Whisper Falls (6 page)

“Like an apprentice?”

“Indeed.”

“What trade are you in?”

“Housewifery.”

His brow creased. “Why did you choose that?”

“Mr. Crawford, my stepfather, chose for me.”

“Did he ask your opinion?”

“My opinion didn't interest him in the slightest.” I made no effort to keep the disgusted edge from my tone.

“How long do you have to stay in your trade?”

“Until my eighteenth birthday.”

“Which is when?”

“October first.”

One corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile. “You're two months older than me.”

“Or two centuries.”

“True.”

We watched each other warily. I wondered if our discovery would prove to be a blessing or a curse.

He gestured at my rock. “Want to sit?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Lewis.”

“Call me Mark.”

His request made us equals. The sin of pride swelled within me, but I tamped it back, not ready to reflect on the emotion or its consequences. Instead, I merely nodded and lowered myself to the boulder with an inelegant plop.

He sat, too, his movements quick and graceful. “I came out here the other day to look for evidence of someone playing a joke on me, but I couldn't find anything.”

“Who would play this joke?”

He shrugged. “My girlfriend. Ex, actually.”

Girlfriend?
I wanted to be clear about this word. “You have friendships with girls?”

“Yes. Well…” His lips puckered as he thought. “Guys and girls
can
be friends in my century. But when I say girlfriend, I mean the person I'm dating.”

“Dating?”

“Sorry. Dating means a guy and a girl are interested in each other.”

“Like courting?”

“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Or maybe not. I'm not sure.”

“Do you plan to marry this girlfriend?”

“Marry Alexis? No.” His eyes widened with horror. “Besides, she ended the ‘courtship,' I guess you'd call it.”

“Are you distressed?”

“I was, but it's okay now. Dating isn't about getting married any more. We have fun. Break up. Do it all over again with someone else.”

“In my century, courtship has too many rules to be fun.”

“Like what?”

“The gentleman must approach the woman first. Most unfair.” Mark nodded, as if in agreement. “Do you have this rule, too?”

“Sort of. Girls can do the asking, if they want. But usually the guy asks.”

“I see.” In two hundred years, girls would have freedoms they didn't use. How extraordinary. Perhaps this freedom wasn't as enjoyable as it seemed. “The couple may not touch or be alone.”

“We don't have those rules. We can be alone. And as far as touching goes…” He stopped and looked at his shoes.

“What about touching?”

“There's plenty of that.” His face reddened. “Have you ever been courted?”

I nodded while noting his blush. I would like to know more about the touching. “Two gentlemen courted me. I rejected one. My master rejected the other.”

“Your master did?”

“Until I'm eighteen, I can marry only with his permission.”

Solomon Worth and Reuben Elliott had each offered for me. Mr. Pratt had refused to release me early from my indenture to marry Reuben. My master had, however, made an exception in Solomon's case. Truly, Mr. Pratt had had no choice. Solomon's father was my master's uncle. Mr. Pratt would never do anything to offend the Worth family. I was the one who refused Solomon. I had known him from childhood. My father had been his tutor. Marriage to Solomon Worth would seem like indentured servanthood—except there would be no end.

“How many girlfriends have you had?”

“Alexis was my first.”

“How many more girlfriends will you be dating before marriage?”

“I don't know. Ten. Twenty.”

“Do you pick unwisely so very often?”

He laughed. “I guess so.”

The lightness of his tone bewildered me. Choosing one's husband or wife should be treated with gravity and respect. “Why did you choose this girlfriend?”

“Alexis picked me.”

“Why did you agree?”

His brow creased in concentration. “At our school, everyone thinks she's amazing. When she asked me out, I was seriously flattered.”

“I do understand. It is indeed flattering for someone to want you, even if you don't want them back.” There had been a moment—a brief moment—when Solomon's attentions had filled me with pride. “What makes her amazing?”

“She's smart. And she's hot.”

