Vulnerable

Vulnerable

By Elise Pehrson

Copyright © 2013 Blue Ribbon Books

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

For questions and comments about this book, please contact us at [email protected]

Death comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s physical, sometimes emotional, and sometimes spiritual. Medicine cures the body, but what cures the soul?

·
       
 

“Michael Lansbury!” A howling voice boomed from behind its victim. Michael held his breath and rotated on his heel towards the voice. Changing his facial expression to match more of one in which the plump woman now in front of him would like, he responded with an artificial, affectionate “Cheryl! How are you my dear?”

He held out his arms in a large wingspan around the woman’s thick hemisphere. She accepted his invitation and gave him a warm squeeze. Michael felt as though his eyes would pop out of his now bulging purple face. He loosened his necktie and attempted to laugh off the pain as the woman loosened her grip and backed away. Her face lit up immediately; her sly brow lining the bottom of her eyebrow in a cynical wave.

            “I’m quite well, Mr. Lansbury. As you know, my husband has acquired his
second
movie deal for his work.” Her smug grin pierced Michael’s toleration barrier. He gave her a smirk and rolled his eyes. “And what have
you
been up to, Mr. Lansbury?” Michael’s eyes roamed around the room groggily just before getting caught on something that drew his attention away from everything. “Mr. Lansbury, it is quite rude to leave a lady waiting.”

            “Yes, but I see no lady here,” he replied without even the slightest ounce of apology lining his voice. And with that, he followed the invisible path in front of him that lead to this marvelous piece of work. After a few minutes of passing wealthy partygoers, Michael finally made his way to his destination. A painting.

            Swirls of blue and green flowed into a trickling bath of yellows and reds. His eyes lit up after he cocked his head to the side and saw the painting in a whole new light.

            “Oh I see you found the painting of our beach house,” an airy voice came in from behind. Michael pivoted and saw a petite blonde woman with thin wrinkles dancing around her high cheekbones giving him a warm smile. He let out a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t Mrs. Meriwether again, he thought. He nodded and returned a smile to the woman. She walked closer to the painting—the top of her hair tickled Michael’s nostrils and almost made him sneeze.
She must be no taller than 5’1
, he thought as she trailed a finger over an indented brushstroke on the painting. “Beautiful, isn’t it, how the sun sets against the water…” her voice trailed into one of sadness. “Ever since,” she cleared her throat timidly, “Harold died…” and with that she broke down.

            Michael froze; although he was a renowned romance novelist, he never actually was good with the ladies. If anything, his books displayed a life he wished to have, the protagonists smooth like he wishes he could be. Thus, he found himself standing there blankly with his broad shoulders sopping wet from the woman’s frantic tears. Her forehead nestled underneath his collarbone for a few minutes until she was able to regain her composure.

            “Sorry,” she sniffled, “Oh goodness, I’ve lost all sanity, I swear.” She stroked a finger underneath her clumped black eyelashes, wiping up stray smudges of mascara and eyeliner. “My husband died recently and I—,” she almost started crying again but looked up and fanned her face in order to make herself stop. “I truly apologize for this. Long story short, that was the first purchase we made with the money Harold made with his success,” her face started to flush, “and we spent weekends there often before he got sick. Anniversaries… holidays…” her face turned into a vacant stare.

            “Miss?” He placed a hand on her shoulder, which successfully snapped her out of the trance she was in. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

            She gave a slant smile, “Lydia Withersworth.” Michael’s jaw dropped, making him look like a broken nutcracker.

            “
The
Lydia Withersworth?” he gushed, “I love your work!” Lydia smiled but her eyes remained somber.

            “Well, I’m afraid I don’t know if I will write again now,” she muttered loud enough so he could hear. “I’m sorry—how rude of me—what is your name?”

            “Oh yes, of course. I’m Michael Lansbury.”

            Her eyes widened, “Well,” she squeaked in a shocked yelp, “I suppose we share admiration for one another’s work.” Michael’s eyebrows bolted up in surprise.
Well
, he thought,
she seems to be a little older than my usual fans, but she is quite the fan to have.
They exchanged stories of inspiration and hardships over their work for a little over an hour before Lydia suggested, “Well, you do seem fascinated by this painting of mine, so how about you check out the lake house and tell me what you think. I’m selling it right now, so I’d like it to go to capable hands.” Michael didn’t know if this was a joke or not.

