Burning for You (Blackwater) (2 page)

I watch the car in front of me in
anticipation.  The car is one of those damned SUVs everyone thinks they need in
the winter around Blackwater River because of all of the snow we get.  The
truth is, my tiny little red 1997 Acura Integra with its skinny little tires
cuts through the snow better than the thick wheels you always see on an SUV. 
SUV tires are wider and slide around, making for the scariest ride of your
life.  I would know.  My soon-to-be-ex-husband in Chicago drives an SUV, which
makes me hate them.  The SUV I just hit is even larger and more menacing and it
makes me decide to hate the person getting out of it even more. 

The driver’s side door opens and my
defenses wither completely.  Something happens when I see the driver step out
of his vehicle.  I feel something ignite in my chest and spread through my
extremities, leaving me paralyzed with a feeling that I can’t even explain. 
It’s not that the man is good looking.  Well, okay, he is so handsome that he
literally makes me gasp and my heart pounds like a fifteen year old girl,
sending flutters down in my belly in an embarrassing way.  Handsome isn’t even
a word that does him justice, but more like breathtaking, if that were a safe
word to use for a man.  I’m pretty sure it’s not.  This feeling is something
different, though, as though something awakens inside of me that’s been dormant
my entire life and I can barely move or breathe.  The driver’s hair is a rich
dark brown with warm amber hues that catch the sun, and he looks like he needs
a haircut from the way he has to push the front out of his eyes to avoid the
glare of the sunset.  Except the back of his hair is trimmed and clean cut, so
the long bangs seem intentional and almost punk-rock.  He looks “swarthy”, as
my mother would say, with an aquiline nose, a large, full mouth and deep
shadows under his eyes, just above his high cheekbones.  At first he looks to
be about seven feet tall but as he comes closer he evens out into perspective. 
Still, he’s probably close to six and a half feet.  His faded grey jeans encase
slim but well defined legs and he wears a black leather jacket over a black
v-neck shirt.  He leans down at an uncomfortable angle since my car is so low
to the ground and knocks on my window.  “Miss?” I hear him say.  “Are you all
right?”  I nod and swallow, deciding it’s safe to come out of the car.  Any
person who asks someone who rear ended them if they’re okay is probably not
filled with road rage, so I suppose he’s not planning to punch me anytime soon. 
I can’t tell whether my heart is pounding because of who I hit or the fact that
I hit someone.  I open my door and step out of my car on shaking legs.  Then I
realize that six and a half feet is probably a good guess.  I’m not by any
means short – five foot nine, actually – and he’s still a head taller than I
am, which is unusual for any man standing next to me.  I gulp and take him in.

Instead of being eye level as I am
used to, I find myself staring at a silver circle charm hanging from a chain
around the man’s neck.  The charm shows a horizontal line and three vertical
lines coming up from the horizontal line.  I haven’t seen one since I left
Blackwater, and it startles me, even though I know exactly what it means.  The
man who I hit had an ancestor who was burned for witchcraft.  My mother has one
too, except hers is a horizontal line with a triangle below it, the symbol for
drowning. There is also a symbol for a hanging, which is an upside down “L”, like
a hanging post, with a circle hanging from it.  The one that freaks me out the
most is the symbol for being buried alive.  That has a horizontal line with
what looks like an exclamation point below it, to show that witches were buried
head first underground.  People in Blackwater killed witches based on the
element they were able to control – drowning for water, hanging for air, burial
for earth and obviously burning for fire.  Did I mention that Blackwater has a
crazy history full of crazy people?  People wonder why I ran away to Chicago
the minute I could sign my own lease.