I frowned. “Does hot mean feverish?”

“No, it means pretty.”

“Why does hot mean pretty?”

“I'm not sure.” His face flushed crimson. He brushed at the laces of his shoes. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Certainly.”

“Cool.”

It was most perplexing, the number of words he used that made no sense. “If hot means pretty, does cool mean ugly?”

He laughed. “No, sorry. Cool means very good.” He peered at me through the dark brown hair hanging over his brow. “I looked up your town. It really did exist.”

“What a comfort, since it is where I live.”

“The web didn't have too much information, though.”

“The web?”

“Yeah. I don't know how to explain that. It's…” He shrugged. “The web's like a huge library, full of books, maps, and pictures. Sometimes lies.”

“Where is this library?”

He paused, as if my question were hard to answer. “We have special machines to see inside the library. I have one of the machines at my house.”

“What kind of books are in the library?”

“All kinds.” He looked thoughtful. “Do you go to school?”

“I cannot. I have too many chores.”

“Do you know how to read and write?”

I snorted. “Of course. It has fallen to me to teach Dorcas.”

“What kinds of things do you read?”

“The Holy Bible.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” Perhaps that wasn't precisely true for me. My father had taught me to read when I was a little girl. As the town's tutor, he'd owned many volumes. Papa had encouraged me to study geography, history, and natural philosophy. He often claimed I was his best pupil. Even now, hidden in my corner of the attic, I had two of his books—my much-loved legacy from Papa. “The only book my master owns is the Holy Bible. He will not allow novels in his home. He calls them the devil's missives.”

“You never read fiction?”

“I do not.” I frowned, taken aback by Mark's tone, as if he couldn't imagine anything more barbaric. “How many books are in your web?”

“Billions.”

I shook my head in confusion. “Billions?”

“It's a huge number, like…” He paused, rubbing his temple. “It's like counting the stars.”

Stars? I glanced up at a sky of blue-black velvet, decorated with a sprinkling of stars and a tiny sliver of moon. How had night fallen without my notice? Startled, I rose. It wouldn't go well for me if my master saw me return after dark.

“I have enjoyed our conversation, but I must leave.”

“I've enjoyed it, too.” He stood as well and extended one hand through the falls. This time his arm slid through, all the way to his elbow. “Hey, look. It let me through a little farther.”

“Indeed, it has.”

“The waterfall thinks I'm safe. And it should.”

Dare I rely on its judgment, too? Of course, it only deemed him safe to his elbow, a simple enough part to trust. “It has proven to be an excellent chaperone.”

“More like a bodyguard.” He smiled. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Perhaps.” I took his hand in mine and squeezed it lightly. It was most improper of me, but Mark Lewis was used to plenty of touching.

“It would be easier if you lived in my world. I'd just friend you.”

I dropped his hand as if it were a live coal, the simple word reminding me of my real life in Worthville—a world where there were rules and a rule maker I had to obey for another four months. “Do not call me a friend. It's forbidden.”

“You're forbidden to have friends?”

“Yes.” I fumbled for the granite ladder. “Mr. Pratt says I shall become careless if I focus on anything besides his family and my chores.”

“Mr. Pratt sounds like a major control-freak asshole.”

I didn't know the meaning of the phrase, but I suspected I would agree if I did.

After crawling over the rocky ledge guarding my cave, I turned. He stood where I had left him, visible through a veil of water. “Good night…Mark.”

“Your master doesn't have to know about us, Susanna. I can be your secret.”

I lifted a hand in farewell and turned to run home—except this time, I ran with a smile on my lips, for I had a secret friend. Mark could be someone with whom I talked and laughed. Someone with whom I could be equals—if only for an hour at a time. Someone Mr. Pratt could not take away.

Even though I had no customers scheduled for Fridays, I would be working today. After loading my lawn care equipment in the back of the truck, I drove southwest out of the city. Forty-five minutes later, I pulled onto the half-mile driveway leading to my grandparents's log cabin on the banks of Jordan Lake.