            He let out a nervous chuckle as his skeptical eyes studied her awaiting expression. “Are you serious?” He asked. She nodded up and down so fast that Michael had to look away in order to not get motion sickness. “It’s so important to you, though,” he whispered in disbelief.

            Her expression grew somber, “Which is precisely why I can’t keep it. If I want to live a half-decent life I need to let go of the life I once had. In fact, this whole benefit was selling that old life of mine. You
did
come for the benefit, right?” Her big blue eyes looked up at the man more than a foot taller than her. Michael’s brain fizzed;
that’s right
, he thought,
I was so focused on the manuscript that I had forgotten about the benefit.
He gasped. The manuscript!

            “I’m sorry but I have to get going,” his eyes searched all around for the agent he had gotten off the phone with the evening before. If he wanted this movie deal, he’d have to act fast.

            “Why?” Lydia asked, “I still don’t even know if you’re staying at the lake. Please stay! I dread the stiffs that come in here and mooch off my property. Who are you looking for?”

            “Mr. Ketter, I—,”

            “Mr. Ketter left about an hour ago,” Lydia interjected. Michael closed his eyes and rolled his head back.

            “After all I’ve been through in the past two years…” he mumbled in distress.

            “I’m sorry, what was that?” Lydia’s face crumpled in confusion. Michael shook his head and waved his hand in the air before rubbing it aggravatingly against his forehead and back through his hair.

            “I said I’ll… check out the lake house,” he snapped out of his slumped position and put on a faux smile. Her face sparked and she bounced with delight.

            “Ooh! You’ll love it! I am
so
glad you agreed. I just knew you would!” She wrapped her arms around Michael in jovial excitement.
What an eccentric woman
, Michael thought. He nodded and smiled on.
Well, it will be nice to get away from it all
, he thought.

            The next morning Michael headed over to the Withersworth mansion in his Camaro before even realizing that Lydia had already given him the keys to the lake house the night before. Once he realized this, he immediately pulled over to the side of the road and entered the address into the GPS on his phone. Thus began the monotonous trip to the border.

            Surprisingly, it took only a little over two hours to get where he needed to go. Stricken with confusion, Michael looked at his GPS and double-checked the address.
Huh
, he thought,
I guess I wasn’t going to the border. Where am I?
He pulled into the driveway of the Withersworth’s lake house. It was divine. Crescent marks were engraved on the rooftop, which was tiled to perfection to match the décor underneath each window and door. The paneling on the garage door looked so new that Michael wondered if the house was really ever used after all. Colors of burgundy and mahogany twirled and twisted together up each and every corner of the building. And despite the dark colors, the lake house radiated of ocean winds.

            Michael parked his car next to the silver mailbox and readied himself for relaxation. The moment he walked out onto the driveway he could smell the fresh breeze of the water strike his nostrils. He closed his eyes and took in the mountain air, listening to the soft pattering of leaves from the trees blanketing the sky.

            “Are you new here?” A smooth voice sounded from a woman that Michael swore had come out of nowhere, like some sort of spirit from the sea. She sure looked the part too. With hair falling like spun gold over her shoulders, this young woman’s sapphire eyes told a tale of the ocean’s deepest strong currents, tumbles, and turns. She smiled in a way that made her nose scrunch up in slight ripples up the ridge of her nose, bending gently to a stop just below her almond-shaped eyes. Michael’s glance bolted every which way in order to shake off anything that might have masked reality from his inhalation of this place’s air.

            “I-uh-no, well, yes…I am checking out the place for-er-well—,”

            “Lydia Withersworth… How is she?” The girl’s voice was rich and gave Michael a strong desire to eat spoonfuls of caramel.

            “Um, well, she’s all right, I suppose. She doesn’t want the memories here, though,” he panicked, “Well, not that you weren’t a good friend or anything—no it’s not that! Were you friends? What’s—”

            “My name is Millie Grey,” she giggled, “You don’t have to act so jumpy—I’m not going to bite.” Michael felt his face get hot. He swallowed hard and tried to play it cool—well, cool
er
.

