any miracles today? Save any lives? Re-attach any limbs? Maybe give some poor soul the ability to walk?”

“Yes, yes, no, and yes, in fact, I did,” he replies with an amused smirk as his gaze slides up and down my figure, making leisurely stops along the way. “I’ll tell you all about it over a cup of coffee.”

Oh,
hell
no.

“Yeah, about that,” I scoff. “I won’t be having coffee with the likes of you, now or ever.”

“Well, you can usually find me here, so if you ever change your mind just let me know,” he says good-naturedly as he leans back on his heels and slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I mutter caustically as I sweep past him.

“Oh, now, don’t go away mad,” he teases as I storm off down the hall. “Someday you might really need that cup of coffee and I’d hate for you to miss out.”

“Miss out on
what
?” I toss the retort over my shoulder, huffing and puffing as I trudge down the hall with my stack of books.

“Why,
me
, of course!” he says oh-so-innocently. His arrogant chuckle seems to follow me as I step into the elevator and awkwardly reach down to push the Lobby button without dumping my books on the floor once more. I hate to admit that he might have a point about my books…but, well, he might have a point.
Dammit.

“One miracle worker, right here, if you ever need one,” he calls out to me, pointing at himself and nodding. He continues to flash that lopsided smile as the elevator doors close.

I spend the brief journey to the lobby fuming and plotting his imaginary but incredibly gratifying demise. He has got to be the most arrogant, infuriating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. As far as I’m concerned, he’s nothing more than a typical playboy surgeon with a God complex.
Coffee, right…
I have no intention of being a notch on his or anyone else’s bedpost.

I have one thing on my mind: getting back to my desk to write. That pompous doctor and his offer of coffee don’t fit into the equation. The brisk late afternoon air is invigorating as I exit the hospital, and reminds me that I need to hurry. It will be dusk soon and I don’t want to be walking the streets when the sun goes down.

I barely make it to the bus stop in time to catch the last bus before dark. I dig around in my jean pocket and struggle to hold onto my armload of books. With my bus token safely deposited into the slot, I cross over to the closest seat I can find.

Wretched books?!?
How in the world could someone as educated as a surgeon be so ignorant? Why, I wouldn’t have coffee with that man if I was going through caffeine withdrawal and the headache that goes along with it. I tuck an earbud in my ear and listen to an audio book via my phone, desperate to drown out the doctor’s sardonic voice.
Wretched books, my ass.

The ride takes a while but is pleasant enough with the company of the audio book. It’s not long before I’m standing and pulling the cord to alert the driver to stop. He eyes me in the mirror and smiles as I shuffle to the front of the bus.

“Have a nice evening, Miss Mathews, and get some work done on that book of yours. I want to be able to say I knew you when.”

“I will, George. And thanks, be safe.”

“I will, I got a family countin’ on me.”

Even though I smile in his direction I can’t stop the pang I feel in my chest at not having a family of my own. I have no idea who my mother and father are because I was raised in the orphanage behind my old elementary school. Saint Peter’s Children’s Home, located in Crescent Hill, was home to me from my birth until the day I turned eighteen. Even though I was treated very well there, nothing can take the place of a
real
family.

The orphanage was all I knew while growing up, so I choose to look back on the experience with gratitude and focus on the positive side of things. The employees were always kind, and they kept me off the streets and provided me with an excellent education—which, in turn, inspired my love of books.

I step off the bus and head toward the safety of my downtown high rise. The doorman greets me as I shuffle past him with my armload of
wretched books
. It’s one of the reasons I picked this place to live, the security.

“Miss Mathews, I have something for you.” His voice stops me before I make it to the elevator. I turn to find him holding a large bag imprinted with the name of a high-end store.

“Hmm, who’s it from? Here, just put it on top,” I say as I jerk my chin toward the stack of books I’m still holding. I’ll wait until I get up to my apartment to see what’s in the bag.

“Don’t know, miss. I just got here a minute ago myself and it had just been delivered.”

“Okay, thanks.” I smile and hurry to catch the elevator before it begins its ascent. I manage to unlock my door without dropping my key, and am just grateful to be home, sore arms and all.

My curiosity piqued, I open the bag to reveal a luxurious and, no doubt, pricey messenger bag. It’s stunning. I pull out the card. I know perfectly well who the gift is from, but I am curious about what the card says.

The color matches your eyes, so I couldn’t resist. I hope this tote will help you carry your stack of books – and serve as an apology. My offer stands for that cup of coffee and any other way I can ever be of service to you.

Yours,

Liam Sheldon Chambers, M.D.

Okay, I’m totally confused. How can someone be so rude and pompous and yet so thoughtful and humble? Regardless, I’m keeping this messenger bag. The damn thing probably cost more than I make in a month and I don’t have any problem using it. It’s true; I am tired of fighting with my
wretched books.

Where most women might have a problem keeping such a costly gift from a complete stranger, I don’t. It almost makes up for how he treated me and my
wretched books
. The snarky way he referred to my precious books really fucking bugs me. Yeah…it’s gorgeous, it’s roomy, it’s the most beautiful shade of blue I’ve ever seen, and I’m keeping it.