Granddad sat on the front deck, doing a crossword puzzle and drinking coffee. He waved me over. I approached carefully, unsure whether he'd been warned about me and, if he had, how mad he was about it.

“Why are you here?” he asked, giving me a hard stare from under bristling eyebrows.

“Yard work.”

“Don't remember asking you to do that.”

“You didn't.”

“Your mother did?”

“Yes, sir.”

His scowl deepened. “Did she cook up this plot by herself?”

“I think she talked it over with Gran.”

“Better go in and ask your grandmother what she wants you to do.” He tapped the puzzle book. “You can tell her I'm pissed as hell.”

“I don't believe I'll do that.”

“Smart boy.”

I walked through the front door. It was quiet in the house except for the hum of the air conditioner. I glanced up at the loft overlooking the two-story great room. Gran wasn't there.

But I could tell where she had been—the kitchen. Gran had been baking this morning. A tray of cinnamon rolls lay on the counter top, oozing with gooey, buttery frosting. Yeast rolls browned in the oven. My grandmother had been expecting me.

I tore a corner from a cinnamon roll at the back of the tray and went looking for Gran. I found her in the bathroom, frowning at the toilet. I didn't want to know why.

“Hey, Gran, I'm here.”

“Mark.” With a happy sigh, she gave me a hug, her head hitting me mid-chest. “Did your grandfather see you?”

“He did.”

“Did he harass you any?”

“No.”

“Liar.” She smiled. “Want something to eat before you get started?”

“Have I ever turned down one of your cinnamon rolls?”

Gran laughed and pushed me into the hallway.

There was a huge photo of my mother and her sister hanging on the wall across from the bathroom door. In it, Mom was ten, Aunt Pamela five. My mother stood behind her sister, arms curved protectively, while Pamela clung to one of her hands.

It always made me smile to see Aunt Pamela holding my mother's hand like that, an unconscious indication of how much she'd depended on her big sister. Their relationship had totally turned around when they grew up. Mom became the kind nurse, and Pamela became the kick-butt Army officer with the soft but
do-not-mess-with-me
voice.

My aunt was the person who had helped me the most when I was bullied over my weight in middle school. Any time she called or emailed, she reminded me to be strong and not give in.

“Bullies are stupid, Mark,” she would say. “It won't take them long to make a mistake. Wait and be ready.”

That became my motto. I ate a healthier diet and looked for a sport I could get into. It was my dad who bought me a mountain bike. I loved hitting the trails with him—and I turned out to be good. As my muscles grew, so did my confidence. And just like my aunt said, when the bullies got stupid, I was ready. The bullies earned their “reward” without my landing a single blow.

If there was anything I'd learned from my warrior aunt, it was that “small” didn't have to mean “defenseless.”

After Aunt Pamela died in Afghanistan, Gran moved the photograph of her two daughters to this spot, where she'd see it each time she left the bathroom. Why? Didn't the memories kill her? It hurt me to see it, and I was just a nephew.

I stopped in the kitchen for a couple of cinnamon rolls. After my second breakfast of the day, I gave Gran a sugary kiss on her cheek and headed outside.

Granddad waited for me on the deck, work gloves on. “What'll you do first, Mark?”

“Edge the flower beds.”

“Good choice.”

I eyed his gloves. “What are you doing?”

“Supervising.”

“Why do you need work gloves?”

“Self-respect.” He winked.

I went to the back of my truck, donned my gloves and goggles, and grabbed the weed whacker. Soon I was edging the beds while my grandfather raked mulch and pointed out my every mistake, his supervisory skills in full force.

When I reached the end of that project, I took a wipe-the-sweat break. “Okay, Granddad,” I said in between chugs from a bottle of water, “what's next?”

“I want to know what happened to the girl.”

I stiffened. “Alexis?”

He grunted.