            “So what have you got there, Miss Grey?” He gestured towards a worn brown book she was holding, changing the subject. Her face blushed and she gripped the book a little tighter.

            “Oh, this is my Bible…” her voice trailed off and he felt his eyebrows get weird. The air grew so thick with awkwardness he felt as though he could literally take a serving knife and cut it like a cake.

            “I see…” was all he managed to get out of his mouth.

            “I just got back from Bible study with the youth group,” she quickly interjected, “I teach them every Thursday night.” The tension in the air fell a little.
Oh okay
, he thought,
that makes sense
.

            “Oh,” he let out the breath he’d been keeping in, “I thought that you might have been one of those holy rollers that bible-bashed anyone who passed by.” She gave him a sort of offended stare. Michael immediately regretted spouting those awkwardly thrown-together words out of his mouth. “Uh—I—I mean—”

            “It’s okay,” she said with a laugh and her face softened, “It’s people like
that
who give religious people a bad name.” Her eyes gestured towards some teenaged girls walking a short distance nearby at the bottom of the hill. Their ankle-length dresses faded into their collars, which grasped their necks like a gasping crab escaping a horrific fate. The two girls exchanged sinister looks while sneering at Millie  critically. Michael could feel that his definition was quite fitting of these two, but who was he to judge? Still, the two girls seemed to leave a bitter taste in Michael’s mouth that he was desperate to wash out.

            “Well,” he tried to bring back the conversation to a lighter tone; Millie ’s eyes were brought back to his, “It was very nice to meet you.” He jokingly bowed and she curtsied with a small chuckle behind her sadly smiling lips. Michael turned around and headed towards the house, thinking of this woman. She was beautiful and seemed quite happy—well, more kind than happy, he supposed. She seemed to have sadness lingering behind her shining eyes.

            He didn’t have long to think, however, because his thoughts were interrupted by the clacking of cobblestones beneath a woman’s pair of shoes. He turned around to see Millie walking distantly behind him, her eyes following the shadows cast from her dark gray flats.

            He crinkled his eyebrows and stopped in his tracks. He turned around and awkwardly laughed. “Umm…” He scratched his head and searched for something he could say that wouldn’t come off sounding rude.

            “Oh,” she giggled, embarrassed, “Sorry, I should have explained. I live here.” Michael’s heart jumped into his throat.

            “What?” His eyes reflected the blank slate of confusion in his mind.

            “I’m kind of the Withersworths’ maid,” she explained, “It’s a rather long story. If you’d like, I could explain over a nice cup of cocoa. It’s starting to get a little chilly out, and it looks like it’s going to rain.” She covered the bottom of her eyebrows with a flattened hand, blocking the sun, as she looked up at the darkening clouds.

            “Sure, that sounds great,” Michael smiled back. The edges of her lips curled upwards into a smile, but her eyes remained a somber shadow around their deep blue rings. Michael thought of how the darkening clouds mixed with the rushing waves below reflected the color of her eyes, but he couldn’t tell if that was just due to her somber atmosphere as well.

            Michael ended up trailing behind Millie as they made their way into the house.

            “You can take a seat over in the living room while I make the hot chocolate,” she said, her voice echoing through the nearly empty kitchen past the mudroom that Michael still found himself struggling out of his shoes in. He envied the way Millie was able to just fling out of her shoes so quickly. “Sometimes hot chocolate’s all you need,” she winked at him.

            She set her Bible down on the marble island and turned to face a set of counters. “Would you like creamer or whipped cream in yours?” She asked, her eyes still searching through the shelves.

            “Just marshmallows if you have any,” he replied, his face growing ruddy, “Yes, yes, I know. I’m an eight-year-old at heart.”

            She laughed, “No, no. We never get too old for these babies.” She pulled down an enormous bag of mini marshmallows. She had to bring them down with both arms in order to get the entirety of the pillow-sized sugary clouds down in one tremendous
thud
. Michael’s eyes glistened at the sugary treats, but felt a knot in his stomach when he looked up at Millie. Her hair fell down in waves as she looked down at the cut she was tearing in the bag of marshmallows. He watched her face; the ridge of her nose was a slender slope that tipped slightly at the end and her lips, although not too full, pouted gently like an angelfish.