“I guess I should ask if you’re
alright,” I finally say, taking a step back and looking up at him.  His eyes
are practically black, and the word “smoldering” comes to mind.  He looks
young, possibly younger than I am, which annoys me slightly, but also relieves
me.  I’m crushing on a kid…except kids don’t give half lidded seductive gazes
like he’s giving me now, so maybe he just looks young.  My knees are shaking,
and I lean back against my car to steady myself.  I can barely breathe, but
it’s not an asthma attack, it’s something much different, and almost scary.  I
feel my blood coursing through my veins, making my face grow hot, the heat
traveling down to my chest and lower.  Embarrassingly lower.  His nose is
slightly large for his face and his mouth is large too.  My god, why the hell
is he smiling?  I bet he is going to sue the crap out of me.  I keep thinking
about how he needs a haircut, but perhaps he was on his way to get one when I
so rudely interrupted him.  I look at his SUV and see that there isn’t much
damage except for a slightly dented bumper.  My little Acura Integra, Betsey, is
crumpled like a piece of paper in the front and I want to burst into tears.  I
love my car.  It was Heidi’s when she was sixteen and two years later she got a
new car.  I turned sixteen and got Betsey and have been driving her ever
since.  I realize she’s seen better days but she’s seen me through college, or
some of it, and all the way through the end of my shitty marriage.  I can’t
imagine being without her.  I was hoping she’d make it through my divorce.  I
can’t exactly afford something as extravagant as a car right now.

“I’m fine.  Are you alright?” he
asks me.  His voice is like dark brown velvet, smooth and soft and encasing my
brain in warmth.  My head begins to pound.  He looks concerned yet he is
smiling simultaneously, curving his mouth into an expression that shouldn’t
even be legal.  It makes me feel dirty just thinking about where I want that
mouth to be right now.

“Not really,” I say, not able to
hold back the tears.  Oh god, what the hell am I doing?  “Get.  My.  Purse.”  I
am trying to breathe but it’s not working out, and I begin flailing my arms and
waving them in my face, wanting to wipe the tears away but wanting to keep my
face uncovered in order to get as much air as possible.  The man delicately
moves me out of the way and goes through my driver’s side door to grab my purse
off the passenger seat.  He holds it open in front of me so I can grab my
inhaler and puff twice.  “Okay,” I say, steadying my breath.  “That’s better.” 
I look at him standing in front of me still holding my purse.  He looks pretty
silly with a purple leather knock off Prada purse, and I attempt to avoid
smiling, but I can’t help it.  “Thanks,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome, Miss…?”

“Holt,” I say.  “Leah Holt.  I’m so
sorry about your car.”

He shrugs.  “I’m sorry about
yours.  Should we exchange information?”

I nod and reach into my purse. 
Luckily, car insurance isn’t dependent upon employment so I still have that,
though I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to pay the bills on it.  Plus it’s a
Chicago company, and I wonder how terms will apply outside of the state of
Illinois.  I find a piece of paper and pen and write down my phone number and
insurance information on it and give it to him.  Then he does the same for me
on my notebook and hands it back with his information and phone number.  “Ash
Lavanne,” I read.  He even has a hot name.  Welcome home, Leah, I think to
myself.  “Nice to meet you, Ash.  I’m…sorry about your bumper.”

“Nice to meet you too, Leah,” he
says.  The corners of his mouth are twitching slightly, threatening to make me
think naughty thoughts again.  “Sorry about your car and your asthma attack. 
Are you okay to drive?” 

“I should be,” I say.  I notice I’m
still shaking a little bit but I feel a bit better and calmer.  I realize that
it’s probably just getting colder outside as the sun is setting and my jacket
is still in the car.  “I’m fine.”

“Good,” he says.  “I’ll call my
lawyer and he’ll contact you immediately.”

“Lawyer?” I gasp.  “Are you kidding
me?  My insurance should take care of it.  No need to take this to court or
anything.”  Oh god, where was my inhaler? 

“I’m kidding,” he says, holding his
hands up.  “Horrible joke, I know.  Don’t have another attack.”  He grins to
reveal perfectly even teeth, then he turns and walks back to his car, letting
himself in.  I stand in shock and watch as he waves with one arm out the window
and drives away.  I decide to do the same so I don’t block any more traffic at
the “Worst Traffic Light in the World”.  Besides, it’s cold out and I have to
pee. 

“Well Betsey,” I say out loud like
an idiot once I am back in my car.  “This is probably just the first shit storm
of today that I’ll have to go through, but I’m sorry you got the worst of it.” 
In response she comes to life with a twist of my key in the ignition.  “Thanks
for that,” I tell her, grateful she is still drivable.

Carlton howls at me.  “Oh shut up,”
I say grumpily.  “We’re almost there and you’re totally fine.”

And now off to deal with my mother.