            She seemed to realize he was staring because her light complexion flushed with a rush of red and pink trickles dancing upon her cheeks. “So,” she cleared her throat, trying to hide her discomfiture, “What do you do for a living?” Her face, now comfortably smiling and fading back into its rightful color, awaited his answer eagerly, which made
his
face the one flushing with color now. 

            “Well,” he coughed and shifted his weight, “I’m a writer.” Her eyes widened, and even though she seemed thoroughly impressed, Michael couldn’t help but feel that his ego was shot a bit. How could she not know who he was? “I wrote
Dance in Paris
… Bestseller last… year…” his voice trailed off half out of embarrassment and half out of loss for words, which surprisingly happened to him a lot despite the fact that he was a writer and all.

            “Wow!” She said after gathering composure, “Wow, that just—wow!” She laughed, “Well, that blows my job out of the water!”

            “It’s really not… it’s nothing ha…” he ran his hand through the peppered-gray stubs of hair on the back of his head.

            She shook her head, causing the blonde waves to flow around her heart-shaped face like a waterfall of liquid gold. “No, no,” she grinned, “Don’t you dare! I’ve wanted a gift like that my whole life! Like when I lived…” her voice trailed off and her face twisted as though she had just sucked on half a lemon. Then her face bounced back extremely fast; she laughed and said, “Well, anyways, tell me more about you!” She looked as though she was trying to stay focused on his face, but her eyes kept trailing away, presumably through the thoughts that were now shored up in the front of her mind—whatever those thoughts were.

            Michael looked at her with an oddly intrigued look on his face, “So…” he said as he tried to think of something to say, “What do you usually do around here?” Her wandering eyes glimpsed back at him, focusing on his trembling expression.

            “I…” she straightened her stance and coughed, “I usually just read and teach the youth groups…by the time I get back here I don’t have much time to do anything but keep up with the house work. Other than chores, I just read.” She smiled at him but he was so focused on what thoughts had been plaguing her that he’d forgotten to smile back. She shifted awkwardly before continuing, “Pretty boring… I know... ha…”

            His eyebrow jolted halfway up his forehead when realization of the situation came over him. “No, no, no! I’m sorry, I’ve got a writer’s mind,” he laughed uneasily and pointed to his right temple, “Always thinking.” The room was silent and stinging with an air of awkwardness. Both had obviously not come across many situations as this one, so neither had any idea of what to do. Luckily, Michael was saved by Millie ’s gentle smile and inviting words.

            “Come on,” she nudged her head towards the doorway, “I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house.” The discomfort that had been stinging Michael’s insides drained immediately and he could feel a wave of relief wash over him.

            “That would be great!” He said in almost a cough.

            They made their way through the hall and into a narrow hallway lined with portraits, certificates, and degrees.

            “The Withersworths sure were successful, weren’t they?” Michael asked, examining a nearby Bachelor’s Degree by Mr. Withersworth from Yale University.

            “Yeah, and so humble. They’re very admirable.” Millie chirped. They reached the end of the hallway after what seemed like days and entered the largest living room Michael had ever seen. It was the size of the entire lobby of a five-star hotel, and looked even nicer. The air was fresh and the couches looked brand new. There were lines of different colored velvet chairs—red, brown, and beige—next to an array of coordinating couches. The paintings that hung neatly against the walls were nothing short of royal and, although seeming like they should be inside a castle, did not look out of place.

            Michael’s eyes hovered from the grand piano to the center table with different assortments of snacks next to teapots. “Wow,” was all he could muster in an airy breath. Millie clasped her hands together behind her back and looked around.

            “Yeah, it’s pretty great. It’s nothing like an actual cabin,” she laughed and shook her head, “But it was their only home so it’s to be expected.”

            “Why didn’t they have another home?” Michael asked, examining the cookies and biscuits on the coffee table.

            “They loved the sea,” Millie replied. Her eyes met his and his heart jumped to his throat. He had to look away in order to talk coherently. He swallowed and looked back at the pastries a few feet away. Millie’s eyes tracked his gaze.

            “Ah,” she said. “I need to replace those—they’re yesterday’s.” Michael’s eyes widened.