The house I grew up in is a two
story Tudor on the corner of Amethyst and Sinistro.  From the front it looks like
an average sized house, though if you view it from the side it seems to stretch
on forever.  The mass of weeping willow trees in front shield the view of the
sides.  It’s a huge house that my dad bought on a police chief’s salary.  The
Holt family stretches back a long way in Blackwater and hasn’t always been blue
collar, so the term “old money” applies to us.  My memories of the house are
twisted up in my brain into something that the house no longer is.  I remember
it being warm, with dark hardwood floors and large leather sofas.  I remember a
place where Heidi and I would climb on my dad and he would tickle us and give
us bear hugs.  Persian rugs covered the floors everywhere, heaped upon each
other in no logical fashion or pattern, but it made the décor all the more
unique and cozy.  Our live in housekeeper, Isabel, took care of Heidi and me as
children and well into our teenage years.  She was always baking something from
scratch, from fresh bread made in a Dutch oven, to cakes, brownies and
cookies.  It’s a wonder I’m not four hundred pounds, but thankfully my height
and frame prevent me from gaining weight too visibly.

Since Dad left almost fifteen years
ago things have changed.  The dark hardwood floors have been bleached to
“California Blonde”.  The masculine leather furniture is now white microfiber and
looks like it shouldn’t be used.  The Persian rugs are gone, the bleached
hardwood bare and gleaming, refinished in the places where the rugs wore down
the wood.  The entire freezer is packed full of Lean Cuisines and the fridge
and garage have at least a month’s supply of Diet Coke, since my mother no
longer needs Isabel to cook for a family of four and my mother never learned
how to do it herself.  Everything has been painted over in white.  Family
pictures with my dad have been removed and replaced with forced family photos
of my mother and Heidi and me, all taken from when I was fifteen to seventeen. 
In them, Heidi and my mother’s smiles are forced and look almost plastic and
painful.  I don’t smile at all.  I’m a horrible liar.

I am here unannounced and my mother
is sipping a glass of white wine across the counter from me in the kitchen. 
Her unlined face says it all.  “Why are you back?”  Besides the occasional phone
call home on my part for holidays and birthdays, contact with my mother has
been practically nonexistent for over ten years.  She looks the same as the
last time I saw her, with platinum hair pulled back in a waved upsweep that any
1950’s housewife would have envied.  She never changes.  She even wears an
apron over her beige silk dress as her Lean Cuisine spins in the microwave. 
Her eyes are the same ice blue as Heidi’s, and I tower over my mother and
sister by a half a foot.  All of my height and looks are purely my father’s
side of the family.  My mother refers to our looks as “Black Dutch”, which is
her politically incorrect way of saying we’re dark.  My dad and I always tanned
easily, have dark brown hair and the same coffee-with-cream-brown eyes.  Heidi
and my mother are Barbie doll blonde, except the Barbie height and boobs are
all mine.

The microwave beeps and my mother
pulls out a container with butternut squash ravioli and broccoli that smells
like burned plastic.  She carefully peels off the plastic that covers the
steaming processed food and obtains a plastic fork from a drawer.  She has
perfected the art of housekeeping by making everything in the kitchen
disposable.  “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” she asks me. 

“I’m fine,” I tell her.  “I ate not
too long ago on the road.”

“Hopefully not fast food,” she says,
as though her Lean Cuisine is so much better.  “Do you know the other day I was
watching the ten o’clock news and they were talking about how a woman found a
beak inside of her chicken sandwich?  Can you imagine?”

“I stay away from fast food,” I
tell her.  “Remember it makes me sick?”

“Well it’s not obvious to me,” she
says, stabbing into some ravioli with her plastic fork.  She eats standing up. 
“It looks as though you’ve let yourself go a bit.  You’re so tall, it’s amazing
I can see any weight gain at all on you.”

I glare at her.  “Mother, I’m
currently at a healthy BMI.  I’m just not a teenager anymore.”

She ignores me.  “I know you’re
having a rough time, but it’s important that you eat well and stay active now
that you’re planning to be single again.”

“Mom, I’m a size six.  That’s
hardly fat.  And I run practically every day if I have time.”  My mother never
seemed to understand that while she and Heidi are wispy women, I’m actually
curvy.  It definitely shows in all of the right places, but clothes have always
been a problem to fit correctly.  Running sometimes requires multiple bras,
depending on what time of the month it is.